Free Out of Season by Steven F. Havill Page A

X-ray, avoiding the waiting room out front. I trailed Estelle and Buscema and noticed that the federal agent kept close watch on Estelle’s every move.
    Dr. Francis Guzman was on the telephone when we entered his domain, and he glanced over at the four of us, holding up an index finger while he finished his conversation. “Sure,” he said and then hung up.
    “This is Vincent Buscema from the National Transportation Safety Board,” I said. They shook hands and then Francis looked across at me. He was handsome in a rugged, bearded sort of way, and his dark eyes shared the same deep inscrutability as his wife’s.
    “Dr. Perrone is still working, but I wanted you folks to see this prelim,” he said and stepped over to a polished counter. He picked up a small plastic bag and handed it to me. I took it and rearranged my bifocals so I could see the specimen, or at least pretend that I could. It appeared to be a chunk of brass, no more than an eighth of an inch on a side, roughly rhomboid-shaped.
    “What is it?” Buscema asked.
    “If I had to guess,” Francis said, “I’d say that it was part of the jacket from a rifle bullet.”
    The silence that followed was so intense that I could count the gentle pulses of the air-conditioned breeze out of the ceiling vents.
    “No shit,” Buscema said finally.
    “Look here,” Francis said, and with one hand on my elbow, he pulled me toward the long clipboarded viewing wall. Several X-rays were fastened in place—vague, shadowed portraits of mysterious inner-body parts.
    “There’s more,” Francis said, and he touched the first X-ray with the tip of his silver ballpoint pen. “As nearly as we can determine so far, the path of the bullet—or whatever it was—was at a steep angle upward. The piece you’re holding”—he turned and nodded at the plastic envelope—“is one of two pieces that ended up right here. The other fragment is actually quite a bit smaller.”
    “And where’s that?”
    “The track looks like it came up and unzipped the descending aorta, right below the heart. There’s a tear there that’s nearly four centimeters long.”
    I frowned and leaned closer, trying to make sense of the shadows and highlights. “I don’t understand,” I said. “Who was shot?”
    “Mr. Camp.”
    I looked at Francis in astonishment. “You’re trying to tell me that Philip Camp was shot? He was shot in his own airplane?”
    Francis nodded. “It appears that way, sir.”
    “By who?” Buscema asked, and immediately grimaced, realizing it was a stupid question. He waved his hand and then tapped the X-ray. “You’re saying that you found bullet fragments? Is there any way you could be mistaken?” He reached over and took the plastic bag from me, peering closely at the specimen. “It sure as hell is.”
    “And even if it’s not from a bullet as such,” Estelle said, “it’s a piece of a projectile that was traveling fast enough to penetrate a considerable distance as it was fragmenting.”
    “Did you look at any of those pieces under a stereoscope?” I asked, and when Estelle nodded, I added, “And what did you find?”
    “I’m sure the fragments are from a bullet. One of them has what look like rifling marks. Really pretty clear. Eddie agrees.” I glanced at Mitchell, and he nodded soberly.
    “Where are the rest?”
    “Deputy Abeyta is with Dr. Perrone now, down in Autopsy. He and Eddie were cataloging each fragment as it was found. When I was sure of what we had, I sent Eddie up after you.”
    I leaned against one of the polished stainless-steel tables. “So you’re saying that Philip Camp was shot,” I said. If I said it enough times, maybe I’d believe it. “What about Martin Holman?”
    Francis shook his head. “Nothing yet. Nothing has shown up in X-ray. Nothing at all.”
    “So,” I said, “from the ground?” I stood up and advanced on the X-ray once again. “Nothing else makes sense.”
    “It looks like one bullet. It struck Mr. Camp