Chapter 7 - THE BALLISTICS IN THE BASEMENT
Ava walked slowly up the rotting pine steps, the cold drizzle running down her neck.
"It’s me, Arthur," Ava called out, keeping her palms flat toward the darkness.
"I brought the only physical evidence left from Mark’s murder."
The porch light flickered to life with a harsh yellow hum.
Arthur Vance stood in the doorway, wearing a heavy flannel shirt, denim overalls, and leather work boots.
At seventy-six, his hair was a bristling shock of iron gray, his beard trimmed close, and his eyes as sharp as flint chisels.
He held a vintage Remington 870 shotgun leveled comfortably against his hip, his finger indexed along the receiver.
His gaze swept past Ava, locking onto the dark sedan parked in his driveway.
"That's Ryan DeMarco in the passenger seat," Arthur said without lowering the muzzle.
"And that's old Eleanor in the back."
"Have you lost your mind, Mitchell?"
"You brought the city's most notorious crime syndicate to my front porch."
"They didn't kill Mark, Arthur," Ava said, her voice shaking with exhaustion and conviction.
"Captain Daniel Morris did."
Arthur’s weathered face didn't flinch, but the knuckles on his shotgun hand turned pale.
"Bring them inside," Arthur commanded, stepping backward into the hallway.
"Wipe your feet, DeMarco."
"If you bleed on my white pine flooring, I’ll take the cost out of your hide."
Ryan helped Eleanor up the porch stairs, his sidearm holstered beneath his jacket, his expression completely guarded.
Eleanor walked past the old detective, looking him up and down with clinical appraisal.
"You haven't changed in thirty years, Arthur," Eleanor said calmly.
"You still smell like bore cleaner and cheap tobacco."
"And you still associate with degenerates, Madame DeMarco," Arthur shot back, bolting three separate deadbolts behind them.
He led them down a reinforced staircase into a fully outfitted basement workshop that looked more like a municipal crime lab from the 1980s.
Steel workbenches lined the walls, crowded with compound optical microscopes, chemical titration racks, and reloading presses.
Arthur set his shotgun on a rack and gestured toward the zinc-topped examination table in the center of the room.
"Put it down," Arthur ordered.
Ava placed the scorched, melted evidence bag on the metal surface.
Arthur put on a pair of white latex gloves, clicked on a high-intensity daylight lamp, and pulled a surgical scalpel from a rack.
With practiced, surgical precision, he slit the plastic along the unburned seam and peeled it away from Mark Ellis's duty shirt.
The pungent odor of dried blood, burnt fabric, and stagnant mud filled the cold basement air.
Arthur adjusted the optical head of a dual-lens comparison microscope and positioned the fabric beneath the lens.
For five agonizing minutes, no one spoke.
The only sound was the clicking of Arthur's adjustments and the steady drip of rainwater outside the basement vents.
Arthur looked up, his brow heavily furrowed.
"This isn't a thirty-eight caliber wound," Arthur stated, his voice flat and dangerous.
Ava stepped closer.
"The official incident report signed by the medical examiner listed a thirty-eight special lead round-nose."
"The medical examiner is a coward who signs whatever Morris puts in front of him," Arthur growled.
"Look through this eyepiece, Mitchell."
Ava leaned over the microscope, pressing her eye to the rubber cup.
Beneath the intense light, the charred fibers of the shirt fabric were clearly visible.
Surrounding the clean penetration hole was a distinct, four-point cross pattern of scorched grease.
"That's a muzzle-brake flash signature," Ava whispered, the technical training rushing back into her mind.
"Specifically, the proprietary four-port compensator used on the custom Sig Sauer P226 tactical handguns," Arthur explained.
"The exact sidearm issued to the commanders of Tactical Unit One."
"Morris's personal weapon," Ryan said, crossing his arms, his eyes burning with lethal intent.
Arthur looked at Ryan, then back at Ava.
"That’s not all," Arthur continued, using a pair of tweezers to scrape a microscopic smear of grayish paste from the hem of the shirt.
He placed the smear on a glass slide, dropped three droplets of nitric acid on it, and watched the chemical reaction turn deep violet.
"Limestone slurry mixed with industrial coal runoff," Arthur said grimly.
"There’s only one place within fifty miles of the county line with that chemical signature in the soil."
"The abandoned rail yard behind the old iron foundry on Foundry Road," Ava said.
"Eleanor was telling the exact truth."
Suddenly, the encrypted tactical transponder that Ryan had recovered from the burning carriage house began to vibrate on the workbench.
A series of high-pitched digital tones chimed from the small speaker.
Arthur snatched the device, tapping into the auxiliary speaker interface with a patched patch cable connected to his desktop computer.
A digitized, automated emergency dispatch voice echoed through the basement.
"ALL PRECINCTS, ALL UNITS."
"PRIORITY ZERO BOLO ISSUED BY MAJOR CRIMES COMMAND."
"DETECTIVE AVA MITCHELL IS DECLARED ARMED, DANGEROUS, AND IN DIRECT CONSPIRACY WITH DEMARCO CARTEL ELEMENTS."
"SUSPECT IS WANTED IN CONNECTION WITH THE ARSON AND HOMESTEAD HOMICIDE AT THE DEMARCO RESIDENCE."
"TACTICAL UNIT ONE IS AUTHORIZED FOR IMMEDIATE LETHAL FORCE UPON VISUAL CONTACT."
Ava stepped back from the workbench, her hand flying to her mouth.
"Morris has framed me for burning Eleanor’s clinic," Ava said, her voice trembling.
"He's giving his kill squad blanket permission to shoot me on sight."
Ryan looked at the transponder, then turned his dark gaze toward Ava.
"He isn't just trying to cover his tracks anymore, Ava."
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"He's hunting us both."
"And he knows the clock is running out."
