The Sixth Man (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 5)

The other officers tensed. Sean could tell in the fearful looks of the first two troopers on the scene that there would be hell to pay later for them missing such an obvious fact.

“I am,” she said.

“Why didn’t my men know this?”

He gave a prolonged look at the two troopers who had turned about as pale as the moon.

“They didn’t ask,” she replied.

The lieutenant drew his pistol. A moment later a total of six guns were pointed at Sean and Michelle. All kill shots.

“Hold on,” said Sean. “She has a permit. And the gun hasn’t been fired.”

“Both of you put your hands on your heads, fingers interlocked. Now.”

They did so.

Michelle’s gun was taken and examined, and they were both searched for other weapons.

“Full load, sir,” said one of the troopers to the lieutenant. “Hasn’t been recently fired.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t know how long the man’s been dead, either. And it’s only one bullet. Just replace it to make a full clip. Easy enough.”

“I didn’t shoot him,” Michelle said firmly.

“And if we did, do you think we would have hung around and called the police?” added Sean.

“Not for me to decide,” said the lieutenant, who handed Michelle’s gun to one of his men. “Bag and tag.”

“I do have a permit to carry it,” said Michelle.

“Let me see it.”

She handed it to him and his gaze ran swiftly over it before he handed it back. “Permit or not, doesn’t matter if you used the weapon to shoot that man.”

“The deceased has a small-caliber entry wound with no exit,” said Michelle. “An intermediate range shot would have left powder grains tattooing the skin. Here the powder was obviously blown into the wound track. The muzzle end was burned into his skin. Looks to be a .22 or maybe a .32-caliber. The latter’s an eight-millimeter footprint. My weapon would have left a hole nearly fifty percent bigger than that. In fact, if I’d shot him at contact range, the round would have blown through his brain and the headrest and probably shattered the back window and kept going for about a mile.”

“I know the weapon’s capabilities, ma’am,” he said. “It’s an H and K .45—that’s what we use in the state police.”

“Actually, mine is an enhanced version of the one you guys just pointed at us.”

“Enhanced? How?”

“Your weapon is an older and more basic model. My H and K is more ergonomic and it’s got a ten-round mag box versus your twelve because of the restyling. Textured, finger-grooved grip and backstraps let it sit lower in the hand web, translating to better control and recoil management. Then there’s an extended ambidextrous slide, a universal Picatinny rail instead of the H and K proprietary USP rail for accessories that you have. And it has an O-ring polygonal barrel. It’ll drop pretty much anything on two feet all in a compact twenty-eight-ounce model. And it’s built right across the border in New Hampshire.”

“You know a lot about guns, ma’am?”

“She’s an aficionado,” replied Sean, seeing the look of growing anger in his partner’s eyes at the officer’s condescending tone.

“Why?” she said. “Are girls not supposed to know about guns?”

The lieutenant abruptly grinned, took off his hat, and swiped a hand through his blond hair. “Hell, in this part of Maine pretty much everybody knows how to use a gun. My little sister’s always been a better shot than me, in fact.”

“There you go,” said Michelle, her anger quickly receding at his frank admission. “And you can swab my hands for gunshot residue. You won’t find any.”

“Could’ve worn gloves,” he pointed out.

“I could’ve done a lot of things. You want to do the GSR or not?”