Detective Frank Davis stood just outside the area where the shooter's body had been found and tried to visualize the trajectory of a bullet from a crouched position. His men were working beyond the gate, using metal detectors and brushing the ground with gloved hands in a group effort to find the bullet that had passed through Sandy Bennett-Moreau. The bullet fired from the recently identified George Alvarado was still in the neck of Benny Bennett, and Alvarado's pistol was found easily, halfway from victim A to victim B.
Alvarado was victim C, but by all appearances he had died of natural causes after bringing Mrs. Moreau to the hospital. He called out to his men.
"Don't widen your search yet! Keep it narrow. All the way up to the front door if you need to."
They had been at it for two hours without finding a trace of the bullet. Frank had inspected the iron gate meticulously in the event the bullet may have ricocheted after striking it. He could find no evidence to indicate that had happened. The bullet had made a clean exit. He could see no reason why it would be farther away than the fifteen foot swath he had established for search.
His cell phone chirped and he pulled it from the clip on his belt.
"Davis," he said after pushing the two way communication button.
"I got the couple that lives there here at the station." He recognized the voice of his office assistant Kelly as it crackled from the speaker. "You're on TV too." He pressed the button to answer her.
"How did the media get in here? We have a car at the entrance. The news trucks can't get in and their choppers can't see shit through these trees."
"They're still getting some shots," Kelly answered. He turned his attention away from the house and saw a couple of reporter/cameraman duos skulking behind trees in the distance.
"Shit!" he exclaimed. He didn't need them mucking up the crime scene. It was difficult enough to find evidence in a woodsy area, and now footprint measurements were pretty much out of the question.
His phone chirped again. "The owner says he can send some security to clear them out of there if you want."
"That's okay, Kelly. I'll do it myself. Not that it'll do much good."
He walked in their direction and indicated they stay put until he reached them. Hopefully, a statement would get them out of there. But he knew that wouldn't be enough. This was an affluent, quiet area. Two shootings and another death was big news.
Nothing he said was going to be enough to satisfy these folks.
Frank talked to Riley, the team lead, after shooing away the media and asked him to keep searching. He put the largest man on the forensics team to task keeping an eye out for the reporters, and repeated his concern for crime scene contamination to the occupants of the squad car blocking the estate's driveway where it met the street. He then headed back to the station where the landholders were waiting.
Although this area was no stranger to multi-millionaires and their automotive extravagances, he immediately knew what car belonged to the homeowners as he pulled into the short driveway of the colonial style building with a steeple that housed the Shores' finest. The sedan was just short of a limo in length, with windows tinted far too dark to be legal. The glass was likely bulletproof as well. He watched Kelly's ponytail whirl when he stepped in the door. She was always glad to see him and he her. It was a wonder they'd never gotten together, aside from the twenty-year difference in age. Plus his feeling that a tryst might ruin the daily interactions with her that had become immensely pleasurable.
"They're waiting in your office," Kelly said eagerly, "But Bertie is in there with them right now."
"Thanks for the warning, kiddo."
Bertie Okamoto was the chief of police. She had held the position for over eight years. Frank had o