Stone Cross (Arliss Cutter #2) - Marc Cameron Page 0,81

officially a suspect?”

“I guess that’s up to you,” Cutter said. “But he’s on my list.”

“Watch yourself if you do cross paths,” Warr said. “The courts, in their infinite wisdom, decided that this violent convicted felon should be allowed to keep his guns for subsistence hunting.”

“Pistols too?” Cutter asked. “Or just long guns?”

“Just his rifles,” Warr said. “But which would you rather be shot with?”

“That’s mighty big of the courts,” Cutter said.

“Preach, brother,” Warr said.

Cutter glanced up to see Aften return to the gym carrying something small. She tapped Birdie on the shoulder as she went by and they both walked together toward Cutter.

“Can you hang on a minute, Lieutenant?” Cutter said. “Looks like they found a set of calipers. I may have some new information for you momentarily.”

Cutter motioned to Jasper, who still had the bullet in his vest pocket. Cutter, Birdie, Aften, and the VPSO all stepped into the hallway, out of view of the potluck crowd. Lola excused herself from Jolene, and stood at the door so she could see what was happening and still keep an eye on the judge.

“Point four-two-three inches,” Cutter said, measuring the milled piece of copper alloy between the jaws of the calipers twice to be sure. The bullet’s impact against the heavy logs had deformed its blunted nose, but apart from the grooves it got on its trip down the rifle barrel, the base looked pristine. Cutter brought it closer to his eye for a better look. He described what he saw over the phone for Lt. Warr’s benefit. “It’s a solid. I’d guess around four hundred grains. Maybe heavier. Definitely meant for dangerous game. Bear hunter, maybe?”

“Could be,” Warr said.

Birdie shook her head. “There’s big bears farther upriver, more toward the interior, but that’s an awful lot of gun for this low on the Kuskokwim. Makes me think we should be looking at a white guy. We’re meat hunters. Biggest thing anyone uses around here is a. 30-06. Most go even smaller than that. A lot of .243s and .270s—plenty good for the head shots we take.”

Lola took the bullet and lifted it up and down in her palm, feeling its heft. “Takes a lot of powder to push something this hefty. I’m guessing a cartridge like this is pretty expensive.”

“Close to two hundred bucks for twenty rounds,” Cutter said.

“Two hundred dollars a box?” Birdie gasped. “It’s definitely a white guy.”

Lola handed back the bullet. “I’ve never heard of a .423 caliber.”

“It’s likely a .404 Jeffery,” Cutter said.

“You said .423.”

“Odd, I know, but the .404 Jeffery uses a .423 caliber bullet. It’s a popular Africa cartridge, meant for big, dangerous stuff like Cape buffalo.”

“Something like that would certainly work on a grizzly,” Warr said.

Aften Brooks whispered, “Or Rolf Hagen.”

Cutter turned to Birdie. “Would Sascha have a rifle this big?”

“Not unless he stole it. Any of his guns wouldn’t cost as much as a box of these bullets.” She squinted slightly, nose wrinkled. “I can’t think of anyone I know who would spend ten dollars a shot to catch a caribou.”

CHAPTER 28

The potluck wound down by seven thirty. A dozen young men hung around hoping to play basketball, but Birdie told them they needed to leave the school to their guests. By eight, the voices of the last few attendees were just echoes in the fog as they drifted home. Birdie disappeared to her office, leaving a crew of high school boys and girls stacking the chairs and tables to work off some kind of detention. The visiting attorneys, including Markham’s law clerk, stood and chatted under the far backboard. Markham had the locker room showers to himself with Cutter in the gym to watch the only door. Lola sat on the top row of the bleachers with Jolene Pingayak, their backs to the big Timber Wolf mural on the cinder-block wall. Jolene leaned forward, elbows on her knees, head turned toward Lola Teariki, who had rolled up the sleeve of her polo shirt to show the girl something, probably her Polynesian tattoo or her extremely cut deltoid, knowing Lola’s penchant for talking about exercise.

Cutter sat in a folding chair outside the locker room entrance, back to the wall, using an earpiece and dangling mic to make a static-filled call to say good night to his nephews—and Mim. He had his Barlow pocketknife out, carving on a piece of cottonwood root that was very close to becoming a small wolf—or maybe a coyote. Cutter was never sure what a piece of wood