by Jack Parker
"I told you, I'd gone to the men's room," he explained. "You must've come along just after he left, if you saw him. It took me a few minutes to clean up my shirt, I obviously missed you both. Lots of people would've seen me if I'd left the lab and come back again. I know the police checked, and no one did."
"Not if you used the back door," Gracie told him. "I checked it yesterday, the alarm's been disabled. You could've slipped out and driven to Bixby's estate, shot my father, and slipped back in again. The parking lot out there," she pointed to the back wall, "is for the Business Building. Anyone that saw you probably wouldn't recognize you, and Lieutenant Freeman believed your story about being locked in here so he didn't look for witnesses very hard."
"Gracie," Bill was trying to sound reasonable. "Your dad was shot with his own gun. A gun that that nutcase colleague left on the front seat of his car after he'd tried to blow it up. I was talking to Rita when that happened, just before I came in here. I couldn't possibly have gotten hold of that gun. Someone else took it and followed him out to the country and killed him with it."
"You want me to tell you how you did it?" she asked.
"Sure, go ahead," he said. "Last I heard the police hadn't found the gun – or any other clues. You can make up any story you want, but that doesn't mean it's true. It doesn't mean I shot him."
Gracie stood up and began slowly walking around the lab. She was nervous and couldn't sit still. Bill was right, she had no hard evidence, and she didn't know how he might react to what she was about to say.
"You'd made up your mind you'd kill him for what he'd done. You'd heard his speech about the presentation to Mr. Bixby, and you knew the mansion was out in the boonies. It wasn't likely anybody would be out there to see you. You knew the area, too, it's out by the lake where you used to take us camping. I suspect you drove out there on Sunday to reconnoiter, just to get all your ducks in a row. Making two trips out there was why your gas tank was empty, and you couldn't afford to fill up after your purchases."
"What purchases?" he asked, a little harshly. "I'd run out of money before month, I was broke and couldn't afford gas. Had to ride my bike to work."
"I'll get to that in a minute," she said. "This worked out perfectly for you because Tuesdays were your regular days in the lab. Everyone knew that, so they'd feel sure you were really in here because that's where you went every Tuesday. I'd come by the week before so you probably didn't expect me, either. You went to Wal-Mart and bought a black-and-gray plaid shirt and a pair of black slacks."
"You're getting confused!" Bill said. "I bought those clothes a week before the murder. I wore them to the party on Saturday, remember? That was part of why I was low on cash."
"I remember, Bill. I remember telling you I could tell they were new because they weren't faded. Which means you could buy a duplicate set and no one could tell the difference. You would've paid cash so there'd be no credit-card charge for the police to check. You're thorough, you probably pulled the price-tags off and dropped them in the trashcan outside the store. If the police looked they wouldn't find tags in your trash for clothes you'd bought a week ago. After my comment you ran the new clothes through the washer a couple of times just in case."
"Why would I need duplicate clothes?"
"In case you got blood on them, or hairs or fibers or even gunpowder. If the police should suspect you and decided to check your clothes the new ones couldn't possibly have any incriminating evidence on them. And no one would notice that you'd changed clothes during the day. You got everything together Monday evening and put it in your car. Oh, you put your gun in the car, too."
"My gun hasn't been fired in months, the police did check it out," he said.
"You didn't use your gun," she replied, calmer now that she was laying it all out. "Tuesday after lunch you stopped by to say 'hi' to Rita, so she'd remember seeing you go into the lab. You set up your experiment, then went out the back door and drove to the Bixby mansion; you parked the car on a side road nearby and rode your bicycle to the gates. You stashed it in the fir trees by the gate and waited for Dad to come out."
"If I knew where he was going to be at 2:00 why didn't I get there first and shoot him before he went in?" Bill asked.
"Two reasons, either of which would explain it," Gracie told him. First, you weren't sure you'd have time to lock yourself up in here and still get there by 2:00. It's a long drive. Second, you knew Bixby was expecting him at 2:00 and might be watching for his arrival. That meant there'd be a bigger chance they'd see you riding away on the bike after you shot him."
"Yeah, I know the cops found bike tracks at the scene," he said in a reasonable tone. "They could be anybody's. Just because I've got a bicycle doesn't mean I was out there."
"That night, when everyone was at Dad's house to talk to the lieutenant, I wanted to get away from all the people for a few minutes. I was walking around the driveway and saw a little evergreen branch stuck under the tag bracket on your bike. I remember thinking how neat you always are and that you'd have pulled it out if you'd seen it. Guess you didn't see it."
"I ride that bike all over," he told her, a little angry now. "Big deal. So I had a few leaves in the bracket, that doesn't mean they came from Bixby's place."
"The trees around your house and the college are elms, maples, oaks. They're deciduous. There are fir trees near the lake, but not many in town," she told him. "You don't get branches caught in the back of the bike by riding it down the road, but it could happen if you pushed the bicycle into a thick stand of trees to hide it. So you waited until you saw the automatic gates open and Dad's car come out."
"But it wasn't your dad's car," he said. "You're forgetting the details. He'd borrowed a car, remember?"
"Yes, but they looked pretty much alike," Gracie said. "You were expecting his car and you could see the driver before you jumped out of the bushes. You came out and got his attention, maybe pointed your gun at him, maybe just waved your arms, it doesn't matter. He got out of the car and you continued the argument. I'm assuming he didn't give in and at some point you pulled your gun and threatened to shoot him."
"Why didn't I just shoot him and be done with it?" Bill asked. He sounded sarcastic, as if her ideas were stupid.
Gracie knew – or hoped, at least – that it meant she was on the right track. "Because you really wanted him to admit what he'd done and apologize for all the grief it'd caused you. If he refused, you wanted him to know why you were shooting him."
"OK, so I've got my gun pointed at him – how did I manage to shoot him with his own gun?" Bill was trying to punch logical holes in her theory.
"Dad had his gun with him. Maybe he'd stuck it in his jacket pocket when he saw you; he knew you were mad at him, flagging him down out in the country like that had to look suspicious. Maybe he even had it in his hand when he got out of the car."
"So either he would've shot me first, or it would've been a Mexican standoff. How'd I get his gun away from him?" Bill asked harshly.
"Something happened to distract him for a second," Gracie answered. "You had your bike helmet with you, you hit him with it so he'd drop the gun. The coroner said there was a faint straight bruise on the inside of his right forearm. I suppose it could've been a stick, but I don't know why you'd have a stick when you had a gun; the helmet makes more sense. At any rate you got his gun and shot him with it. That worked out better for you because now you could let the police examine yours knowing it hadn't been fired recently."
"And I suppose I rode the bicycle back to the car and drove back here, tossing the gun along the way somewhere," he said. "You've put together a lot of little things that aren't connected and come up with this crazy idea. New clothes, bicycle tracks, action-movie heroics. You've got an over-active imagination."
"But you didn't drive straight back to the school," Gracie said, completely ignoring the rest of his statement.
"What else would I do?" Bill asked. "If I'd just committed a murder wouldn't I want to get back as s
oon as possible so I could pretend I'd never left?"
"I think you went to the campground first, Bill," she said. "It was close by and you were familiar with it. You knew there wouldn't be many people out there on a Tuesday afternoon. You could use the public shower and change into your clean clothes, then burn the ones you'd worn. Throw the ashes with any metal or melted plastic into the lake so it wouldn't be obvious that clothing had been burned. Then you could head back to town."
Bill was shaking his head like he didn't believe it. "Why not throw the gun in the lake too?"
"You could've, but I don't think you did. I suppose you didn't want to take the chance that someone saw you burning something and then leaving – that might look suspicious. The police might've sent divers into the lake looking for the gun."
"But I'd have wiped my fingerprints off the gun," he said. "And according to your story it was Charles' anyway, it couldn't be traced back to me. So what did I do with it?"
"You used a cordless drill to get rid of the serial number and threw it in the trash at a drive-in," Gracie replied steadily. "When I borrowed your car I saw the drill in the back floor, and found a French fry under the seat. You keep your car clean, you wouldn't leave a greasy fry in the floorboard. Besides, you told me you'd have to take your lunch after buying the clothes so you wouldn't have stopped by a drive-in anytime lately. There was no bit in the drill, I guess you threw it out the window somewhere just in case it had metal shavings in it or something. Then you drove back here and slipped in through the back door. Rita remembered you leaving, you didn't stay late because you wanted her to remember."
"That's the craziest story I've ever heard!" Bill said. "I suppose you kept the French fry so the police can find my DNA on it. It doesn't prove a thing! It's almost like you've gone out of your way to concoct a story that can't be proven."
"No, but you did a great job of covering your tracks. You're right, I don't have a shred of proof – no blood-spattered clothes, no French fry, no gun. I know you did it, Bill. I can't go to the police with a story like this, they'd laugh at me; but I need to know what really happened to my father. Be a bigger man than he was, and tell me I'm right."
Bill looked shaken at that. She'd deliberately pointed out that he was acting the same way her dad had when Bill had wanted justice. Gracie held her breath, hoping he wouldn't decide to throw some dangerous chemical on her and claim it'd been a horrible accident.
Bill sighed heavily. "You're right, Gracie. I did it, I killed Charles. I can't believe you figured it all out; like you said, I thought I was being careful. You got a few details wrong, but the bulk of it is correct."
Gracie let out the breath she'd held. She knew she'd have to be careful, she wasn't out of the woods – or the lab – yet. "What kind of details? I knew I couldn't think of everything, I'd like to know how close I got it. Just for my own knowledge, since it can't be proved."
"I planned the whole thing out, but I had a little luck. The fact that I knew when he'd be in an out-of-the-way place and at a time when no one would miss me, and the clothes that could be seamlessly replaced. Monday afternoon I happened to find a big baggie in the trash bin in here. The kids aren't supposed to eat in the lab, it's not safe, but it looked like someone had. It was big enough to hold the gun, and it would have someone else's fingerprints on it if it was found. I picked it up with a paper towel, I tried to think of every eventuality."
Bill began to warm to the task. "When I got back to the car I used the drill to foul the gun barrel. I didn't care about the serial number. If the police couldn't prove it was the murder weapon it didn't matter whose gun it was. I was going to break a window when I got home and say the house had been broken into and my gun was stolen. But I didn't have to."
"Pretty ironic, in light of what really happened," Gracie remarked. "That would've looked really suspicious, but you'd covered your trail well enough that I doubt the lieutenant could've proved anything."
"I did notice there were four empty cartridges," Bill continued, almost as if she hadn't interrupted. "I thought that was odd. Charles would've kept the gun fully loaded. But I didn't have time to worry about it. I unloaded the gun and wiped down the bullets and casings, put them in the bag. Wiped down the gun and put it in there too. I was wearing latex gloves so I wouldn't inadvertently leave any DNA. At the campground I opened up the bag and added water and some dish soap."
"Dish soap?" Gracie asked, clearly surprised.
"Yeah, dish soap," he agreed. "Everyone thinks you need fancy chemicals to get rid of fingerprints, but common every-day dish soap works just as well. You use it to clean grease, right? No more grease than is on your hands, soap will melt it easily. I just threw some dirt into the fire pit to cover the ashes from the burned clothes, but I picked out the melted bits and tossed them out the car window on the drive back. The drill bit, too. I know that sounds a little OCD, but obviously I wanted to take no chances."
"Obviously," said Gracie.
"I stopped at the drive-in and got some fries and a soda. I doubt you'll believe me, but I was scared. I couldn't believe I'd really killed him. I needed something to eat, and it gave me the excuse I needed to throw things away. I worked at a burger joint in college – that was the job your dad got for me. The trash at those places is gross, full of grease and slimy lettuce and soggy buns. I've always thought it would be the perfect place to toss a murder weapon."
"So you ate the fries and put the baggie with the gun in the paper bag along with the rest of your trash and threw it all away," Gracie surmised.
"I tossed in the paper towel I'd used to clean the gun, and the gloves too. Separately from the bag; once they got smeared with mustard and melted ice cream they wouldn't prove anything," he told her.
"I just have one more question," Gracie said. "What was it that distracted Dad and gave you the chance to hit him?"
"His cell phone rang," Bill said. "He knew better than to answer it, but it startled him and he glanced at his pocket."
"That would have been Mrs. Greene calling her husband to tell him the house had been burglarized." It was Lieutenant Ken Freeman's voice.
Bill whirled around and stared, mouth open and eyes bugged out in shock. Ken stepped out of the storage room and walked into the lab. Gracie ran to his side, and only then did he put his gun back in the holster.
"You planned all this," Bill said to Gracie. "You knew you couldn't prove anything, so you wanted me to confess. Guess you had some luck too, asking you to get the acid gave you the chance to let the lieutenant in the back door."
"I'd have thought of something," Gracie said.
"I've been here the whole time," Ken said. "I've got it all on tape. Gracie told me her theory yesterday but you were careful not to leave any evidence. We've contacted Jesse Conover, he confirmed he'd been to see you and thought you were his father. His resemblance to Mr. Greene is remarkable. The boys will start digging through the garbage as soon as you tell us which drive-in you stopped at, we'll find the gun. You're under arrest for first degree murder."
Bill looked at Gracie with sadness in his eyes. "He didn't have to cover you, Gracie. I wouldn't have hurt you."
"You already did, Bill," she said. "You already did."
CHAPTER 26
"It was just three weeks ago," Gracie said to herself, "that I didn't want to go to the party at Dad's. Now I'm really glad I did." She was once again sitting on the patio at what she'd always think of as her Dad's house, with family and friends again gathered. She could almost believe it was that same day, that her Dad would come walking out the patio door any moment now to attend the grill.
But it was Clarke cooking burgers and wieners, wearing a silly apron and chef's hat. This wasn't exactly a party, more a chance for everyone to get together and talk about what had happened and how it would change their lives. Mom was here with Clay, and Candy had come along too. Justin and Zack were swimming, though this time they'd invited a couple of girls.
Aunt Jeanine was making her
own drink, mostly because everyone had ignored her demands for service. Jennifer and Cindy were setting out condiments, bowls of salads and side dishes, and plate of desserts. Jim and Susan Holloway were talking to George Thompson and Jerry Wilkins. Lieutenant Freeman said he might drop by, lured by the promise of free food.
Jesse Conover was helping Clarke cook. That was one good thing to come out of all this, Gracie thought. Siblings that had never known about each other's existence had a chance to get to know each other and become friends. Mom had called him to make sure he understood that no one blamed him; she'd paid for his plane ticket so he could join the group today.
Gracie's friends were here today, too; Shawna and Cheryl, Chris and Kelly. She felt surrounded by love and friendship, yet was sitting by herself thinking how much she missed her father. She'd just decided she needed to quit wallowing in her grief and get up to talk to someone when Carrie Stephens sat down beside her.
"Hey, Carrie. You having fun?" Gracie asked.
"Yeah, sure. This is a great house, wish I had a pool," Carrie replied. "Uh, Gracie, can I ask you something?"
Gracie was a little surprised, she and Carrie weren't exactly friends. "OK, I guess."
"What's up with Zack?" Carrie asked, straight to the point. "He used to be a lot of fun, but he's changed. Oh, I'm not sorry I got to come here today, but I don't think I want to go out with Zack again."
"I think he's given up smoking dope and he's trying to figure out what he wants to do with his life," Gracie said.
"Oh, but that's wonderful!" Carrie said approvingly. "That stuff leads to hard drugs and gangs and nothing but trouble. But why would he quit?"
"It's a long story, Carrie," Gracie told her. She didn't want to say anything about Justin's stoned actions and how badly it'd scared him; without that it would be hard to explain that Zack was just following along with Justin's changed attitude. Though quite possibly Zack would've been frightened too, realizing after the fact that he might've been considered an accessory.