by JF Freedman
Keith pulled the gloves over his large, knotted hands. He followed Perdue inside. Perdue led him to the gun cabinet.
“Do you normally keep this locked?” Perdue asked.
“Of course,” Keith answered. He was clearly upset. “That collection’s worth a fortune. It’s insured for over a million dollars.”
“When was the last time it was unlocked, to your knowledge?”
Keith shook his head. “I have no idea.” He thought for a moment. “There was a charity benefit out here six months ago, for the rodeo association. Mrs. McCoy might have shown some of the pieces to them. There’s some major gun collectors in that bunch. You’d have to ask her.”
Perdue squatted down on his haunches. “That revolver,” he said, pointing. “It looks out of place.”
“You’re right,” Keith agreed. “It should be here.” He pointed to another row in the cabinet, where several period handguns were laid out symmetrically. There was an empty space where one was conspicuously missing.
Perdue took out a tissue and lifted the revolver from the cabinet. Carefully, he laid it down and took his evidence notebook out of his briefcase. Thumbing through the pages, he scanned the section detailing the bullet that had been removed from the victim’s body. “What caliber would you say this shoots?” he asked Keith.
Keith looked closely at the revolver. “It’s a 1913 Colt six-shot, so I’d say a .38 WCF.”
Perdue had an encyclopedic knowledge of guns and ammunition—it was an essential part of his job. A .38 WCF (Winchester Centerfire) cartridge, which was no longer commonly used, had a different bullet-weight than a regular .38; to an expert, it was an easy bullet to identify. The bullet Dr. Atchison had extracted from the victim’s heart had been a .38 WCF.
He reached into his briefcase again and took out an evidence bag. “I’m taking this with me,” he told Keith. “I’ll give you a receipt.”
Keith stared at the old revolver, his face registering shock. “You think this could be what killed her? Christ, I don’t think any of these have been fired for years. I didn’t know any of them were even loaded.”
Gingerly, Perdue picked the gun up, put it in the bag, and placed it in his briefcase. “Maybe it wasn’t. But we’re sure as hell going to find out.”
10
ALEX GORDON, A LEGITIMATE four-handicap, laced a long draw down the left side of the fairway on the par-five sixth hole at La Cumbre Country Club. If you hit a long-enough drive you could cut the corner. The ball would run down thirty yards to the bottom of the hill, leaving a long iron or fairway wood to the green—a good chance for a birdie.
Alex birdied number six every three or four rounds. It was one of his money holes. His normal Saturday afternoon group made every kind of bet under the sun. Nassaus, automatic presses, sand saves, low number of putts, holing out from off the green. Whatever they could think of. The stakes were low—nobody won or lost more than fifty dollars a round—but it made the game more fun, gave it an extra edge.
It was a great day for golf. Warm but not too hot, dry, hardly any wind. After the rest of his foursome teed off (he had the honors, he’d birdied five, a short par three) he walked to his ball, which had settled nicely in the left-center of the fairway. Unlike most of the men he played with, Alex didn’t ride a cart. He believed walking was more legitimate, more like the game was meant to be played, the way Hogan and Bobby Jones had played it. He was thirty-eight years old, and fit—he worked out five days a week. When he was sixty-five or seventy, after they’d put him out to pasture, maybe he’d start riding.
His Titleist Pro V-l had found a perfect landing: a flat lie and a clear shot to the green, two hundred and fifteen yards away. A hard three-iron or easy five-wood. As usual, his was the longest drive by a good thirty yards—he was the only one with a legitimate shot to get home in two. He was already licking his chops.
His cell phone rang.
“Oh, man, would you give us a break?” Chip Simmons cried out. “Turn that piece of shit off. It’s Saturday, for Christ’s sakes.”
Bringing your cell phone to the course was bad form; Alex knew that. He didn’t like keeping his on, but be had to. Being a D.A. was like being a doctor; you were always on call.
“Sorry,” he apologized. He walked away from the others, so he wouldn’t disturb them. He looked at the display, then stabbed the On button. “This is Alex,” he announced, keeping his voice low.
He listened for a moment, then whistled low through his teeth. “Has the kid been read his rights yet?” After a few more seconds: “Damn straight, John. Have them do it right away, I don’t want this bollixed up on a Miranda violation before we’re even out of the gate, in case this actually turns out to have legs. I’ll be at your shop as soon as I can.”
He hung up and walked back to his ball. “Everybody else hit?” he asked.
The others nodded. “You’re up,” Chip told him.
Alex reached into his bag and pulled out his five-wood. Standing over his ball, he looked toward the green. He set his feet, waggled a couple of times, and let fly.
The ball arced high into the air, a sweet floating fade. It hit front-center of the green and rolled to within ten feet of the pin. He had a bona fide chance at eagle.
He put the head cover back on his club and slid the club into his bag. “Putt out for me,” he told Chip. “I have to go to the office.”
Steven and Tyler were waiting in the sheriff’s conference room. Someone had brought in sandwiches and Cokes for lunch. A television set was on, tuned to a college football game.
Rebeck came in and closed the door behind her. The boys stirred themselves. “What’s going on?” Steven asked her.
“It won’t be much longer,” she told them, dancing around the question. She opened the door. “Would you mind waiting outside with my partner?” she said to Tyler. “I need to talk to your friend. Alone.”
The boys exchanged looks—what’s this all about? Tyler shrugged. He hoisted himself to his feet.
“See you in a minute,” he told Steven.
Steven slouched into the cushions. He was getting antsy, but also, although he didn’t want to show it to these cops, he was getting angry. He and Tyler had flown out here on their own time, told the cops everything they knew, which basically was nothing, and now they were being diddled around. “What do you want now?” he asked Rebeck.
Rebeck took a laminated card out of her badge case. “You have the right to remain silent,” she recited in a flat monotone. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present at any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.”
Luke Garrison, in a pair of grass-stained shorts and a baggy T-shirt he’d been wearing while spreading compost over his wife’s flower garden, barged into the lobby of the sheriff’s compound. John Griffin and Alex Gordon, who was still in his golf shirt and slacks, were waiting for him.
“Where is he?” Luke demanded harshly.
“In my conference room,” Griffin answered.
Luke turned to Alex. “What’s going on, Alex? These boys come out here of their own free will to do you a favor, and now you’re holding them? What’s this about?”
Alex put up a placating hand. “Calm down, Luke.”
Luke brushed aside the conciliatory gesture. “Don’t jerk me around, Alex, you read them their Miranda rights. These kids must be scared out of their gourds. What are you doing?” he demanded again.
“The detectives read McCoy his rights,” Griffin said, correcting Luke’s assumption. He paused. “It wasn’t necessary for Woodruff. He’ll be on a plane back to Arizona within the hour.”
“And Steven?”
“We’re holding him.” Before Luke could start protesting again, Alex added, “We read him his rights to protect him, Luke. We want his lawyer in on this.”
“In on what?” Luke railed. What rabbit hole wer
e they going down? “Is Steven McCoy being accused of something? What kind of idiocy is going on here?”
“We think we’ve found the gun that killed the girl,” Alex told him, looking over at Griffin, who nodded solemnly.
That was a staggering piece of information. As a former prosecutor, Luke knew how important a piece of evidence that would be. “Where?” he asked. “But anyway, what does that have to do with Steven McCoy?”
“Inside that old house, where they camped out.”
The picture was coming clear now—alarmingly so. “That doesn’t mean Steven had anything to do with the killing.” Luke caught himself up. “What do you mean, think? Have you found it or haven’t you? Don’t play games with me, Alex. I was the guy who recruited you fresh out of law school, remember?”
Alex regarded Luke calmly, but inside, he was churning. Luke had been his first boss, when he was the county D.A. Their relationship had changed considerably over the years, but there was still a strong emotional undercurrent. Luke was the alpha dog, and always would be.
“Yes, Luke, I certainly do,” he answered. “And I’ll always be thankful to you for doing it.” He took a fortifying breath. “Which is why we’re handling this so carefully. We aren’t certain if the gun that was found on the premises is the murder weapon. We’re testing it now. But there’s a good chance it is, given the caliber of the bullet and some other technical stuff.” He paused. “But if it is, we have to look at McCoy as a suspect. He had access to that property, which almost no one else does. The only other people that we know of are the foreman, who has a clear alibi for the time frame when the abduction and murder took place, and Mrs. McCoy. You think Juanita McCoy did it?” he asked bitingly.
“Don’t be an asshole, Alex,” Luke said testily. This was no joke now.
“My point exactly,” Alex retorted.
“This is utter bullshit,” Luke protested. “Steven McCoy had nothing to do with that murder. For God’s sakes, man, I know you want a suspect, but you’re really grasping here, and it could bite you in the ass, big-time.”
“I hope you’re right, Luke,” Alex said levelly. “Indicting the grandson of Juanita McCoy for murder is the last thing anybody in this county wants to do, believe me. Christ, if anyone would know that it’s you, you sat in the hot seat, you know how intense the pressure can be.”
Luke didn’t want to hear about their problems. Protecting his client was all he cared about. Although technically he wasn’t Steven’s lawyer yet, he would be if Steven was indicted for Maria Estrada’s murder. This was Juanita and Henry McCoy’s grandson. No one in this county could say no to Juanita McCoy; certainly not him.
“But so far, you don’t know if the gun you found is the murder weapon,” he told Alex.
“We don’t, you’re right,” Alex agreed readily. “And if it isn’t, good for him. But if it is…”
No one spoke for a moment. The implication needed no voice.
“I haven’t gone anywhere with this yet,” Alex said, “except to protect McCoy as best I could so far and make sure his lawyer was involved. He’s sitting back there, drinking a Coke, watching USC play football on television.” He paused. “But I want something from you, in return for my white-glove handling.”
“What?” Luke asked suspiciously.
“I want to fingerprint him and take photos.” He hesitated momentarily as he saw the look of anger cross Luke’s face. “Don’t force me to do it the hard way, Luke,” he warned his former boss. “Because I will if I have to.”
This is a textbook example of being between a rock and a hard place, Luke thought. “Steven McCoy will comply voluntarily,” he told the District Attorney and the sheriff.
The crime lab in Goleta dusted the revolver for fingerprints. Three sets were recovered. A comparison with Maria Estrada’s thumbprint from her driver’s license was a match to one of them, conclusive proof that the victim had touched the gun.
After the fingerprint tests were complete, Dana Wiseman, the lab’s bullet expert, test-fired the revolver. He shot three .38 short bullets, identical to the one Dr. Atchison had taken from Maria’s heart, into a six foot by three foot stainless-steel tank filled with water. Then he measured the test bullets against the evidence bullet.
The old gun had left very specific and unique markings. The bullets matched. It was a eureka moment—they had found the murder weapon. Now they had to try to find out who the other prints belonged to.
The police photographer took front and side head shots of Steven. Then he was sent downstairs to the fingerprint section, where a full set of his prints were taken and transferred to a computer. The entire process took less than fifteen minutes. Steven was brought back upstairs and released to Luke, who drove him to his office, a few blocks away.
Steven seemed to be more upset at the way he was being treated than worried about why. “What the hell’s going on?” he asked Luke, as Luke escorted him into his office. “Where’s Tyler? What are they doing with him?” he asked, concerned for his friend.
“Tyler’s on his way back to Arizona.”
Steven seemed genuinely perplexed. “So why aren’t I?”
During the time it took to photograph and fingerprint Steven, Alex Gordon had given Luke a broad-strokes account of the sheriff’s investigation and the detectives’ Q and A’s with Steven and Tyler. Luke had to admit (to himself, not to Alex) that Steven’s story wasn’t promising; parts of it were potentially very damning.
“Because there are holes in the account you gave the police about what you did on the day the murdered girl disappeared, that have put you under suspicion,” Luke told him. “The cops want to check them out further, before they send you home.”
Steven’s attitude changed immediately. There was no ambiguity in it now—he was scared. “You’re joking, right?” he asked incredulously.
“I wish I was.”
“What kind of holes?”
“Whether the security gate was locked or unlocked when you guys left to go to town, for instance.”
“Fuck,” Steven blurted out. “Tyler said he thought it was locked, right?”
“He vacillated. Also, there are several hours where your time is unaccounted for, which is always a red flag to a cop. And most importantly, they may have found the gun that was used to kill the girl.”
He was watching Steven closely as he passed on this information. Steven wasn’t showing any guilt, just fear. Luke took that as a positive sign. Or at least, a hopeful one.
“Where did they find it?” Steven asked. “And anyway, what would that have to do with me?”
“In the old ranch house.”
“And they think that…” Steven tailed off. “It’s not that old revolver, is it?”
Luke stared at him in bewilderment. “How do you know about that?” he asked nervously. Jesus Christ, he thought, what kind of Pandora’s box are we opening?
Steven started pacing the room in agitation. “When I was showing Tyler around that night I saw this old revolver from my grandparents’ gun collection lying on the floor. I knew it shouldn’t be out in the open, but I didn’t know where it belonged. It was too dark to see very well, so I picked it up and stuck it back in the gun case where I could fit it in.”
Luke groaned. “You picked up a gun near where a murder victim was found and you didn’t tell anyone?” This kid was his own worst enemy. “Why not?” he asked in exasperation.
“I didn’t know it was any kind of murder weapon,” Steven protested. “It was just a gun sitting there.”
“But you knew later! Why didn’t you say anything once you heard?”
Steven looked down at the floor. “I didn’t connect it. I didn’t even think about it.”
For a moment Luke couldn’t speak, he felt so impotent at this sudden blast of bad news. “I have to call the D.A. and try to explain this to him,” he finally said, reaching for the phone. “This is very bad news for you, Steven, I’m not going to sugar-coat it. If it is the gun that killed h
er, your fingerprints will be all over it.”
There was a knock on the door. Juanita McCoy hurried in. Luke had called her from the sheriff’s office, while Steven was being fingerprinted. She looked at her grandson. “Oh, Steven,” she cried out, her voice heavy with worry. “My God, what’s happening?”
Steven stood up. “I’m in trouble, Grandma.” His voice was quivering.
Juanita hugged him protectively. Turning to Luke, she asked, “What in the world is going on here? Is he?”
Luke nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid he is.”
“Why?” she asked in bewilderment.
“They found an old gun at the ranch house they think killed the girl,” Steven said. “It was sitting out when Tyler and I came back that night. I put it back in the gun case, because I knew it shouldn’t be lying around.”
“Which will connect him to the murder, if the gun matches,” Luke told her.
Juanita frowned. “This gun. Was it an old Colt revolver?”
“I don’t know,” Luke answered. “Why should that matter?” She sat down with a thud. “Because I took it out of the gun cabinet, the morning Steven arrived.”
Luke’s head snapped up so fast he cricked his neck. “What did you say?”
“That gun Steven found and put back in the case? That old revolver?” Her look to Steven was one of utter remorse. “I was by myself, and I heard a car coming up the road. My foreman wasn’t around, and the gate was locked, so nobody should have been able to get up there.” Her eyes tightened shut, as if she was trying to will the episode to have never happened. “You hear about these terrible things happening nowadays. Which, of course, did to that poor girl.” She turned to Luke. “I took the gun out of the gun cabinet. I wasn’t planning to use it, I didn’t even think it was loaded, it hadn’t been fired for years. I wanted to scare off whoever was trespassing.” She fell back in a heap. “Then I saw who it was.” She turned to Steven. “You. I put it down and came outside, and forgot all about it.” Her hands were trembling in her lap. “Does that make any difference?”