The crime processing and evidence collecting lab for the San Francisco Police Department is part of the 12th Precinct, in a side building near where the 101 freeway splits off from the 80. It doesn’t look like much on the outside but the inside will impress just about anyone. A few years back there was a problem with an outside lab that resulted in hundreds of cases being thrown out. The city passed a bond to bring everything in house, and this was the result.

I was led to a private and sterile room where I disrobed and put on a pair of prison undies while waiting for my real clothes to show up. Then they took skin samples, DNA, a clip of my hair, checked my hands and arms for gunshot residue, took a bunch of photographs, and then finally allowed me to dress again. A couple of those tests give instant results, so I can tell you they found no gunshot residue or blood on me. The photographer was very professional and catalogued each of my scars.

Once they were done with me I swung by the old squad room. I used to work there, and my former Captain still ran the kill shop. It would be expected of me to pay a visit, and so I did. My desk had long been reassigned, and the bloodstains had been cleaned up, but I still got that odd twinge a person like me gets when I spotted it. It belonged to someone named Veronica Hayes now, whom I didn’t know.

A voice called out, “Carter!” Yeah, there she was. I think police Captains take a special class in yelling the names of their subordinates for intimidation purposes.

I reached out to shake the hand of Captain Gilda Gold. She took it and gave me a smile and squeezed. She might be six inches shorter than me but if I had a choice on facing either her or an angry bear in a dark alley I’d take the bear. She’s gorgeous too, and isn’t afraid to exploit that while she rips out your throat. She was a great boss.

“Gilda,” I replied. “I’m not going to call you Captain.”

“No need to anymore,” she shot back with a sigh. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

“I wish I knew,” I said truthfully. “I hadn’t even had a chance to check the place out. First time in the place.”

“Not one of your regular stops?” she asked. “I don’t approve of your hobby, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know. Most people don’t approve. That’s fine. I’m not looking for approval.”

“And you’re not getting it. Jesus fucking Christ Gary, 13 dead. No one here has ever seen anything like it. It’s like a bad TV show.”

I’d like to take a sidebar and explain something. Murder isn’t common, but it isn’t unheard of. Most murders are single affairs, and usually done by someone who knows the victim. Double murders are less common, but are likely to have been committed by a loved one or a spurned one. Three or four dead is most likely a home invasion or a robbery gone horribly wrong. More than that is usually a shooting spree and despite the headlines those bring out there is usually less than one of those a year in the whole country. Or at least it used to be that way.

So 13 people, all in the same place and killed the exact same way is unheard of. They don’t teach you how to react to it or deal with it because it happens once a century and not once a TV season per show.

“Are you going to call in the Feds?” I asked.

“Hell yes. I expect they’ll be here sometime tomorrow. This is going to take more in resources than I actually have. It doesn’t make any sense for it to have been a single shooter. I’m thinking that the person you saw was the cleanup man, or one of a crew, so I’m inviting the Feds in to look at victimology. Hell, I’d hire your lazy ass back if I thought it would help.”

I had been thinking the same thing about the shooter if not the sentiment about me coming back to work. We both knew that I was never going to be a detective again. That bridge had been burned. The point was though that killing 13 people takes time, and policing your brass – the practice of cleaning up the shell casings of your shots – that also takes time. Also add in the fact that killing 13 people with a small caliber gun either requires multiple guns or reloading. Multiple guns made more sense, and shortening the window of time meant more than one shooter.

Because I only saw one person that means I came in at the end of everything. Whatever had happened I had missed it. I was glad that they had already thought of it. I had worked with a mostly good crew.

And then something clicked in my head that I hadn’t fully realized until that moment. The smell.

“I could still smell the gunpowder from the shots when I was in there,” I said. “That means I had missed the gunfire by only a few minutes.”

Captain Gilda Gold frowned. “That doesn’t add up,” she noted. “You saw one guy leave so the second shooter would have had to leave at least a few minutes earlier. No one was restrained so the shootings all took place nearly simultaneously. One person couldn’t possibly do that.”

I shook my head. “I don’t have an answer for you. I can only report to you what I noticed.”

“I’ll tell Eric. He’s taking lead. I don’t really know what to think here.”

“Good luck Gilda. I can honestly say that I’m glad it’s not me working this.”

She smiled at me again. “And a fine fuck you to you too. Take care of yourself Gary. You’re in this case so you’re probably going to be called on a couple of times to do the whole witness thing.”

I nodded and sighed. “Yeah, I’d expect so. I got it Gilda. No escorts at home until this is over.”

“And no going out to find another place to get laid tonight.”

I looked at my watch and saw that it was nearly 2am now. “The only places still accepting new business this late cater to a much lower client base than me,” I laughed. “I know the rules, Captain.”

Gilda shook her head. “You’re a prick, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know.”