“And we don’t yet know if any of these clowns are even suspects,” the chief said. “But you have to take the swabs within a few hours of the shooting, right?”
Horace nodded.
“So collect all your evidence and turn ’em loose,” the chief said. “We can worry later about which samples to process. If we ever get this to trial, I don’t want some defense attorney trying to make it look as if we don’t know our jobs. Besides, maybe we’ll all get kicked off the case and the SBI or the FBI or somebody will get stuck with processing them.”
Horace nodded and ducked into the tent. The chief followed.
I was about to follow when I spotted the Caerphilly Fire Department’s ambulance slowly making its way in front of the courthouse. It didn’t have its lights and sirens on, but people noticed. A few were pointing. Most were standing, quietly. As I watched, one of the deputies took his hat off until the ambulance had passed.
I ducked into the tent.
Randall was standing just inside the entrance with the reporters in tow. But no one had noticed his entrance—all eyes were on the chief and Lieutenant Wilt, who were standing nose to nose arguing.
“I will not have my men singled out for special treatment!” Wilt snapped.
“Which is why we want to process them in the same way we’re processing everyone else who had access to my crime scene,” the chief said. “No matter how briefly. Including those reporters from the Star-Tribune, once we figure out where the dickens they’ve got to, and our own town mayor.”
“Right here, Chief,” Randall said.
The chief turned to where Randall and the reporters were standing and nodded. It probably looked brusque to an outsider, but given the chief’s current mood I thought it was downright gracious.
Then the chief returned his gaze to Wilt. Wilt opened his mouth as if to continue his protest, then thought better of it.
Now I understood the reason for bringing along me and Randall.
“I’d be happy to go first.” Randall said. “What do you need from me?”
“First Horace will swab your hands and face for any traces of gunshot residue,” the chief said.
“Swab away,” Randall said. Horace stepped forward, opened his kit, and began putting on his gloves and readying his tools.
“You do realize that my men are armed guards,” Wilt said. “And as such they have to maintain their firearms qualification. If one of them has recently completed his required hours of target practice—”
“Then he should mention it when it’s his turn to be processed,” the chief said.
“I did a little tin can shooting four-five days ago,” Randall said. “Getting ready for deer season. Will that mess up your tests?”
“Four or five days?” Horace said. “Shouldn’t be any GSR left. Unless you’ve completely forgotten to bathe or wash your hands since then. But I’ll note your recent firearm use on the form so the lab can take it into account when processing your swabs.”
“We’ll also need to collect your uniforms for processing,” the chief said.
A murmur of protest rippled down the line of guards and then died down at an instant when their leader scowled at them.
“Collect our uniforms?” Wilt echoed. “What are we supposed to do—walk around in our birthday suits?”
Guffaws erupted, and a few of the guards began unbuttoning their wool uniform jackets or pretending to pull down their pants.
“You’ll be allowed to keep your underwear,” the chief said. “And one of my deputies is rounding up some temporary clothing for your men.”
“Already got some, Chief.” We glanced over to see Deputy Vern Shiffley standing in the doorway, holding a large cardboard box.
“Back already,” the chief said. “Excellent. See if you can find something in Mayor Shiffley’s size.”
“Pretty much one size fits all, Chief,” the deputy said. He reached into the box and held up a maroon satin choir robe.
I had to fight not to giggle, and the guards had no reason to suppress their amusement.
The chief closed his eyes briefly, but he only appeared to count to three or four before taking a deep breath and opening them again.
“I thought you were going to bring over some of those orange jumpsuits from the jail,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “Don’t we have boxes and boxes of them down at the station?”
“No, sir,” Vern said. He looked uncomfortable.
“We sent them over to the Clay County jail months ago.” Minerva Burke, the chief’s wife, bustled in carrying another box of choir robes. “Do you know how much they were charging us to rent their jail jumpsuits for our prisoners?”