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Mack was one of the most thorough forensic chemists I had ever known. He didn’t speculate, take shortcuts, or complain when he was obviously overloaded. In many instances, he worked holidays and canceled his own vacation time when we needed evidence to get a genuine bad guy off the streets in a hurry. But by the same token, he would not cooperate with a zealous and politically ambitious district attorney who wanted the evidence skewed in the prosecution’s favor. The latter tendency sometimes got him in trouble.
At noon he came into my office, his white shirt crinkling, his hair wet and neatly combed, his ever present briar pipe nestled in a pouch he carried on his belt. “I’ll treat you to lunch at Victor’s,” he said.
“You got it, Mack,” I said.
We strolled toward Main Street together. The wind was up and white clouds were rolling overhead, marbling the crypts in St. Peter’s Cemetery. “The cut-down double-barrel from Monarch Little’s car is the weapon that fired the two twelve-gauge hulls y’all found at the crime scene,” he said.
“You’re that sure?” I said. Identification of shell casings doesn’t come close to the precise science associated with identification of a bullet that has been fired through the spiral grooves inside the barrel of a pistol or a rifle.
“Reasonably sure on one round. Absolutely sure on the second one. The right-hand firing pin on the cut-down has a tiny steel burr on it. The pin is slightly damaged or offset as well. It leaves an almost imperceptible notch when it strikes the shell. I tested the right-hand firing pin five times, and the notch appe
ared in exactly the same place on the casing each time. Same notch, same position. There’s no way those shells were fired by another shotgun.”
“How about Monarch’s prints?” I asked.
“Not his, not anybody’s.”
We were almost past the cemetery now. Mack kept his face straight ahead as we crossed the street, his necktie flapping in the wind.
“No one’s?” I said.
“Yeah, that’s what I said. There was some fire-retardant foam on the barrel but not on the stock. In my opinion, that gun was thoroughly wiped down. You might talk to the firemen.”
“Firemen don’t wipe down guns taken from burning vehicles,” I said.
“That’s my point.”
I had said Mack didn’t speculate. He didn’t. But he was a man of conscience and he brought attention to situations that didn’t add up.
“In other words, why would Monarch Little go to the trouble of wiping his prints off a weapon used in a homicide and then leave it in his automobile for anyone to find?” I said.
“What do I know?” he said.
“What else did you come up with from the crime scene?”
“No latents on the shells you recovered. The twenty-five auto was fully loaded and not fired recently. It’s Italian junk and appears to be unregistered. The tire impressions on the Johnson grass came from a number of vehicles. I think a couple of hookers from the Boom Boom Room use that area to reduce their motel overhead. I must have found a dozen used condoms in the weeds.”
“Is the post in yet?” I asked.
“No, why?”
“I was wondering what number shot the shooter used.”
“I dug some lead out of the shed wall. Double-aught bucks,” Mack said.
In my mind’s eye I saw Dallas Klein kneeling on a sidewalk, just before somebody fired a load of the same numbered shot into his face. Mack caught my expression. “Heavy stuff,” I said.
“That model shotgun hasn’t been manufactured for two decades. There’s no registration on the serial number,” Mack continued. “The rust buildup where the barrels were cut off suggest somebody probably hacksawed them off years ago. There’s little powder residue in the mechanisms and the wear on the firing pins is minimal. I’d say it’s been fired only a few times.”
“So it appears to have had only one function—to serve as an illegal firearm?”
“If that means anything,” he replied.
“You don’t make Monarch for this, do you?”
“A guy who sells crystal to his own people, including high school kids? I’d make Monarch Little for anything. I’m just giving you the arithmetic.”
But I knew Mack better than that. While we waited for a light to change, he began scraping at the bowl of his pipe with a small penknife, blowing the crust off the blade, away from his person. It was warm and cool at the same time in the sunlight, the air smelling like rain and dust. “Lonnie Marceaux called me this morning,” he said. “He’s ready to rock with Monarch. I told him what I just told you.”
