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“I presume,” the medical examiner said dryly, not looking up, “that the weapon used was the standard service revolver.”
Pekach snorted.
“She shot Captain Moffitt the way she was shot up like that?” Pekach asked.
“Before,” the medical examiner replied. “What I think happened is that she shot Moffitt before he shot her.”
“I don’t understand,” Pekach said.
The medical examiner pointed with his scalpel at a small plastic bag. Pekach picked it up.
It held a misshapen piece of lead, thinner than a pencil and about a quarter of an inch long.
“Twenty-two,” the medical examiner said. “Probably a long rifle. It entered his chest just below the armpit.” He took Unidentified White Female Suspect’s hand, raised it in the air, and pointed. “From the side, almost from the back. The bullet hit the left ventricle of the aorta. Then he bled to death, internally. The heart just kept pumping, and when he ran out of blood, he died.”
“Jesus Christ!” Pekach said.
The medical examiner let Unidentified White Female Suspect’s arm fall, and then pointed to another plastic envelope.
“Show these to Peter Wohl,” he said. “I think it’s what he’s looking for. I just took those out of her.”
The envelope contained three misshapen pieces of lead. Each was larger and thicker than the .22 projectile removed from the body of Captain Moffitt. The ends of all the bullets had expanded, “mushroomed,” on striking something hard, so that they actually looked something like mushrooms. The other end of each bullet was covered by a quarter-inch-high copper-colored cup. There were clear rifling marks on the cups; it would not be at all difficult to match these jacketed bullets to the pistol that had fired them.
The very large young man looked carefully at the face of Unidentified White Female Suspect and changed her status.
“Schmeltzer, Dorothy Ann,” he said. “Twenty-four, five feet five, one-hundred twenty-five pounds. Last known address . . . somewhere on Vine, just east of Broad. I’d have to check.”
“You’re sure?”
“That’s Dorothy Ann,” McFadden said. “I thought she was still in jail.”
“What was she in for?”
“Solicitation for prostitution,” McFadden said. “I think the judge put her in to see if they couldn’t dry her out.”
“She’s got needle marks all over,” the medical examiner said, “in places you wouldn’t believe. No identification on her? Is that what this is all about?”
“Lieutenant Natali told me all she had on her was a joint and a .22 pistol,” Pekach said. “And the needle marks. He thought we might be able to make her as a junkie. Thank you, Doctor.”
He left the room.
Wohl and Hobbs were no longer alone. Lieutenant Natali and Lieutenant Sabara of the Highway Patrol had come to the medical examiner’s office. Sabara looked askance at the Narcotics Division officers.
Natali saw it. “I like your sweatshirt, Pekach,” he said dryly.
“Could you identify her?” Hobbs asked.
“Officer McFadden was able to identify her, Sergeant,” Pekach said, formally. “Her name was Schmeltzer, Dorothy Ann Schmeltzer. A known drug addict, who McFadden thinks was only recently released from prison.”
“Any known associates, McFadden?” Hobbs asked.
“Sir, I can’t recall any names. It’d be on her record.”
“If I can borrow him for a while, I’d like to take McFadden with me to the Roundhouse,” Hobbs said.
“Sure,” Pekach said.
“I guess you can call off the rest of your people, then,” Hobbs said. “And thank you, Lieutenant.”
