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“Now that I’ve got her name, maybe I can find out something,” Pekach said. “I’ll get on the radio.”
“Appreciate it,” Hobbs said. “If you do come up with something, give me or Lieutenant Natali a call.”
“Sure,” Pekach said. “Inspector, the medical examiner said to show you these. He said he thought that’s what you were waiting for.”
Wohl took the bag Pekach handed him and held it up to the light. He was not surprised to see that the bullets were jacketed, and from the way they had mushroomed, almost certainly had been hollow pointed.
“What’s that? The projectiles?” Sergeant Hobbs asked.
Wohl handed the envelope to Sergeant Hobbs. They met each other’s eyes, but Hobbs didn’t say anything.
“Don’t lose those,” Wohl said.
“What do you think they are, Inspector?” Hobbs asked, in transparent innocence.
“I’m not a firearms expert,” Wohl said. “What I see is four bullets removed from the body of the woman suspected of shooting Captain Moffitt. They’re what they call evidence, Sergeant, in the chain of evidence.”
“They’re jacketed hollow points,” Hobbs said. “Is that what this is all about?”
“What the hell is the difference?” Pekach said. “Dutch is dead. The Department can’t do anything to him now for using prohibited ammunition.”
“And maybe we’ll get lucky,” Hobbs said, “and get an assistant DA six months out of law school who thinks bullets are bullets are bullets.”
“Yeah, and maybe we won’t,” Wohl said. “Maybe we’ll get some assistant DA six months out of law school who knows the difference, and would like to get his name in the newspapers as the guy who caught the cops using illegal ammunition, again, in yet another example of police brutality.”
“Jesus,” Pekach said, disgustedly. “And I know just the prick who would do that.” He paused and added. “Two or three pricks, now that I think about it.”
“Get those to Firearms Identification, Hobbs,” Wohl said. “Get a match. Keep your fingers crossed. Maybe we will be lucky.”
“Yes, Sir,” Hobbs said.
“I don’t think there is anything else to be done here,” Wohl said. “Or am I missing something?” He looked at Sabara as he spoke.
“I thought I’d escort the hearse to the funeral home,” Sabara said. “You know, what the hell. It seems little enough ...”
“I think Dutch would like that,” Wohl said.
“Well, I expect I had better pay my respects to Chief Lowenstein,” Wohl said. “I’ll probably see you fellows in the Roundhouse.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, Inspector,” Hobbs said. “Are you going to be in on this?”
“No,” Wohl said. “Not the way you mean. But the eyewitness is that blonde from Channel 9. That could cause problems. The commissioner asked me to make sure it doesn’t. I want to explain that to Chief Lowenstein. That’s all.”
“Good luck, Inspector,” Hobbs said, chuckling. Chief Inspector of Detectives Matt Lowenstein, a heavyset, cigar chewing man in his fifties, had a legendary temper, which was frequently triggered when he suspected someone was treading on sacred Detective Turf.
“Why do I think I’ll need it?” Wohl said, also chuckling, and left.
There was a Cadillac hearse with a casket in it in the parking lot. The driver was leaning on the fender. Chrome-plated letters outside the frosted glass read MARSHUTZ & SONS.
Dutch was apparently going to be buried from a funeral home three blocks from his house. As soon as the medical examiner released the body, it would be put in the casket, and in the hearse, and taken there.
Wohl thought that Sabara showing up here, just so he could lead the hearse to Marshutz & Sons, was a rather touching gesture. It wasn’t called for by regulations, and he hadn’t thought that Dutch and Sabara had been that close. But probably, he decided, he was wrong. Sabara wasn’t really as tough as he acted (and looked), and he probably had been, in his way, fond of Dutch.
He got in the LTD and got on the radio.
“Isaac Twenty-Three. Have Two-Eleven contact me on the J-Band.”
Two-Eleven w
