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Doctor Vance adjusted his glasses and leaned over the photographs, studying them intently. “Why should I be able to tell you anything about this symbol?” he asked, looking up.
“Doesn’t it look familiar? Like the symbol of the organization you represent?” Jack said.
“There are similarities, certainly,” Dr. Vance said. “But this is not our symbol.” He bent down and pulled up his trouser leg, pushing down his sock so his ankle was exposed. No bigger than the size of a thumbprint was the exact same tattoo I’d seen on George Murphy.
“This is our symbol, Sheriff Lawson. What you have there is the same except for the crown. Our crown only has three points. The one on your victims has five.”
“And that makes a difference?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. A significant difference. That’s not our symbol. Now,” he said, fixing his pants leg and pushing back his chair. “I’ve given you all the time I can spare for the day.”
There was a knock at the door, and we all turned to face Detective Lewis as he stepped inside. His face was grim as he leaned down and whispered in Jack’s ear, but I couldn’t hear what was being said. I watched Doctor Vance instead and saw the smile curl at the corner of his lips.
Detective Lewis left, and Jack stood up, gathering the photographs in front of Vance and slipping them back in the folder.
He hit the stop button on the recorder. “We appreciate your cooperation, Doctor Vance. We’ll talk again soon.” He motioned to me and opened the door before he turned back and added, “Don’t plan any trips out of the state.”
I followed Jack at a fast clip down the hallway to where Detective Lewis was waiting. “What’s happened?” I asked, all but running to keep up with Jack’s longer strides.
“I found George Murphy,” Lewis said.
“Did you bring him in for questioning?” I asked.
“I’m going to leave that to you, Doc Graves. I found him down in Newcastle in his pickup truck. Had a bullet in the side of his head. I don’t think he’s going to do us much good in interview.”
Chapter Thirteen
By the time Jack and I arrived, the area had already been cordoned off and the crime scene team had finished documenting the scene surrounding the truck. But they’d left the inside intact for me.
I recognized George Murphy’s truck immediately. To think I’d ridden in it only a few short hours before gave me the creeps. Especially now that the inside was decorated with George’s blood.
A scene like this was going to get messier the more I waded in, so I pulled my kit and a pair of coveralls out of the back of the Suburban. I snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves and watched Jack out of the corner of my eye, tossing his leather jacket into the trunk so it wouldn’t get ruined, and donning his own coveralls. I slung my camera around my neck and headed to the truck.
“Made a hell of a mess,” Jack said. “I didn’t realize George had that many brains.”
I snorted out a laugh, but quickly turned it into a cough when heads turned our way. We circled the truck, and I took a dozen or so pictures of the blood spatter.
“Looks like a bullet up close and personal to the left temple,” I said. “No chance of missing when you’re that close. Anyone been inside the truck yet?
“I had them save it just for you.”
“Must be my lucky day. Let’s open it up.”
Jack did the honors of opening the driver’s side door. The side of George’s body that faced us looked exactly the way I remembered him from earlier. Same white t-shirt and stained jeans. The only thing different was the tiny round hole in his temple.
“It’s pretty handy how the gun ended up still in his hand after he fired the shot,” Jack said. “Looks like a .38 Smith and Wesson revolver.”
“Yeah, crazy how that works. Especially since he was right handed.” I remembered George writing the ticket out for the Suburban repair. Definitely right handed. I took a photograph of the entry wound and swabbed a sample of the powder residue left around the wound.
“The killer held it right up to the skin. See the tattooing of the powder around the entry hole?”
Jack moved in closer so he could take a look. “Whoever did it didn’t bother to try very hard to cover it up. ”
“He’s still in primary flaccidity.” George’s muscles had relaxed completely, making his jaw hang open and his eyelids droop closed. His hand was so limp I was amazed they’d managed to get his fingers wrapped around the gun.
I pulled it out of his hand, and Jack held up an evidence bag so I could drop the gun inside. “I don’t see powder marks on his hand. At least not enough that would indicate he’s the shooter.” I took measurements of the entrance wound and called out numbers to Jack. “You know, something’s been bothering me ever since I asked George about that tattoo.”
“Christ, Jaye. You actually talked to him about it?” Jack put the gun away in an evidence box, and then put his hands on his hips as he paced back and forth beside the truck. He stopped and glared at me. “Do you have a death wish?”
