Saving Amber - Zoe Dawson Page 0,43

asked the doc to rush it. He said he will have it for you tomorrow.”

“We’ll be right there.”

Randy’s car yielded no clues. They didn’t find his rifle or his cell phone, and a previous search of his desk had also come up empty.

They were cooling their heels in the sheriff’s department in Bridgeport, waiting for information from Garza on his firearms purchases.

A tall man ambled toward Amber. He was dressed in the requisite khaki uniform, with the distinctive star on his chest. “Special Agent Dalton?”

“Yes.”

He reached out his big, meaty hand. “I’m Sheriff Doug Stafford.”

She took his hand and he engulfed hers in a firm handshake. “This is Master Sergeant Tristan Michaels. He’s my MWTC liaison.”

The sheriff shook Tristan’s hand, as well.

“We have that paperwork for you. The weapons you found in his apartment were all legally purchased, including a rifle that seems to be missing.”

“No leads there.”

“If you’d like, the doc has finished with the body and could answer any questions you might have. He’s in Bishop. I can get you directions.”

“Thank you, Sheriff Stafford.”

After following his directions, they ended up in a lab with the autopsy tables on the left. Amber shivered, the temperature seeming as cold inside as out.

There was a balding man with a fringe of gray hair running around the side and back of his shiny pate. He was standing at a metal table with James Connelly’s prone body stretched out. Soon, his parents would be able to take him home. Amber’s heart contracted.

As they approached, the doc turned, and she could see he had brown eyes with a pair of half-glasses perched on his nose. He was dressed in a white lab coat with a clipboard in his hand.

“Can I help you?”

Amber introduced herself and Tristan and he nodded. “Yes, I’ve been expecting you. Dr. Carl Thompson,” he said.

“The distinction of the wound is significant and answers one of your questions regarding the possibility of friendly fire. Rifle bullets fall into two general categories—hunting bullets and military bullets. Hunting bullets are designed to expand.” He fanned out his fingers in demonstration. “In the process at least some fragmentation of the bullet occurs. Thus, with this type of bullet, wounding is more extensive with tissues ending up being a combination of crushed and shredded.

“Military bullets, by virtue of their full metal jackets, tend to pass through the body intact, thus producing less extensive injuries than hunting ammunition. Military bullets usually do not fragment in the body or shed fragments of lead in their paths, because of the high velocity of such military rounds as well as their tough construction. This is not the case for your victim. There is no exit wound and I found fragments that exhibited the characteristics of a hunting round. He had the requisite lead snowstorm effect, which went in through the back but missed the heart. Your victim might have survived the gunshot wound if he had received immediate medical attention.”

“What was the cause of death then, Dr. Thompson?”

“Hypothermia.” He took off his half-glasses. “I recovered enough of a fragment to run ballistics. I sent that to our expert.”

“Thank you,” Amber said as Tristan stared down into James’s face. She could see the regret and pain there, and now it seemed as if there was also guilt. After they left the morgue, Tristan was quiet. The news that James might have lived if he’d been found sooner had shaken him. She could see it in his eyes and the solemn look on his face.

By this time, it was full dark. She was exhausted and had to come to the conclusion that this was an accidental death. She had found no evidence that Mayer had shot Connelly. With both of them dead and no witnesses, she would have to consider this case inconclusive, which meant that her work here was done.

Unless she found Mayer’s gun.

She decided to stay until she received the autopsy report from Dr. Thompson regarding Mayer’s death to wrap up any loose ends and thoroughly investigate his death.

When they walked into Tristan’s town house, her phone buzzed, and she accessed her email on her smartphone to discover that the autopsy report had been delivered.

“No friendly fire,” Tristan said, reading the report over her shoulder. “Just a hunting accident. His life was ended by mistake.”

“I know,” she soothed, tenderness making her chest hurt. “It’s a tragedy, but at least his parents will get closure.”

Tristan nodded, looking exhausted and lost again. Alone.

“I can make—”

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

“Tristan, this isn’t