Nash’s eyes widened. “Oh, sure. I wouldn’t write about an open case. I was just planning ahead.”
“You are sure about the match?” Gunther asked. “I’ve been told that over time old guns leave different impressions on their bullets.”
Nash was dismissive. “That’s mostly NRA babble. They don’t like the gun control lobby’s idea of a bullet and casing record being kept on every factory-fresh gun. In fact, it would take more shooting than you can imagine to alter a gun’s impressions. Talk about carpal tunnel—you’d be blazing away every day for years.”
He pointed to the IBIS machine. “It’s in there if you want proof. Since the beginning of time, this lab used to keep an ‘unidentified ammunition file’—literally a chest of tiny drawers with stray bullets in it. That’s where yours used to live. Didn’t matter where they came from—deer jackings, suicides, murders. If we didn’t have a gun to match them to, we kept them just in case.”
He got up, crossed over to the machine, and turned it on. “When we got this from ATF, one of the conditions was that we use it as much as possible. It costs a quarter of a million dollars, after all. So, along with encouraging everyone across the state to send us anything ballistic, we also made a file of all those old bullets.”
He took the cramped office in with a general sweep of the hand. “It didn’t hurt, either, that we could then throw out the chest of drawers.” He paused. “Although part of me is a little nostalgic about that. It used to be fun poking through that collection, wondering about all the stories it contained.”
He began typing commands, still talking. “Anyhow, as a result of all the data entry, we got a hit right off when we entered the test-fired bullet from the Blackhawk. The computer does that automatically—scans every new item with what it already has in memory.”
He abruptly sat back and pointed to the screen. “And voilà, see for yourself.”
Joe looked over the scientist’s shoulder at the split screen. There was no denying the similarities between the two color pictures of two matching bullets.
“I see what you mean,” he said softly. “Were you able to raise the gun’s serial number, too?”
Nash made a face and switched off the IBIS. “No, sorry. Whoever ground it down really went for it. Usually, they stop when they can’t see the numbers anymore, not knowing about the visual echo underneath. But either this guy knew his metallurgy or he was just luckily heavy-handed. Anyhow, we couldn’t get a thing. The FBI might give it a try, if you’d like. They have fancier methods than we do.”
“You think it would be worth it?” Gunther asked.
Nash was appropriately equivocal. “I wouldn’t dream of answering that, Joe. Could come home to roost. It ain’t cheap, if money’s a concern. Whose case is this, by the way? Bratt PD’s or yours?”
Gunther looked at him in surprise. “Good point,” he admitted. “I better clear that up. I’ll let you know later if we should send the gun to the FBI.”
Nash gave him a conspiratorial smile and asked, “You’re not leaving right off, are you?”
“Why? You have something else?”
“Nothing earthshaking, but it’s a nifty confirmation. Something they love in courtrooms, assuming this gets that far.”
He returned to one of the desks, from which he extracted a white paper bag. What he laid out on the table was the Ruger Blackhawk, now disassembled.
He picked up the gun’s frame and pointed to the slot where the hammer fit when the gun wasn’t cocked. “We figured the misfire occurred because the hammer spur came in contact with Mr. Oberfeldt’s head, thereby depressing the pin. That would’ve caused a vicious wound, resulting in a lot of blood coating the gun. At least that was the reasonable assumption.” He held up the frame so Joe could see right into the empty hammer slot. “You can’t see anything with the naked eye, but I thought that even if the gun had been wiped off later, some blood probably worked its way into the inner workings here.” He straightened and smiled again. “And that’s just where the folks up the hall found a sample. Its DNA matches the old samples on file from Mr. Oberfeldt.”
Joe nodded appreciatively. “Nice work, Malcolm.”
Nash poured the gun back into the envelope. “There’s more, although now we’re wandering into the land of speculation. I don’t know if you fully appreciate what I just told you. Blood samples dating back thirty years are pretty rare; getting them in good enough shape to retrieve DNA is telling.”