Her brow furrows.
“She needs to speak to me in private,” Dalton says.
April nods and heads into the exam room, where Kenny rests.
“What’s up?” Dalton asks.
I uncap the bottle. Then I lay out a cloth on the waiting-area counter and tip the bullet onto it.
“This isn’t a nine-mil,” I say.
“What?”
He takes a closer look. “That’s a nine-millimeter-caliber bullet.”
“Right. The cartridge is nine millimeters in diameter, but it would be longer than an actual nine-mil. Rimless, too. I’ll return to the scene, find the casing, and confirm that, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure this is a three-eighty. It’s definitely not from my gun. We’ll have to fire Garcia’s to check the bullets. I think this explains why the gun was full. No one took it out of that drawer. They used an entirely different weapon.”
A look crosses Dalton’s face, the horror of a kid who’s bet his year’s allowance on a quiz answer, so certain he’s right.
“I…” He can’t even finish that.
It’s hard for me to remember that I’m older than Dalton. Even if it’s only by two months, it’s significant because I feel younger. He doesn’t act like a thirty-one-year-old. He can’t, as sheriff in a town where ninety percent of the residents are older than he is.
I got my badge younger than most. I spent years hearing how that was because I was a woman and a visible minority, and I won’t say with absolute certainty those things didn’t play a role, but I also earned it, through my education, my experience, and the fact that I worked my ass off. Even when I left the force, I was the youngest detective in major crimes. So I was accustomed to older coworkers watching my work carefully, double-checking and, yes, second-guessing. As much as that rankled, I appreciated it, too, because they had the experience I lacked.
Dalton doesn’t have that older partner. He hasn’t since his father left. I’ve wondered at that sometimes. Five years ago, Gene Dalton retired and put his twenty-six-year-old son in charge of Rockton law enforcement. I made detective around the same age, and I hated anyone suggesting that was too young. It felt old enough. For a junior detective, maybe. For sheriff of a town as volatile as Rockton, without even an e
xperienced older officer as mentor? Hell, no. When I asked Dalton once how he’d handled that, he’d shrugged and said, “What’s the expression? Fake it ’til you make it.” It wasn’t entirely a joke.
Dalton’s formal training in ballistics is nonexistent. As in everything else, he’s self-taught. It’s just easy to forget that when I’m working with him.
“This is my fault,” I say. “I should have confirmed ballistics first. Especially when Garcia’s gun wouldn’t have been easy for the shooter to get. I just…”
“Trusted me when I said it was a nine-mil.” He slumps into a waiting-room chair. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I was completely sure, based on nothing more than overweening confidence. I have no fucking idea what a three-eighty is, so I sure as hell shouldn’t be playing gun expert.”
I pull up a chair in front of him. “We’ll share blame on this one. I’m accustomed to not questioning my partner’s findings. The problem is that you aren’t my detective partner. Like you’ve said before, you’re a junior partner. I’m uncomfortable with that, so I don’t focus on it. But junior doesn’t mean less competent. It means less experienced. I do you no favors treating you like a full detective and not questioning your work. For your part, yes, less confidence in your detective skills helps. You’re not alone in this anymore, Eric.” I point at the door. “I understand why you can’t waffle and second-guess out there. But when it’s just me, you can say ‘It looked like a nine-mil,’ and let me follow up. If you don’t, I should follow up anyway. Likewise, you are free to check and question my work at any time.”
“I was trying to save you a few minutes, and I added endless fucking hours chasing the wrong damn gun.” He shakes his head. “How much does this screw up your investigation?”
“Not much, really. Let’s walk.”
I pocket the bottle and lead Dalton outside into the forest. His face stays tight, gaze distant, and I wait until he shakes it off and glances over.
“A three-eighty, huh?” he says.
“It’s very similar to a nine-mil,” I say. “In law enforcement and the military it’s mostly used as a backup weapon. It’s smaller than a nine-mil, cheaper, and has less kickback. Not as much force behind it, though. For a cop, there’s no reason to use one instead of a nine-mil. It’s mostly a personal weapon. Well, if you’re American. Not a lot of self-defense pistols in Canada. I’d say that could be significant, but either way someone smuggled a weapon in, which is damn near impossible.”
I take a few steps. “Is there a chance the gun predates you? We’re allowed to pick our own sidearms. Could someone from a previous force have brought one in? What happens when one of Rockton’s officers leaves? What do you do with their sidearm?”
“Get it the hell out of Rockton. We don’t want more than we absolutely need. Sidearms for you, me, and Will. Rifles for militia and hunting.”
“How careful were they about that before you? Could one have been left behind? Stuck under a floorboard?”
Dalton shakes his head. “Ty and Gene were just as careful as I am. The sheriff before Ty fucked up once. He let a deputy leave, saying his sidearm was under the bed. No big deal. Except a half dozen people heard him say that, and by the time the sheriff went to get it, the gun was gone.”
“It was used to shoot someone, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, the moron who took it.”