Michael sat at his desk, looking at the murder-suicide case file. Ballistics had determined that the bullet in the ‘victim’ did not match the rifle in the hands of the ‘killer’. Forensics had also determined that there had been a lack of blood for a double shooting, especially behind the ‘killer’. This meant that the whole scene had been set up to look like one victim had actually been the attacker. Whoever had done it had premeditated it, but had forgotten to use the supposed murder weapon to kill the female victim. Instead, a 0.44 caliber pistol had killed both.
The rifle had never been fired. It was a new asset of the male deceased. Hell. It wasn’t even loaded.
Prints had not been cleaned from its stalk and one set was present that didn’t match the victim’s. The bullets retrieved from both victims didn’t match any weapons owned by the male victim, but did match a gun owned by someone close to both victims. A gun that was supposedly missing. Coincidence?
Michael didn’t think so. He felt that if he found the gun, he would find the murderer. But where did they dispose of the gun? And which one of those close to both victims did it?
For a crime, this was pretty straight forward. The perpetrator had thought out the scene, the main crime, but not the clean up or making sure that the scene matched the weapon in his male victim’s hands. They had used another gun, disposed of it, but forgot to cover with the supposed murder weapon. Hell. They hadn’t even put any shells in the rifle.
Some people were just plain stupid. As his grandfather had been fond of saying, “Some people just can’t help eating the berries from the Stupid Tree.” Michael could now see exactly what he had meant. This perp had been one of those.
He shook his head, then looked up from the file. Reilly entered, an evidence baggie in hand. “We found the gun.”
He smiled. “Where was it?”
“Right in plain sight,” Danforth said, entering behind Reilly, “and in the last place you would think of looking.”
“And the second scene?” Michael peered at his friends.
“A bedroom,” Reilly replied, “in the same house. Looked as if the framed victim had been there collecting some of his things when he was shot. From the spattering, I would wager from the back first, then the front…as he turned and fell.”
“Certainly puts a whole new spin on the case,” Michael agreed, “though the first shot was also confirmed by autopsy and forensics. did you find a second bullet?”
“Yes,” Danforth replied, producing a second evidence bag, “in the same wall our second victim had fallen against. It was a through and through.”
“So I was told,” Michael nodded, “it was hidden by the victim’s jacket, which had been placed back on him after time of death. Though the head wound was the killing shot.”
“True,” Reilly acquiesced, “And with the true murder weapon, we now have the perp.”
Michael nodded again. “Yes, as long as the gun hasn’t been cleaned of prints. Get it to forensics.”
He watched as his two friends vanished toward Forensics.Now they had all the clues. Why couldn’t all cases be this simple? He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock.
Time for lunch. He would wait for his friends to return. And where was Justin? He had sent the Cajun out to get them lunches.
The Cajun strode through the door bearing four bags that smelled heavily of creole cuisine. Michael smiled. Seemed like Marcel could never find Cajun take-out, so he always got the closest thing to it.
“Damn Cajun Joe,” Marcel said in mock disgust, “He close ‘is shop up tight when ‘e see me. I was forced t’ go to Creole Charlie. Still, all good food, no matter who cook it.”
“Ah,” Reilly exclaimed, appearing beside Marcel, “Cool! Creole! And it’s on Justin!”
Ah, Cool!” Came Danforth’s reply.
Michael looked at Justin. “Seems everyone likes your choice of cuisine, Justin.”
Morgan took care of business around New Orleans while he sent Misty out to shop for new clothes. ‘Nothing is too expensive for my Misty,’ he had told her, ‘buy what you want.’ So now, she headed to the shops in the French Quarter. As she did so, she whistled happily.
She had never had anyone who lavished gifts upon her the way Morgan did. NO man had ever thought she was worth buying things for. At least none that she could remember. But Morgan was the only man she really remembered clearly. Possibly because he was still there with her.
She entered the first shop. As she looked at the blouses, a saleslady approached her. “May I help you?”
Misty nodded. “Do you have this in any other color?”
“Why,” The saleslady began, “Of course, Mrs. Le Grue! What colors would you be interested in?”
“I like this one,” she began, “but do you have blue, pink, and green?”
“Of course,” came the answer, “of course!”
The saleslady ran back to the backroom, then emerged with a stack of blues, reds, pinks and greens.
“If you just follow me,” the lady winked at her, “we have a nice selection of slacks and designer jeans over there that will go nicely with these blouses.
“Thank you, miss,” Misty replied, “I appreciate your generous help.”
“All in a days work,” the clerk smiled.
“yes, I understand,” Misty nodded, “And would you happen to have a selection of shoes as well?”
“Oh, yes,” came the affirmation, “Right over there.” The clerk motioned in the direction of the shoe rack.
Loaded down with jeans, slacks and blouses, Misty followed the clerk to the shoes. She had matching outfits. Now, she would also have matching shoes. And maybe a matching purse.
After she was done here, she would head to the jewelry shoppe. She needed to get something special for each outfit. She needed to look irresistible to Morgan every day. And she would, once she got all this home.