Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

did it?” Even though the witness might not be sure of the identification, the fact that the cops had the suspect in custody could tip the balance.
    The Dallas Police Department hadn’t waited for legislation to force a change. They had rewritten their lineup policy a couple of years before, and Sheila had adapted it for PSPD. The new policy put a stop to show-ups altogether. It required eyewitnesses and victims to look at an array of at least six photographs, administered by an officer who had no idea which picture was the suspect’s. The lineup procedure was videotaped, so if necessary it could be introduced into evidence when the case went to court.
    “No problemo, Chief,” Matheson said comfortably, without anyindication that he felt he’d been slapped on the wrist. “Let me know when you’re ready for Gutierrez, and I’ll see that he gets there.”
    “Good work, Mattie,” Sheila said warmly. “We’ll need him as quick as we have the autopsy report and a ruling from Judge Porterfield and get some photos set up.”
    Sheila was putting the phone down when Bartlett returned from the autopsy and came into Sheila’s office, grinning broadly and waving a piece of paper.
    “Confirmed everything we figured,” he said to Sheila. “No powder tattooing around the entrance wound, so the gun was fired from at least two feet, probably or more. Angle of the shot, slightly downward—the killer was standing while Kirk was seated. And no powder residue on Kirk’s hands. Morse phoned a preliminary to Judge Porterfield before I left the hospital. The judge just faxed her report to the duty desk. Officially, we’ve got a homicide.”
    “Glad that’s settled,” Sheila said, and added, with a crooked smile, “I’d hate to see it come out the other way.”
    He nodded. “Oh, and while I was at the hospital, I went upstairs to check on Palmer. He’s still out of it, but he’s stable. The doc said he’d call us as soon as he can be questioned.” He put an evidence envelope on Sheila’s desk. It was the bullet, the tip slightly deformed. “And this is the slug Morse took out of Kirk’s brain.”
    Sheila looked down at the spent, misshapen bullet, thinking how small it was, how dangerous, how lethal. She shivered and looked up quickly.
    “Things are moving pretty fast, Jack. That was Matheson on the phone. He’s got one of the garbage crew, a guy—” She looked down at her notes. “A guy named Carlos Gutierrez. Gutierrez saw a woman in the alley yesterday, when they were picking up on Pecan Street. Sounds likeour suspect, down to the good legs. I told Mattie we’d set up a photo lineup here at the station.”
    Bartlett grinned. “Mattie belongs to the old school. Bet he was rarin’ to do a show-up.”
    Sheila answered his smile. “He’s a good man. He’ll get the hang of it.”
    “Yeah. Well, okay.” Bartlett sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk. “I’ll put Blount on getting some photos together. She can let Mattie know when she’s ready, and he can bring Gutierrez in.”
    “The sooner the better,” Sheila said. “Let’s try to get the lineup done before that lawyer arrives. Assuming, of course, that Gutierrez can identify her. If he can’t…” She shook her head. “This thing is too circumstantial. I’d sure like to have a few more pieces. Anything on the gun?”
    “Afraid not,” Bartlett said regretfully. “There are probably thousands of those old Llamas floating around, with dozens changing hands at every gun show.” He was about to say something else when Connie opened the door and came in, a manila envelope in her hand.
    “The sheriff’s office just sent over these forensic reports on the Kirk case,” she said. “I asked the deputy why they just didn’t email them.” She grinned. “He said their email is down.”
    Bartlett suppressed a laugh. “High-tech. The county is down more than it’s up.”
    “Could be us,” Sheila said, and opened the envelope. She spread the three pages out on the desk and she and Bartlett looked through them.
    “Hey!” Bartlett said excitedly, and pushed one of the papers at her. “Look at this, Sheila. It’s a partial on that shell casing!”
    “No kidding?” Sheila breathed. “Omigod—that’s what it is!” She read the text beside the enlarged photograph. It was a print of a right index finger, partial, but very clear. “Let’s take this to Butch and see what he can do with it.”
    Ten minutes later, they