
“Okay, explain it,” the detective invited. “I know what you’re talking about now,” he said, taken aback but still careful. Suddenly, McDavid seemed to realize he was in trouble.

“Have you ever taken a dump out there in the woods? Like, a shit? I’m being serious right now.” It was as important and it was disgusting. Indelicate evidenceĭetective Salazar decided it was time to reveal some genuine evidence they did have. Police were looking for the gun used to shoot Mulvihill. The detectives knew where McDavid lived in fact, other officers had served a warrant and were searching his home at the same time he was being questioned. McDavid lived in a different part of San Diego County, away from the shooting scene, so his assertion that he did not know “the area” was reasonable. McDavid was shown the area, a small hill between Rancho Santa Fe Road and Avenida Soledad, with a dirt walking path connecting the two roads. One detective left the room and came back with a map. McDavid replied, “I don’t even know what the area is.” One detective asked, “Is it possible for your DNA to show up in the area of the shooting?” McDavid did not know what evidence the cops might have, so he was listening carefully and gave short answers. That was seven days earlier, and police had not arrested anyone yet. “Dude, yes you are.”Įveryone in the room knew that 45-year-old Mulvihill had survived the single bullet that had entered under his armpit and passed out his back. “You guys are trying to accuse me,” he pointed out correctly.īut Detective Salazar denied it, “No, no we’re not.” The detectives repeatedly asked if they could look at his cell phone, but McDavid declined to hand it over. He had been a Marine for 12 years and had served two tours in battle grounds overseas. McDavid, then 49, was normally a confident guy. McDavid said, “No.” He did not seem intimidated.

Detective Stallman asked McDavid, “What I want to know is, can you give me where you were at last week? Thursday night? From eight in the evening until midnight?”
