“Whatever issues these are that you need to work through, I can recommend some professionals. But in the meantime, if you haven’t noticed, we lost an officer here today. Show a little respect.”

I guess I’d given him the rise he was looking for. Siegel took a step back, but still kept that obnoxious grin on his face. It was as if he always had some kind of private joke going on.

“Fair enough,” he said, and motioned over his shoulder. “I’ll just be over here if you need me.”

“I won’t need you,” I said, and went right back to work.

Chapter 64

BY NINE O’CLOCK, I’d had an emergency phone call with the Bureau Directorate and the Field Intelligence Group; a briefing with the mayor’s office; and a separate report-in with my own team from MPD, who were all on the scene by now.

The important question at this point was whether we were dealing with the Patriot snipers or someone else. Ballistics was the fastest way to prove a connection, if there was one, and Cailin Jerger from the FBI lab in Quantico was brought out by chopper for a consult.

It was an amazing sight, watching the black Bell helicopter come in for a landing right there on the deserted parkway.

I ran out to greet the chopper and walk Jerger back in.

She was in jeans and a hooded Quantico sweatshirt; they probably pulled her right out of her living room. You’d never guess to look at this small, unassuming woman that she knew more about firearms examination than anyone in a three-state radius.

When I showed her where Tambour had gone down, and the spread on the four shots, she looked back at me with a knowing glance. I didn’t respond at all, not a word. I wanted Jerger to draw her own, unfettered conclusions.

At the evidence tent, the whole world was waiting for us. Outside, there was a crowd of cops and agents, including most of Tambour’s unit from NSID. Inside, we found Chief Perkins, Jim Heekin from the Directorate, Max Siegel, various assistant chiefs from MPD and assistant SACs from the Bureau, and a few reps from ATF. Jerger looked around at the sea of expectant faces and then dove right in as if she and I were the only ones there.

Each of the four slugs was bagged separately on a long folding table. Three of them were in relatively good shape; the fourth was badly mangled, for obvious reasons.

“Well, they’re definitely rifle shot,” Jerger said right away. “But these weren’t fired from an M110 like the previous incidents.”

She took a pair of tongs off the table and plucked one of the good slugs from its bag. Then she used a magnifier from her pocket to look at the base.