the Dirty Dozen - Chapter 61

   Mike and his team were enjoying reasonably good weather. High winds and rain and storm would have proven a mess for the scene examination start to finish. When asked about Panic, Mike said he thought that as usual no news was actually good news, and to let Merry and Panic sleep, rest, talk, or even play tiddlywinks if that was what they were doing.

   The actual crime scene techs don't inordinately concern themselves with the bigger questions about the case. Their job is to confine their attention to the details. Which is not to say, however, that if they run across anything they think could possibly change the outlook of things… they definitely run and get someone. Someone whose job it is to keep the bigger picture in focus.

   They set up the grid, after determining the overall size and shape of the thing they were going over with a fine tooth comb. Human beings can sometimes walk around seeing the same things over and over and not notice them; the grid limits your scope to one little piece of the scene at a time. For focus. Like swiveling the microscope over to 1000x. The lead homicide and his team? Pull back and look at things more broadly. The site leader? Specializes in the 1x view of everything at once.

   Blood spatter and blood drop techs concentrated on the cabin initially. Did the bodies laying where they were, coincide perfectly with them being shot there. Checking lividity before the bodies were removed showed that no one, for instance, went and rolled bodies around ransacking pockets. The blood in a human body immediately after death, falls by gravity to first pool in bruises where water goes in any vessel. Down and flat.

   After and during the blood spatter and blood drop team doing their thing, the possible, probable, and whenever possible… definite location of the shooter was determined. What hand did they hold the gun in, did that coincide with the angle of the body getting struck by the projectile. Did they hold the gun in the proper hand, to kosher up with their being right handed or left handed.

   If the case was deemed important enough, and this one was, samples of blood dropped or sprayed would be checked against blood samples taken during the autopsy. The empty brass was located, photographed digitally in high resolution, then the resultant image copied so that the brass evidence could be labeled and numbered and each individual piece be codified before being picked up. So that each piece was being precisely accounted for.

   Each piece of brass would match perfectly up against the gun that fired it, and this was checked. Both at the scene quickly, and the precise labeling and coding allowed more thorough tests to be done later if deemed necessary when time was less of the essence.

   About the only thing that was left, was the decision to worry about the shotgun wads everywhere or not. This field was a skeet range after all. Empty shotgun hulls were all over in the back of the building, and around the cabin… both places that had been made use of the shooters standing spots for the informal skeet matches. The wads that fly out with the shot, then separate and blow around, accumulate quickly.

   There were no shotgun wounds on any of the victims on the scene. They were working in a skeet range. Hence? Shotgun hulls and spent wads were simply everywhere. It was like ignoring individual pieces of gravel when you were working a gravel parking lot. The bodies had handgun wounds. Work the brass casings, and ignore the spent shotgun debris. It was everywhere, like gravel in a parking lot.

   When the last of the entrance wounds had been cross referenced with the x-rays and the last projectiles taken out, cleaned, and analyzed… then the last report on that issue came in to Mike for the time being, and he had been waiting on it.

   "All projectiles recovered from the decedents post mortem, have been consistent in caliber. All have been consistent in initial visual lands and grooves examinations. Summary is as follows… initial conclusions are that all projectiles recovered were fired from the same handgun. The polygonal rifling is a match for a Glock."

   The lead homicide and his backup investigators took Mike around, and explained it was all fairly well as they had decided it had happened. The brass inside, was from where the shooter stood and defended the Alamo cabin… the brass outside, off to the side and down slightly from the cabin? Was where the shooter relocated and finished off the strays, before a few survivors made a break for it.

   The size and locations of the empty brass arranged in their found area piles told the story of where the shooter had stood. The shooter when inside and up on the loft? Had not largely disturbed the thrown empties from where they had landed. The Shooter when outside finishing the survivors off, had moved around and this trampled and kicked some of the piles left there. This told them the shooter when outside? Moved and fired.

   All the shooter's brass, had the same tool-marks on the case. The scratches left by the extractor and the entire extraction process, were all identical. Again confirming one gun, and therefore one shooter. One gun being shared around by many shooters wouldn't make any sense.

   The shooter seemed to have used all 148 grain ammo when inside on the platform defending the Alamo cabin; when relocating outside to finish off the survivors, they had switched to the lighter projectile ammo. It made sense. You stand on the platform, with mags loaded and ready… another batch of mags is available to grab when you go outside to finish them off.

   All the empty brass showed signs of what was called the "typical Glock bulge". 9mm Glocks using stock barrels, have the rear of the case not fully supported by being encased entirely by chamber… this enhances reliability and extraction under rapid firing. The brass can blow out slightly against the feed ramp. Under a full house load, this creates the somewhat infamous "Glock Bulge" that it's famous for.

   The gaggle of men attacking the Alamo cabin, had their empty brass matched to their individual guns they died with or near their bodies.

   Most of the lighter projectiles, judging by their locations on the corpses, came from the side and angle matching a person kneeling or standing over by the cut grass line after coming out and around the back of the cabin out of the escape hatch. A relative few had come almost straight down, on an angle much more severe than the angle to the loft perch. The shooter had gone around and finished off the last few before or after hunting the strays that escaped.

   Whether they were struggling to raise their guns while bleeding their last earthly energy out, whether the shooter was finishing what these perpetrators had started, in the end it all came down to one thing. The shooter had stood near them, aimed down, and delivered several shots. Coup de grace. No different than primitive indigenous hunters bringing down huge dangerous game… you get up on it, and you finish it off.

   This made sense to them. A determined, and planning shooter had shifted from the platform when that finally became less than optimum… to coming out the back and around to the side of them to finish them off… why not at that point, walk up and finish the last movers and shakers off. Coup de grace. Or, they went and handled the escapees, then came back and did the couple of coup de graces. Either made the same sense, and it didn't change a thing.

   One shooter. It was inescapable. Methodical planning and execution. Grit and determination to execute the rout once it was going well. The steel to finish off any survivors.

   Running out of ammo accounted nicely for the last two being taken out by more hands on means. It folded nicely into the overall methodical and determined nature of everything.

   Just before noon? Almost all the physical evidence had been collected, leaving only residual and tedious blood analysis which was bordering on minutiae to continue, now that it was convenient. Also allowing the laser pointers and strings to be put up, to confirm the locations and angles shots were taken from. Everything still fit their view of things.

   Mike and the homicide team could now pow wow and walk around a lot more confident, because they could continue to ponder and suppose without compromising important scene evidence. Mike emceed the meeting up near the body pile's former location.

   "All right. Anyone, have anything, that doesn't make sense? Anything dangling? Anything that doesn't fit logic?"

   "Mike? Go through us, but… as lead homicide scene investigator? I'm willing to call this one, unless a bombshell develops. It's getting less likely by the minute. Our initial assumptions? Were supported by all the evidence. We tried to punch holes, and we can't do it from any angle."

   "You. You're seeming to be sort of the brass expert. Anything?"

   He shook his head.

   "You. you seem to be more interested in blood than brass. Anything?"

   "I'll be damned if I can find anything off."

   "Anyone have anything?"

   "I still can't believe… the bikers weren't in on this, but… evidence is evidence. I really like the boyfriend being up here? No residue, and we can't find thing one to put another gun up here."

   "Christ. Even if we could put the bikers, and the boyfriend up here, both? It wouldn't change anything. Self defense is self defense. I wanna put off duty cops here helping? And I can't. Whole force from chief to last guy off duty is clean for residue."

   "The cards? Are even covered in her prints."

   The guy next to him chimed in, with a raised index finger to make his point…

   "Card, covered in her fingerprints… with gunshot residue smeared around too."

   Everyone looked at him.

   "I called the lab. You act like I don't know the phone number."

   Mike mumbled something unintelligible, but they heard the word "thorough", so they were happy.

   "What did we agree about the handcuffs? The two boys on the tree…"

   "Ah, we never argued. They're not police issue. They're not pot metal Chinese fuzzy love cuffs either."

   "No. Fairly high end dirty book store or internet level of handcuffs. Good enough you can't break the chain, not quite professional. Definitely above the level of bottom barrel 'I can pick it with a toothpick' cuffs…"

   Mike thought out loud…

   "A girl. Barely into her 30s. Unmarried. Dated a biker. Has two pairs of half decent love cuffs. The boyfriend slept here at the cabin with her enough over a couple weeks. It's not that weird a thing. Hell… might even have kept her from mashing their heads like ripe melons. You know, I'd kill you too? But I want you to suffer more by being a cop doing life in the pen. We have a problem with that?"

   Everyone shrugged. One support homicide spoke up further on it.

   "Actually? It makes the cops look worse, really…"

   Mike wondered how.

   "Well… on top of dropping their badges? Any cop that wants someone alive? Has cuffs. It's just a final nail in their coffin, they clearly wanted her dead."

   "They're done pulling pills from the dead cops. Is it time for another statement?"

   "Let them sweat it a while. I'm in no rush to feed the media. The boyfriend back out from the sleepover yet?"

   Mike mused.

   "Not yet. I figured, give them time. Remember, she was up all the night of the incident. No sleep doesn't do you any favors. I'm hoping she slept tonight."

   Lead homicide offered…

   "Uh… if she didn't sleep tonight, again? That would be fairly normal for shock and traumatic experience. Missing one and even two nights in a row, right after a near death experience? Is honestly normal. But… when she does sleep? It'll be 12 or more hours then."

   "Mike? Do we try anything if she's up forever, then goes into a deep sleep?"

   "Ah. No. I have no hostages. I have no shots fired. I have no threats. I have no demands. We don't even have her as a perpetrator really. Just a victim. I want a peaceable solution to tie the bow on this puppy… I'm not fucking this thing for two or three days straight? Then pulling out and jacking off the last instant. She… feels safe as shit in that bar. This ain't a porno, I don't need a money shot."

   "Bar's not even technically a crime scene, per se. Like it's been said, she's not even a perpetrator. Why SWAT the doors with explosives and risk hell. Do we believe Panic's statement, she's not into coke and meth like a biker?"

   Mike reviewed that angle…

   "I don't think so. Solid work history, six and even seven days a week, mostly with overtime, no missed days for years. Doesn't sound like the back story on any coke or speed freak I ever heard of. Junior agents interviewed anyone she knew at her waitress gig; she rarely drinks very much. Let alone anything else serious. Panic has no history of anything that suggests it. It's out of character for a gun competitor anyways."

   "Mike, a biker chick that isn't doing coke and smack, bikers that ain't in on a dirty cop turkey shoot at their own turf bar defending their own VIP national property… would you have put money on this conclusion?"

   "Not before I set foot on scene, I wouldn't. Now? Would any of you?"

   Everyone shook their heads. One piped up.

   "So… we take a break and wait? Let the techs finish detailing the little stuff?"

   "Yeah. Step one for me, is to quickly get to doing things you can. Step two? Know when not to force it. Anyone think this isn't a wise strategy?"

   All heads shook no.

   "Okay. Let's go take a break. Pull some more line states off of line, and let them start relaxing some too. If anything would happen? We have plenty of reliable hands, and they'll be better rested anyways. None of us are fucking machines…"

   They ambled down to their tent.

   Mike stopped leading his group of faithful homicide investigators halfway down the hill. Someone asked why he stopped.

   "Well, FBI agents are supposed to know when they're being followed…"

   Everyone chuckled. They turned around. One of the scene techs had been standing near them in their pow wow. The tech had been trailing them down the hill. The tech stood and stared at the group of investigators, and they all stared back. Mike had been leading them down the hill, which now had him in the back of the bus when they all turned around to confront the tech.

   The tech pointed at the lead homicide investigator. The last down the hill, this put him in front now when they turned around.

   "You in charge here? This your scene?"

   "Sort of."

   "All right. Sort of yes, or sort of no."

   "Sort of, as in… that guy, his name is Mike? Is in charge of the scene. We're doing the homicide for the FBI. The FBI? Is for once, backing off and letting homicide do what we do. Scene techs? Still report to me, business as usual. But? If Agent Mike makes a decision? He will have the full, and I emphasize the full part… cooperation of anyone on this scene. Does that answer the question of who's in charge?"

   The tech smiled and pointed at the lead homicide investigator in charge, standing right in front of the group behind him, answering the query.

   "Sounds like Daddy is in charge, like normal, of our happy little family on our working vacation… but, Grampy's here, and you can't say shit to Grampy."

   The tech was a young woman. Somewhere in that indefinite 20 to 30 year range. She had been standing near them talking, waiting politely for her chance to talk, or simply taking a break observing them. When they had turned to leave, she had politely but insistently followed them. She obviously wanted something, and though polite about it, she wasn't going to take no for an answer.

   She was fairly tall but not outrageously so. She was outrageously thin and slender, however. The kind of skinny that doesn't come from dieting down to a Popsicle stick. Her thin, richly tanned forearms had those teeny tiny muscles and tendons that stood out. She was one of the few women that were naturally that tall and skinny, and wasn't killing herself to look like the women on the television, though many were.

   Her body language didn't go with her appearance or her position. She didn't seem to be the least bit intimidated in any way, being around a bunch of mostly taller and all much thicker men around her, all state police carrying guns and badges. Not just because she worked around them all the time, either.

   She had a big voice for such a lightweight girl. Her attitude matched it. Outgoing and gregarious. A little loud and sarcastic, but really polite about it. Whatever her story was, and wherever she had come from? She obviously had been around bigger men most of her life, and didn't think anything about it.

   Mike could pick up on the feminist type quick. Fake veneer of forced attitude, probably picked up from articles on how to deal with the boys when you work with them. Her assertiveness was no facade, she was comfortable about it. All cops, from the smallest force in the smallest town? Up to the FBI and beyond… knew the routine. Publicly? Women entering the profession were a vast untapped resource formerly ignored, and they were happy to have them and work with them, and to have them bring their talents to the table. Privately? Every cop knew how it really was…

   Like any formerly macho profession? The few women that were capable of the job, and really should be there? Didn't have any problems because they were obviously fine. The women that forced themselves to get into a male line of work, to prove some point, stuck out like a sore thumb. The more they tried to act like nothing bothered them? The more obvious it was that it did. The more they tried and demanded to be one of the boys? The more it didn't work.

   If the boys asked them out? That was a problem. If none of the boys asked them out, as they were told? That was another problem. If you complimented them on their hair or clothes or car? It was a problem. If you never complimented them? Why were the boys being rude to them. If you never asked their opinion? You were sexist. If you asked their opinion? You were being patronizing.

   Mike drank her and her look and her attitude in, he was good at it. He hadn't risen to near the top of the FBI hierarchy for nothing. The ability to quickly assess and hunch things was paramount. This was one of the women that should be in police work. No need to use all the happy language in the pamphlets, she preferred boy banter because she acted just like one, she just had tiny tan tits.

   "Mike? Do you want me to handle this, and filter it up? You guys can start the break, I'll catch up in a second."

   "No. I said it from the word go, and I meant it. If anyone anywhere I go, thinks something? I wanna hear it. I've seen guys in my position miss little stuff the little guys find or come up with, dismiss it, and it has a way of coming around the building and biting them on the ass. She's following us around like a schnauzer, she has something on her mind. I'd rather hear it."

   She addressed lead homicide like a family member. He was almost old enough to be her dad.

   "Hey, lucky me. Dad's not an asshole, and Grampy ain't either."

   Mike tried not to smile too much at her easy antics. It was entertaining though, a nice break from all the heavy air hanging in the scene. Multiple homicides have their own dark cloud hanging over everything. Like an invisible pressure squashing everything on the scene, including everyone's mood. Humor was helpful, but, too glib of jokes only exacerbated it. Natural sarcasm was a welcome diversion for everyone.

   "Well? Does homicide's pet schnauzer have a name? Or, do I just call her Scrappy…"

   "Mike? Meet Technician Brazzi. We all call her 'Brassy', because she's so shy. All the techs specialize in either blood, brass, or physical evidence? Hers is Brass casings. So? Meet Tech Brassy."

   Mike stared at her, smiling for a few seconds.

   "Brassy? If you think you're seeing something, tell me. I don't care how little or stupid it might seem. If evidence doesn't support the theory? We adapt the theory. Go ahead. Educate me…"

   Brassy cocked her head and smiled. Mike thought she must think this was a welcome change.

   "Go on Brassy… if Pennsylvania Homicide listens to you? I ain't gonna try to shut you up. We're on break. Entertain us."

   "Okay. I just have a weird brass pile. Two or three of them, actually. I heard Dad here say more than once, you guys find anything weird? Speak up. So? Here I am."

   "Okay. What's weird about your brass piles?"

   "Well. It's not the brass itself. It's where it's laying. How it's laying."

   "Got pictures?"

   "Yeah… look…"

   Homicide, from lead to support team, all crowded around, and inspected her tablet for the ream of high resolution digital photos she had pulled out. So did Mike.

   Lead homicide spoke up.

   "Unless I miss my guess, Brassy… you don't like the neat little pile. Do you…"

   "I don't love it. I don't hate it. I've just never worked a scene before and seen it. That's all. You want weird? I give you weird."

   She took questions from the homicide investigator team now…

   "This only in the grass? Or cabin too…"

   "Only in the grass. I have this twice up top, and a third time down low. Near the vehicles but in the grass."

   "You like the cabin brass?"

   "Yeah. You ever try to clean up brass from a Glock at the range? It spits the shit out. Techs are encouraged to go shooting at the police ranges. Guy next to me? Bonks me on the side of the head with his brass, next station over from me. Inside the cabin, it's bouncing off the walls, like ping pong balls."

   "Okay. Show me on the map…"

   She brought up the scene sketch they all referred to now.

   "Here and here… then? Another time. Down here…"

   "Hey. Why's this pile in a line, and this pile… is in a pile?"

   Brassy spoke up.

   "Looks like the shooter kicked the pile. Moving around. Or? One of us moved it around. Anyone walking through the scene early or at night, prepping the bodies to come out, could have done it. Easily."

   Lead homicide was thinking. Two index fingers pulling his chin idly.

   "Okay. Shooter does it down in front of the cars… guys?"

   "We already know one got away. In a car. Shooter is coming down too."

   "I like that. And why not? I get out the cabin, I go around the side. That's where those two piles are. Down what we call the side lane."

   "Yeah. One already got away. We got the two handcuff guys, crawling away in the grass. Fireworks are over. Shooter runs down, cuts off the escape route to the cars."

   "The cars are already disabled…"

   "Doesn't mean I want more taking short little test drives all over the area. You crack a few rounds off. Keep their heads down in the grass?"

   "I'd buy that."

   Brassy spoke up, smiling.

   "You guys aren't getting it…"

   "What ain't we getting, Brassy?"

   "The ejection patterns. They're different."

   "We're back to two shooters, then?"

   "No. Lab already spot checked brass from all over. The tooling marks? The chamber scuffs? The extractor scuffs? Matches up perfectly. All the brass was definitely fired from the same gun."

   "Back to one shooter."

   "Wait a minute. We already know we have two different projectiles used."

   "And, we know all the brass was fired in one gun…"

   "Brassy? You're giving us a question. You're not providing us with an answer…"

   Brassy smiled, and upended her palms.

   "I just bag and tag it, and take 8 by 10 glossies. You guys play Sherlock Holmes. I'm just Dr. Watson."

   "Mike? Any ideas?"

   "You're the lead homicide investigator. Why do I have to sum it up?"

   "I'm on break. Amuse me…"

   Mike mused.

   "I got one gun. I got two different projectiles. I therefore, have two different stacks of ammo. And… that's all I got."

   The lead homicide investigator smiled, looking up from his coffee he was idly stirring in a Styrofoam cup, sitting in a camping chair in the command tent.

   "Not bad, Mike. Shooter has one kind of ammo, uses it in the Alamo. When the shooter comes out the back and goes around? Grabs magazines from the other stack of ammo."

   "Does… that mean anything?"

   "Nothing that weird. I know it tells me one thing, though. Mike, you shoot a lot? You a gun range nut?"

   "I qualify when I have to. I brush up once a month, even though I don't have to. I don't suit up for war for work though, not like I spend every lunch at the range. Why?"

   "Where was your shooter? Where was she hanging out?"

   "With… bikers. Biker bar… the biker bar cabin, out back…"

   "Biker bar with a skeet range out back, Mike. Where else did your shooter hang out?"

   "Oh. With guys building a gun range…"

   "Bingo. Not just any gun range. I visited that website Panic and his friend talk about. It's not the shooter bench, its the reloading bench. Your shooter was getting shooting lessons from guys that compete with handguns and rifles. Those guys? All load their own ammo."

   "Oh. I follow you now. Where does this lead us?"

   More coffee stirring, some exploratory sips now…

   "Those guys have loaded ammunition coming out their ass, unless I miss my guess. 9mm? One of the most popular handgun calibers out there. She had access to lots of ammo. Probably explains why she had access to lots of spare magazines, too. This shit's laying around, she just helped herself."

   "Panic's out. Let's quiz him on it…"

   Someone went and got Panic and Rob. They were walking around with the state police performing line duty. They came in a little bit later, with two state troopers from line duty in a gaggle.

   "Panic? Rob?"

   "Yeah."

   "What you got?"

   "This is a brass tech. The girl, practiced shooting with all you guys over there at camp, right?"

   "Yeah."

   "I suppose it's not a stretch, to imagine where she would have located, oh, a bunch of Glock magazines… a big pile of 9mm ammunition…"

   Panic and Rob exchanged glances. Shrugged at each other. Rob piped up.

   "The toy store."

   "What's the toy store?"

   "The bunkhouse. We have 5 gallon buckets of 9mm. Buckets of used brass, cleaned and sorted by head-stamp. Buckets of projectiles. There's a couple IDPA boys on site. If I had to make a wild ass guess? Someone is missing a few Glock mags, too. We honestly wouldn't miss the ammo, out of the loaded ammo buckets."

   "Any chance, you guys would mind taking Tech Brassy here, give her a little tour? She's interested in the way the brass piles are laying in her photos…"

   "Not a problem. What's wrong with our brass, though? We, uh… kind of take a certain pride in our reloading technique. We expect better than store bought, its why we do it ourselves."

   "Brassy? Show them the brass pile photos, would you? It's okay."

   "Hey, look Rob… Merry grabbed some of the practice 9…"

   "Yeah, she did. You can't miss that shit."

   Brassy made a face.

   "You can tell the ammo she grabbed, just from photos of the empty brass piles?"

   Rob nodded to Panic… to go ahead…

   "Hell yeah. For practice? You use the cheaper stuff. Light projectiles, more cast rounds per pound of lead. If you're not shooting for group, you're working on grip, trigger, stance. Why go hunting all over goddamned creation to pick up your brass… one of the boys on the website, got his Glock reloaded and by accident? Showed off little piles of brass it made. Easy to pick it up, we love it for practice."

   The lead homicide guy started chuckling…

   "Okay. Can I send Brassy here, out on a little field trip? For samples?"

   "Sure…"

   "Yeah…"

   "Okay. Any problem if I send a couple… of the state police boyfriends with her? They're not exactly bodyguards, but… you know…"

   Panic seemed happy about it.

   "No. The more the merrier. We got cops down there too. You guys can mingle. Might even have lunch going, if we get lucky…"

   "Brassy? You mind a little break? You can get samples. Maybe the boys would even let you see some brass getting fired… maybe some projectiles that haven't been fired yet…"

   "Sounds like fun…"

   "Brassy? Grab two Pennsylvania bears for buddies to accompany you. Take Panic and Rob with you, to show you around. Take pictures and make notes, to document it. Take a state cruiser or two. Don't talk to the press."

   Brassy looked at the two line workers already with her.

   "These two look fine to me."

   "Mike? You happy?"

   "I'm happy. Take your time, kids."

   Brassy and her crew were back an hour and 45 minutes later, and made her report. Mike and the homicide team went into the command tent to hear her.

   Mike led the meeting.

   "Brassy? Enlighten us."

   "No real surprises. Those guys? Have a bunch of gun ranges they're building. They load ammo on site, looks like a little ammo factory down there. Unless I miss my guess? We figured out where the shooter got the ammo from."

   "And…?"

   "They have two kinds of 9mm ammo, for everyone to share. They shoot for group size, using the 148 grain hard cast lead hollow-points. They have practice ammo, if you're just playing around. When they compete for fun? Everyone uses the same ammo. Makes the competition fair. So it's all about you and how you and your gun shoot, not just about who has the best ammo."

   "Sounds like some kinds of stock car racing. Everyone uses similar engines, so, it's about the driver, not about how much money they have to dump into the engine and car."

   "I don't follow racing, but yeah."

   "And?"

   "Oh. You can see it the moment you get onto the range. The piles of brass? Neat little piles of 9mm. The guys picking it up, like it because they don't have to sweep for empty brass with metal detectors at the end of the shoot."

   "Samples?"

   "I documented and bagged everything. I got the heavy and the light projectiles, unloaded. I got loaded ammo of both, too. They weren't kidding, there's buckets of loaded ammo, all labeled. Your shooter just loaded her pockets up. Guys just walk in the bunk house, and load up on big handfuls. Go shooting. Think… big candy dishes, loaded with ammo instead of sweets."

   "Anything else?"

   "Yeah. Lunch was good. These two bears? Hard to drag them away from the practice handgun range, to tell the truth. They wanted to stay and shoot with the range workers."