KenGoddard
Hit and Run
Ah, very good! Exactly the reaction --- curiosity --- us fiction writers love to generate.dani123 said:
Hei, What about this chapter? Can you post it? I'm curious now.
And the answer is yes, as promised, here's the (partial) chapter that was ultimately deleted from the story:
The graveyard-shift range master, a patrol sergeant who’d been severely injured in a high-speed pursuit and was now confined to a wheelchair, looked up from his gun magazine as Willows entered the sound-proofed and armored-glass observation room located at the shooting end of the underground firing range.
“How’s he doing?” Willows asked as she stared out the big window and watched Greg Sanders tape four new paper silhouette targets to the four re-bar-constructed holders set at fifteen, twenty, twenty-five and thirty yards from the firing line.
“I don’t think he’s managed to hurt himself too seriously yet,” the grizzled range master chuckled, “but it’s not for lack of trying. Watch this.”
As Willows and the range master watched, Greg walked back to the firing line, put on his ear protectors, picked up one of the twelve-gage pump shotguns that the CSIs had confiscated from the state narcs at the campsite, walked up to the first position on the firing line marked with a taped ‘X’ that was precisely in line with the fifteen-yard target, selected a shotgun shell from the pouch strapped to his waist marked ’15,’ palmed the round into the weapon through the ejection port, rammed the slide forward to lock the round into the chamber, checked to confirm that the safety was in the ‘FIRE’ position, yelled “FIRING ONE ROUND” loudly, then brought the fearsome weapon up to his shoulder, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
The sharp recoil snapped the young CSI’s head back like he’d been hit with a roundhouse punch.
Still standing on the taped ‘X’ with the shotgun against his shoulder, Greg blinked his eyes and shook his head briefly, in an apparent effort to clear his dazed brain; then set himself again --- aiming at the target --- and jacked the shotgun’s slide back, sending the expended hull flying over his right shoulder. He looked back, noted the final resting position of the spent hull, stepped over to the second taped ‘X’ in front of the twenty-yard target and repeated the entire process … once … twice … and then a third time, finally ending up on the ‘X’ in front of the thirty-yard target.
“Oh my,” Willows whispered.
“I offered to do the shooting for him,” the range master said, “but I gather it’s a point of pride among the CSI teams that you try to testify to as much of an evidence work-up as possible?”
“It is a point of pride and professionalism,” Willows acknowledged, “but it’s also tough to testify about anything when you’re recovering from a serious brain bruising.”
“Want me to offer again?” the amiable range master inquired. “He’s a nice kid, and I really don’t want to insult him, but ---”
“Let me try something first.”
Willows and the range master continued to watch as Greg blinked and shook his head once more for good measure, set the shotgun down, pulled a tape measure out of his pocket, proceeded to measure and record the precise x-y location on the range floor of each ejected hull, and then looked up and saw Willows watching through the window.
“Just the person I wanted to talk to,” Greg said as he poked his head in through the door to the observation room. “I remember Gil said we need to fire at least five rounds at each of the distances to get good statistical accuracy on the pattern spread; but it seems to me that we ought to be okay with four rounds, stat-wise, if I’m real careful with the measurements.”
“Actually,” Willows said with a rueful half-smile, “Gil modified the protocol: it’s now six.”
Greg looked even more stunned than he had on the firing line.
“When did he do that?”
“Last month.”
“How come I haven’t seen it?”
“The protocol’s sitting on Ecklie’s desk, waiting for his signature.”
“So does that mean ---?”
Willows shook her head slowly. “Gil makes the final call on any protocols used --- or modified --- by the night shift; you know that.”
The look on Greg’s face confirmed that he did.
“So that means six rounds fired at each distance,” Willows went on firmly; “and then at least two additional rounds if we get any pattern-spreads or fliers greater than three standard deviations off the mean.”
Greg closed his eyes and sighed.
“On the other hand,” Willows went on, trying not to smile, “I promised Sergeant Gallagher here that I’d teach him the distance-determination protocol for shotguns some day, but I’ve never gotten around to doing it. So, as long as you’re here anyway, I was wondering if you’d mind ---”
“Letting him do the --- I mean, teaching him the protocol?” Greg’s eyes snapped wide open.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Willows said. “You’d have to stay with him during the shooting process, for safety reasons; and be prepared to back up his testimony later, if necessary.”
“I --- that’s perfectly fine with me,” Greg said, nodded his head enthusiastically.
“Good, then let’s get too it, young fellow,” the normally gruff range master said, giving Catherine Willows a conspiratorial wink as he directed his wheelchair toward the range door. “It’s about time somebody around here taught me something.”
