Sequel: CSI: Across the Pond ›
Gerard Way: Crime Scene Investigator
Chapter 7
Bob reassembled the gun in a few minutes, noting the filed-off serial number. He placed it on the lab counter and dropped a few drops of acid onto its surface to reveal the numbers, but nothing showed up. He frowned.
“That’s odd,” he muttered to himself.
“What’s odd?” asked Frank as he entered the lab. He never could resist any part of his job involving high-powered guns, and jumped at the chance to help Bob on this case.
“Well, when they put serial numbers on things, the numbers go all the way through the metal. Even if they’re filed off, a few drops of acid reveal the numbers.”
“Unless the metal’s been heated enough to relieve the pressure,” said Frank, receiving a curious look from Bob.
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“Heard it off the streets. Didn’t know it was actually true, but it makes sense,” he said with a shrug.
“Well, whoever did this knows what they’re doing; at least, they think they do. Take a look at this,” said Bob, showing Frank several fingerprint sheets. “I was able to lift these from the gun. I ran them through the system; they definitely belong to Brian’s dad.”
“So he definitely handled the gun,” Frank said thoughtfully.
“I was about to start ballistics testing on it, and since I know you wouldn’t miss that for anything...”
Frank had grabbed his soundproof headphones before Bob even had time to realize what was going on. He laughed and took the gun over to their firing range.
“How far was that shot, Frank?” he asked. Frank checked the paperwork.
“Would have had to be...300 feet, at the very least. Snipers can’t really go for anything much shorter than that. And the hotel room was on the fourteenth floor.”
“Well, if you picture the distance from that height to the street,” said Bob, writing a quick equation on the whiteboard.
“The hotel was right on the street, must’ve been about 250 feet from where the vic was shot. As for floor-to-floor height, it was just under twelve and a half feet per story,” said Frank as Bob plugged in the numbers.
“We’re looking at a 300-foot shot.” Frank glanced down the range and pulled his headphones over his ears as Bob began loading the gun.
“You’ll probably want to back up a little.”
-
Brian was placed in foster care, something Gerard always felt bad about doing. He absolutely detested cases where the parents were killed or sent to jail, leaving their kids behind with nothing, not even a home to go back to. But he also knew it was the best thing they could do for the young boy.
“Hey, Gee,” called Frank as he entered the office.
“Hey, Frank. Got anything for me?”
“Yeah, I ran a background check on the kid’s dad; former Marine. Kept his gun after being ‘dishonorably discharged for attempting the transport of illegal substances’,” he said, reading it off the sheet. Gerard frowned.
“I find it hard to believe the military would allow a drug smuggler to keep a high-powered rifle.”
“Maybe drugs weren’t the only thing he smuggled,” said Frank with a shrug.
“I suppose it’s possible. Anyway, social services took the kid away this morning.”
“That’s a shame. So, what’s our next step in getting this thing filed away?” Frank asked. Gerard thought for a moment.
“Good question. We got prints off the rifle, right?” he asked. Frank nodded.
“Yeah, Bob said they were a match to the dad.”
“Has he finished ballistics yet?”
“He finished shooting the gun, but he was still analyzing the results when I left,” Frank responded.
“Then we need to find out why he shot our first vic, and-” Gerard stopped mid-sentence. Something struck a chord in his mind. He instantly brought up the photo of the building on his computer and studied it carefully.
“Frank, when did you take this photo?”
“Just before we left the scene, probably around three thirty. I thought it would be a nice shot, why?”
“Because if we had stayed any longer we might both be dead. There was someone else in the room, and whoever it was didn’t want is to finish up our crime scene.” Gerard immediately stood up and almost ran to Bob’s office.
“Hey, Gee.”
“Bob where is that rifle?” Gerard asked quickly, trying to keep his voice calm. Bob unlocked the gun locker. Gerard slid latex gloves on his hands and carefully picked it up, taking it back to the lab. He called Ray, who had already left for the night.
“Ray, would you happen to remember the time of death for that kid’s dad?”
“Yeah, just after three, why?”
“Thanks,” he said, snapping the phone shut.
“Gee, what’s going on?” asked Frank, putting on his lab coat when he entered the lab.
“The dad died just after three. You took that photo at three thirty, so the gunman I saw couldn’t have been the same person. There were two shooters.”
“So why did the fingerprints only match one person?” asked Frank.
“The second guy might have worn gloves, or something similar. The point is that we were lucky to get out alive,” said Gerard. Frank smirked.
“Aren’t we always?” he asked.
“Yes, Frank. Yes we are. Now I’m going to need you to run and get Bob; we need to tear this thing apart, and only he knows which pieces of it were put together from the beginning.” Frank nodded and took off down the hallway.
“That’s odd,” he muttered to himself.
“What’s odd?” asked Frank as he entered the lab. He never could resist any part of his job involving high-powered guns, and jumped at the chance to help Bob on this case.
“Well, when they put serial numbers on things, the numbers go all the way through the metal. Even if they’re filed off, a few drops of acid reveal the numbers.”
“Unless the metal’s been heated enough to relieve the pressure,” said Frank, receiving a curious look from Bob.
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“Heard it off the streets. Didn’t know it was actually true, but it makes sense,” he said with a shrug.
“Well, whoever did this knows what they’re doing; at least, they think they do. Take a look at this,” said Bob, showing Frank several fingerprint sheets. “I was able to lift these from the gun. I ran them through the system; they definitely belong to Brian’s dad.”
“So he definitely handled the gun,” Frank said thoughtfully.
“I was about to start ballistics testing on it, and since I know you wouldn’t miss that for anything...”
Frank had grabbed his soundproof headphones before Bob even had time to realize what was going on. He laughed and took the gun over to their firing range.
“How far was that shot, Frank?” he asked. Frank checked the paperwork.
“Would have had to be...300 feet, at the very least. Snipers can’t really go for anything much shorter than that. And the hotel room was on the fourteenth floor.”
“Well, if you picture the distance from that height to the street,” said Bob, writing a quick equation on the whiteboard.
“The hotel was right on the street, must’ve been about 250 feet from where the vic was shot. As for floor-to-floor height, it was just under twelve and a half feet per story,” said Frank as Bob plugged in the numbers.
“We’re looking at a 300-foot shot.” Frank glanced down the range and pulled his headphones over his ears as Bob began loading the gun.
“You’ll probably want to back up a little.”
-
Brian was placed in foster care, something Gerard always felt bad about doing. He absolutely detested cases where the parents were killed or sent to jail, leaving their kids behind with nothing, not even a home to go back to. But he also knew it was the best thing they could do for the young boy.
“Hey, Gee,” called Frank as he entered the office.
“Hey, Frank. Got anything for me?”
“Yeah, I ran a background check on the kid’s dad; former Marine. Kept his gun after being ‘dishonorably discharged for attempting the transport of illegal substances’,” he said, reading it off the sheet. Gerard frowned.
“I find it hard to believe the military would allow a drug smuggler to keep a high-powered rifle.”
“Maybe drugs weren’t the only thing he smuggled,” said Frank with a shrug.
“I suppose it’s possible. Anyway, social services took the kid away this morning.”
“That’s a shame. So, what’s our next step in getting this thing filed away?” Frank asked. Gerard thought for a moment.
“Good question. We got prints off the rifle, right?” he asked. Frank nodded.
“Yeah, Bob said they were a match to the dad.”
“Has he finished ballistics yet?”
“He finished shooting the gun, but he was still analyzing the results when I left,” Frank responded.
“Then we need to find out why he shot our first vic, and-” Gerard stopped mid-sentence. Something struck a chord in his mind. He instantly brought up the photo of the building on his computer and studied it carefully.
“Frank, when did you take this photo?”
“Just before we left the scene, probably around three thirty. I thought it would be a nice shot, why?”
“Because if we had stayed any longer we might both be dead. There was someone else in the room, and whoever it was didn’t want is to finish up our crime scene.” Gerard immediately stood up and almost ran to Bob’s office.
“Hey, Gee.”
“Bob where is that rifle?” Gerard asked quickly, trying to keep his voice calm. Bob unlocked the gun locker. Gerard slid latex gloves on his hands and carefully picked it up, taking it back to the lab. He called Ray, who had already left for the night.
“Ray, would you happen to remember the time of death for that kid’s dad?”
“Yeah, just after three, why?”
“Thanks,” he said, snapping the phone shut.
“Gee, what’s going on?” asked Frank, putting on his lab coat when he entered the lab.
“The dad died just after three. You took that photo at three thirty, so the gunman I saw couldn’t have been the same person. There were two shooters.”
“So why did the fingerprints only match one person?” asked Frank.
“The second guy might have worn gloves, or something similar. The point is that we were lucky to get out alive,” said Gerard. Frank smirked.
“Aren’t we always?” he asked.
“Yes, Frank. Yes we are. Now I’m going to need you to run and get Bob; we need to tear this thing apart, and only he knows which pieces of it were put together from the beginning.” Frank nodded and took off down the hallway.