The bedroom that attracted Gurney’s attention was facing the rear of the house. The bed and chair had been pushed out of the way against a side wall. The window was open. Enough afternoon sunlight was slanting in to reveal three dime-sized impressions on the dusty floor. From the doorway Gurney could see through the open window, several blocks away and lower on the hill, a row of modest homes. The front yard of one was cordoned off with yellow tape. A few of the local residents were still gathered in the street—like fans lingering at an athletic field after the players have gone home.
Now that the dismal house at 38 Poulter Street had been identified with reasonable certainty as the second sniper site, the collection and protection of trace evidence became a priority. So it was no surprise that Garrett arrived with help. The surprise was the package the help came in—a short, stout woman he introduced as Shelby Towns, whose head was shaved as clean as Bobby Bascomb’s. She had silver studs in her lips, nostrils, and ears. She was wearing a black tee shirt with the word GENDERBENDER emblazoned in white letters across her ample chest.
Perhaps to defend her getup, Torres told Gurney that Shelby was involved in a long-term undercover assignment, but that her dual college degrees in forensic science and chemistry made her an ideal part-time addition to high-priority crime-scene examinations.
Gurney filled her and Garrett in on the layout of the house and what he’d seen in the upstairs bedroom. Bascomb mentioned Gloria Fenwick’s report of a car and Hollis Vitter’s report of a motorcycle. Torres added that it was strange to find in the bedroom floor dust indications of another rifle-support tripod, apparently like the first. “Why throw the first tripod in the river and keep the rifle?” he mused aloud to no one in particular. “If the shooter was going to get caught with one or the other, it’s the rifle that would nail him.”
Torres directed Bobby Bascomb and the other two cops at the scene to canvass the neighborhood for witnesses to the arrival or departure of a car or motorcycle, and for any information concerning the renters. Then he called headquarters and asked someone to look into city, county, and law-enforcement records concerning ownership, tenancy, tax payments, liens, complaints, or anything else they could uncover relevant to the use of the property.
Meanwhile, Garrett and Shelby donned disposable coveralls, booties, gloves, and caps. They gathered their special lights, chemicals, and evidence-processing paraphernalia from their van and headed into the house.
Torres suggested that while the techs were going about their business, he and Gurney should reinterview the two immediate neighbors to see if they recalled anything beyond what they’d already reported to Bascomb. Gurney agreed, and Torres volunteered to talk to Gloria Fenwick in the house on the left.
Gurney approached the house on the right. He wanted to hear more about the departure of that motorcycle. He hoped that Hollis Vitter’s questionable mental state hadn’t skewed his perceptions to the point of uselessness.
The house was of a size and style similar to number thirty-eight. The front lawn was bisected by a neat slate path that led to the front door. Centered in the square of lawn on each side of the path was a small spruce. The driveway had recently been swept clean. The garage door was open, revealing the back end of a military-style Hummer from the early nineties. A Confederate flag decal covered the rear window.
When Gurney was still a good ten yards from the house, the front door opened and a heavyset, balding man in camo fatigues came out, holding a Rottweiler on a short leash. Gurney figured that the vehicle, the flag, the fatigues, and the dog added up to an exaggerated need to project a
Gurney produced a polite smile. “Mr. Vitter?”
“Who’s asking?”
He held up his credentials. “Dave Gurney, office of the district attorney. I need to speak to you about events in the house next door to you.”
“You ever hear of the broken-window theory of policing?” he asked in an angry voice.
Gurney was thoroughly familiar with it—a highly confrontational approach to minor incidents in high-crime neighborhoods—from his NYPD days. Every cop in America knew something about it, many departments had tried it, and the results remained a subject of controversy and heated debate.
“I know what it is, sir. Does it have some relevance to the situation next door?”
Vitter pointed to the weedy foot-high grass. “You see that?”
“I see it. What about it?”
