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ferred to one of her father’s current cases, or a previous case in which a convicted felon had resurfaced and was harassing him.
It was worth a shot. And, even if it yielded nothing, it would give her a chance to meet a woman who’d meant a great deal to her mother, and to hear personal stories about Lara.
Barbara had time to see her, and a half hour later Morgan buttoned her coat and left her brownstone, Metrocard in hand.
SEVEN BLOCKS AWAY, Monty settled himself on Lane’s living room sofa, plopping the Winter file down beside him. He wanted to hear all about Lane’s meeting last night with Arthur Shore. But first things first.
Taking a belt of the coffee his son had brewed, he leaned over the rectangular cherrywood coffee table and laid out the twenty crime-scene photos, arranging them directly in front of his son. “I called Puzzle Palace about the negatives,” he informed Lane. “They’re working on digging them out.”
The term “Puzzle Palace” needed no further explanation. There wasn’t an insider in the department who didn’t use that nickname for the NYPD’s headquarters at One Police Plaza in lower Manhattan.
“Any time frame?” Lane asked.
“With enough pressure, I’ll have them for you on Monday. In the meantime, take a look at these.” He pointed.
Lane perched on the edge of the sofa and hunched forward, studying the shots. “Not bad,” he muttered. “A few photos of the gunshot wounds are a little overexposed. Probably too much flash. Nothing I can’t compensate for.” He continued his scrutiny. “Okay, talk to me about what you found when you arrived at the scene. Describe everything I’m looking at. Later, we’ll get to what I’m looking for.”
The question was standard—business as usual when Lane and Monty worked together.
“The crime took place in the basement of a shitty building on Williams Avenue in Brooklyn,” Monty began. “You can see for yourself—broken cement floor, chipped walls; your basic dump. The row of photos closest to you was taken first, before anything was touched or either of the bodies moved.” Monty pointed to the ten photographs in question. “There were three shell casings from a Walther PPK found, which ballistics matched up with the two bullets in Jack Winter and the one bullet in his wife. Jack was shot execution style—facedown, two bullets to the back of his head. There are obvious signs of a struggle; overturned chairs, a scattered stack of two-by-fours, construction buckets knocked around. Lara Winter was shot once in the side.”
“That’s why there’s so much blood and organ damage.” Lane was studying the close-up photos of Lara’s body and the scaled photo of her bullet wound.
“Yeah, the perp did a good job of blowing out her insides. Judging from her position—twisted to the right with that two-by-four next to her body—she tried to defend herself. He shot her while she was swinging.” Monty indicated the wood board lying a few feet away from Lara’s crumpled body. “Her fingerprints were on the two-by-four. My guess is she grabbed the board either to try stopping the guy from waling on her husband, or to fend him off when he turned the gun on her. The bullet struck her from about ten feet away. Jack was shot at a much closer range.”
Lane pursed his lips, glancing from the initial photos to the others, taken after the bodies had been shifted and photographed from other angles. “A struggle? I’d say there was more of a knock-down, drag-out fight. Jack Winter’s face is a mess.”
“That’s misleading. I’m sure he and the perp exchanged punches, but most of the gashes and gouged-out holes you see on his face came from his impact with the floor. Like I said, the place was a dump—broken chunks of cement, stones, pieces of wood, you name it. The M.E. found a contusion on the left side of Jack’s head; the imprint was from the Walther PPK. So Jack must have lunged at the perp, catching him off guard. The perp would instinctively take his first swing while he was still clutching the gun, so it clipped Jack’s head, then went flying. They fought. At some point Jack either fell or was shoved down on his face. The perp pinned him down, recovered the gun, and shot him.”
“Execution style—that’s why you thought this was personal,” Lane mused.
“It usually is, with that scenario. On the other hand, could it have been coincidental? A robbery gone bad? Sure.” Monty gave a grunt of disgust. “What else can I tell you? Judging by the angle and shape of the contusion and the fact that it was on the left side of Jack’s head, we know the perp was right-handed—just like ninety percent of the rest of the world.”
“And sometime during this struggle, Lara tried to save her husband and/or herself by grabbing the two-by-four and swinging at the assailant.”
“Getting herself shot to death in the process.”
“What about the gun? Was it ever recovered?”
“Nope. Of course, Schiller claimed to have dumped it in the river. But since his confession was bogus, so was his story about the murder weapon. So where the gun is now is anyone’s guess.”
Lane acknowledged that with a nod. “Moving on, we have blood splatter and blood on the victims’ clothing. Jewelry and wallets missing. What about fingerprints? Did you find any that were distinguishable?”
“Just the victims’. And even those were smudged, other than the ones on the two-by-four, which were definitely Lara’s. There were a bunch of footprints, most too blurry to make out. Remember, it was cold and snowy that December. The shelter was heated. Which meant we found lots of melted snow puddles, and lots of rats. Not exactly the best conditions for pulling physical evidence. The few footprints we could make out—not counting the victims’—belonged to a size-ten men’s Dunham Waffle Stomper. A popular men’s shoe size, and a popular hiking boot. Plus no guarantee it belonged to the perp.” Monty grimaced. “What better, more ironic proof than the fact that Nate Schiller owned a pair.”
“Talk about being screwed,” Lane muttered. “There you were, dead in the water again.”
“Huh?” Monty arched a quizzical brow.
Lane inclined his head, regarding his father with that wise, probing look. “You just couldn’t catch a break. No wonder you were so pissed off.”
“I’m not following.”
“I was sixteen, Monty. I remember. You were never on board with the theory that Schiller did it. Not really. I heard you on the phone—with your precinct, with the D.A., with everyone involved with the case. I remember you kept repeating that the pieces just didn’t fit. Something felt off. I didn’t get the whole picture; not then. But now, hearing the lack of tangible evidence, I can imagine how frustrated you felt. The D.A. had nothing but Schiller’s confession and pressure to solve the case. You had a gut feeling that contradicted both. Too bad they didn’t listen.”
Monty leaned back against the sofa cushion, folding his arms across his chest, his forehead creased in surprise. “I never realized you were so plugged into my work.”
It was Lane’s turn to look surprised. “You’ve got to be kidding. You knew how much I looked up to you.”
