Page 100 of The Right to Remain

It wasn’t the Saturday night he’d planned, but it sounded like Sheila was primed to reveal something critical, and experience had taught Jack to strike when the iron was hot.

“I can be there in thirty minutes.”

She agreed, and the call ended. Jack trusted Sheila, but for a trip after dark to the industrial part of town, it couldn’t hurt to be in the company of a bruiser like Theo. It was time for Jack’s marriage counselor to change hats.

“No more tequila shots,” said Jack. “I need you to come with me to meet Sheila at CJ’s plant.”

Theo halted behind the bar, then made a face. “Sorry, dude. Can’t do it. It’s Saturday night, and I got no one to cover the bar.”

Perhaps that was true, but “sorry” was not Theo’s typical response. It was especially weird after Andie’s suggestion that he replace Theo. Something strange was going on, but Jack didn’t have time to play Dr. Phil to everyone’s feelings.

“No problem,” said Jack, and he went to his car.

The drive to the north side of the city took less than his thirty-minute estimate, even without Theo’s lead foot. Sheila met him outside the employee entrance, the same place Elliott had met them on the first visit, and she let Jack inside. They continued down the corridorand through the warehouse filled with padlocked boxes of inventory earmarked for destruction, which Jack remembered from before. This time, however, they walked past the locked entrance to the firearms-destruction area, where, the last time, Sheila had demonstrated that the only part of the firearm their machines actually destroyed was the frame. Jack had an inkling as to where Sheila was leading them this time.

“Are we about to see what happens to the gun parts that aren’t destroyed?”

“Decent guess,” said Sheila, “but not exactly right.”

She entered a key code and opened the door, and the lights switched on as Jack entered. It was another warehouse, smaller than the other one, and the shelves were filled with cardboard boxes instead of padlocked crates. Sheila pulled one of the boxes from the shelf and cut it open. There were no guns inside, but to Jack, the contents looked decidedly “gun-shaped.”

“Are those handgun frames?” asked Jack.

“Yup,” said Sheila. “With no serial numbers.”

It didn’t take long for Jack to piece things together. “You destroy the frames on the incoming guns in compliance with federal regulations. Then you ship out the salvaged parts with new frames that have no serial number.”

“Frame sold separately,” said Sheila.

“Hold on,” said Jack. “You can’t possibly have a replacement frame in this warehouse for every conceivable firearm that comes into this plant for destruction.”

“Follow me,” said Sheila. She led them down the aisle. The box-filled shelves to their left and right made it feel like a walk through a tunnel, and as they emerged at the end, Sheila switched on the light. A line of machines of some sort came into view. An assortment of cables connected the machines to a bank of computers. Coils and hoses led to large metal tanks. Jack would have needed a PhD in chemistry to decipher the labels on the tanks, but based on the remnants on theconcrete floor, he guessed that the chemicals, when mixed, created a kind of resin or plastic.

“Three-D printer,” said Sheila. “Ghost gun customers don’t typically have access to one, so it’s a service we provide. Dial up the make and model, print it, ship it.”

“So,” said Jack, thinking aloud, “for every gun with a serial number that comes in the front door for destruction, there’s—”

“There’s a kit to build a gun with no serial number going out the back door,” said Sheila, finishing his thought.

“That can’t be legal. I’m no firearms expert, but it was pretty big news when the Supreme Court approved federal regulations requiring serial numbers on gun kits.”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” said Sheila. “I’m not a corporate whistleblower. I wanted Elliott’s lawyer to see this because the gun that Rover dug up in the Pollards’ yard has no serial number. My guess is that it came from this building.”

Jack was on Sheila’s wavelength. “The gun was planted,” he said.

“That was my thought,” said Sheila. “Isn’t it convenient that the gun no one could find suddenly turns up, and—voilà!—it came from the plant where Elliott worked?”

“Not only that,” said Jack. “The prosecutor told me to meet her at the Pollard house at nine a.m., which happened to be the exact moment at which the dog dug up a gun in the yard.”

“You think the prosecutor planted it?” asked Sheila.

Jack looked away, thinking. “I don’t know,” he said. “But it sure feels like somebody did.”

“What are you going to do about that?” she asked.

“That depends on two things,” said Jack. “One, whether I can get Elliott to talk to me.”

“Maybe I can help with that,” said Sheila. “What’s the second thing?”