GODWALKER

by Unknown

  Phyllis just stared, blankly, for a few seconds. Then she said “Given any thought to an insanity defense?”

  Meanwhile, outside the interrogation room, Officer Andrew Brault was reporting.

  “Got the prints back, finally,” Andy said dolefully. “Interesting stuff.”

  Roberta and Luther flanked Walter, trying the difficulty task of reading over his shoulder while maintaining a respectful distance. Luther was up on his toes.

  “Hm,” Walter said. “Nothing comes up for Leslie Mundy… His mom, on the other hand, got arrested in 1988 at some kind of political rally. Pled no contest to disorderly conduct and got a suspended sentence.” He flipped a page, and the corner of his mouth turned up. “Daddy, on the other hand, is a real winner. Paroled from an Ohio prison in 2000 after serving a term for arson. Hm. Before that, a guilty plea to disorderly conduct in 1991. Sentence suspended on condition of psychological counseling. Another disorderly conduct before that in ‘85, and a public nuisance in ‘79. One parole, one fine and community service.”

  Luther looked at Roberta. “So I guess that’s why he doesn’t like being in a cell.” She didn’t even look embarrassed.

  At that moment, Phil King—Chief Stelke’s fourth, biggest and last officer—walked into the office.

  “What y’all got there, the newest Penthouse?” he asked, a wide grin on his face.

  “We’ve been solving the murder,” Luther said. “You?”

  “I been beating you to it,” King said, producing a plastic bag from behind his back. Inside was a .32 caliber revolver.

  “Found it in Fred Mundy’s hotel room,” he said. “And lookee here… the serial number’s filed off.”

  “Oh Fred,” Walter said, shaking his head. He nodded to Luther. “It’s his turn.”

  “That’s not all,” King said. “You know Dan Hamilton? You won’t believe what he told me…”

  * * *

  When Walter came back into the interrogation room, Kate was ready for questions. She wasn’t ready for him to say “That’s all for now. Officer Mueller will take you back to your cell.”

  “Are you going to charge me?”

  “Not yet. But we ain’t letting you go either.” Walter shrugged apologetically. “The wheels of justice grind slow sometimes.”

  “Justice,” Kate said, rolling her eyes.

  When she was back in her cell, Luther brought in the old man.

  “Hi,” the police chief said.

  Fred cleared his throat and said, “I’d like my lawyer to be present during the questioning, please.”

  Walter nodded, opened the door and called out to Phyllis.

  He introduced her to her second client of the day, and Fred shook her hand listlessly. His hand was ice cold.

  “You feeling all right?” the police chief asked. “I hear you had, uh, kind of a reaction in the cell.”

  “I’m fine,” Fred said, resigned. “Doctor whatsisname had a look at me, said it was a ‘panic attack.’”

  “He give you anything?”

  “He had me breathe in a paper bag.”

  The chief nodded, tapping a sheaf of papers against the tabletop until they were all lined up.

  “Fred Mundy?”

  “That’s my name.”

  “Also known as Frank Modine?”

  Fred crumpled into his chair a little lower.

  “I guess you got my records, huh?”

  “I guess so. Moving up the food chain from arson to murder?”

  “I never…” Fred bit off his reply, looked away. “I never killed anyone in my life.”

  “How’s that lip feel?”

  “It feels fine.”

  “Looks kind of nasty. Ralph Kimble give you that?”

  Fred nodded, and his posture became a notch more weary.

  “Yesterday afternoon?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “That piss you off?”

  “No officer, actually I’m an S&M freak and I had to pay him sixty bucks to beat on me in public,” Fred said, suddenly angry, suddenly sarcastic.

  “So later that night you got a gun, went to his house, and you popped him.”

  “No, later that night I got drunk, argued with my ex-wife, and crashed out at my hotel room.”

  “Alone?”

  Fred drew a sharp breath for another sharp reply, then slumped again and said “Yeah, alone.”

  Walter nodded. “So, what I’m really wondering is, what did you and Kimble argue about?”

  “That’s your only question?”

  “In the mystery books, they call this ‘establishing a motive.’”

  “So you made up your mind that I did it?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Fred shrugged, turned his head the other direction morosely. “I didn’t kill him, y’know,” he said tonelessly.

  “I’m tryn’a keep an open mind here,” Walter said, “But you gotta admit it looks bad for you. You’re an ex-con. You got a gun in your hotel room. Somehow, I’m guessing you bought it without a background check.”

  “I bought it from a buddy of mine,” Fred said.

  “Unlicensed?”

  “Walter,” Phyllis said, in a warning tone of voice.

  Fred glanced at his lawyer and tonelessly said, “I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that it may tend to incriminate me.”

  Walter chuckled. “Making us do our own legwork, huh? Well, I suppose someone’s gotta keep us honest.” He leaned in. “Seriously. What did you and Mundy argue about?”

  Fred was quiet for a moment. “He called my son a faggot,” he said at last.

  “That’s your story?”

  “That, and ‘I didn’t kill him,’ yeah.”

  Walter felt like he should ask Mundy some more questions, but the old guy was clearly clamming up. Besides, it was lunch time.

  “All right. You’ll have some time to think things over in your cell.”

  Fred just nodded.

  * * *

  While Phil walked Fred back to his cell, Walter spied the county coroner, Nicole Cortez, talking to Luther.

  “You’re sure—absolutely certain?”

  “Uh huh,” Luther said, nodding. “I even said something about it to Joe.”

  “Good, good. Saves me some trouble when it comes to establishing time of death.”

  “Hey Doc,” the chief said. “Done with the prelim already?”

  “Yeah, I’ll really dig in after lunch. You want some food?”

  Walter smiled. “You keep making deductions like that, you might get my job. How’s the Tiki sound?”

  Phyllis Feldmeyer came up behind them and said “Nicole? You got any first impressions?”

  “Sure. If you don’t mind eating with your opposite number, I can fill you both in over lunch.”

  The three of them went off together. Andy saw Roberta frowning and asked her what was the matter.

  “I don’t know… is it really appropriate for the chief of police to go have lunch with a defense attorney?”

  Andy looked after the trio, but he was really thinking back to Janice Carmody. Phyllis had defended Janice against charges of child abuse and neglect. It had been Andy’s case, and he’d screwed up while gathering the evidence. Phyllis had known it, too. She could have nailed him, gotten the proof thrown out and sprung the Carmody woman from jail. She hadn’t done it though.

  “Phyllis is all right,” he said.

  * * *

  “So, what we got?” Walter asked, digging into his pineapple fried rice.

  Nicole chewed and swallowed. “Well, it’s weird,” she said.

  “Weird how? I mean, it looks pretty straightforward. He opens the door, someone shoots him, pow pow pow.”

  “You’d think, but there’s weird elements.”

  “What kind of weird elements?” Phyllis asked, before wrapping her lips around the straw in her Diet Coke.

  “First off, the ammunition. Ralph Kimble was shot with safety slugs.”

 
Walter shrugged, and Phyllis gave the doctor a puzzled look.

  “They’re like dumdum bullets,” Walter clarified.

  “Right,” Nicole said. “Instead of punching clean through, they mushroom up inside the body, doing immense damage but leaving no exit wound. Essentially, they’re mankiller bullets—no one buys them to go hunting.”

  Phyllis nodded.

  “Don’t see what’s weird about that,” the chief said. “You plan to kill someone, you go get good bullets. I use hollow points myself.”

  “Yeah, I’m just saying. It argues against a crime of passion.”

  “That’s conjecture,” Phyllis said automatically. “Take Kate Mundy, for example. If you’re carrying a gun specifically for protection, why not get ammo with a lot of, uh, stopping power?”

  The coroner nodded. “Okay then. How’s this for evidence of premeditation? There are no fingerprints on the gun, or on any of the shell casings, and it was left at the scene. That means the shooter wore gloves while firing it and while loading. That’s not the action of someone blind with rage.”

  Phyllis said nothing, but idly flicked the tip of the straw with her thumb.

  “Not only that,” Nicole continued, “The gun is pretty bizarre.”

  “Yeah?” Walter leaned in.

  “Oh yeah. You saw there was a silencer, right? But there’s no automatic, uh, clearing mechanism. If you fire it, the shell stays in the chamber until it’s ejected manually.”

  “So it’s a primitive gun. So?”

  “No, it’s not a primitive gun. I think it was built that way on purpose to minimize sound. When you fire a normal semiautomatic, the chamber opens and sound waves escape. Even with a silencer. This one though, the chamber stays shut, while the silencer dampens the sound waves from the front. I think it was built specifically to be a silent kill. I’ve heard about guns like this, but I never thought I’d see one.”

  “Huh.” Walter scratched his chin. “I think I heard about the CIA using them.”

  Phyllis’ eyebrows went up. “I never would have guessed those three prisoners were spies,” she said archly. “Must be the perfect disguise. And Ralph Kimble? Was he an agent of SMERSH or something?”

  “I dunno,” Walter sighed.

  “Hey, you haven’t heard the weirdest part yet,” the coroner insisted.

  “Yeah?”

  “The gun has no serial number. It’s not just filed off, it’s blank. Like there never was one in the first place.”

  Walter scratched his head.

  “So, can you trace it?”

  “If it was used in the commission of another felony maybe… but the odds aren’t great, especially since the shooter went to the trouble of keeping it clean and leaving it at the scene.”

  “Hm.” Walter used his fork to pick a limp green pepper to the side of his plate, then speared another chicken chunk. “So, got any idea of a recreation yet?”

  “Vaguely, vaguely. So far, here’s what it looks like. The shooter walks up to the front door, rings the bell, and Kimble opens it. When he does, the shooter raises the gun and puts one in Kimble’s chest, pow. Kimble drops, while the perp clears the chamber and puts a second in Kimble’s chest. He clears again, and one between the eyes. He doesn’t bother to clear the gun a third time: the empty brass is still in the chamber. He just drops the gun on Kimble’s chest, closes the door and walks away.” The doctor took another bite.

  “Two in the heart, one in the head, huh?” Walter scratched his chin thoughtfully.

  “Why, that mean something to you?”

  “Not really, no. It’s a cop thing though.”

  “A cop thing?”

  “Yeah.” A noncommittal frown flexed on his lips. “You’re told that, if you shoot at someone, put two in the center of mass and one in the head.”

  “You think a cop did this?”

  “Or someone who hangs around with cops,” Walter said significantly. Then he paused, considering. “Or a convict who heard guards talking about it in jail. Or, hell, a social protester who’s a big fan of cop and lawyer shows on TV.”

  “Canvas the neighbors,” the doctor advised. “Someone probably saw something.”

  “You think?”

  “That time of morning, sure.”

  Phyllis blinked. “What do you mean, that time of morning? You have a time of death?”

  “Not officially, but Luther said the body was warm when he got there. He made a point of it. Sounds to me like Kimble hadn’t been dead long at all.”

  “Wait, wait,” Phyllis said. “Back up. Luther was the first officer on the scene, right?”

  “That’s correct,” the chief said, slowly, wondering what she was thinking.

  “The three strangers—they showed up after he did, right? Didn’t the woman say something about following him there?”

  “Yeah… yeah, because Luther said they were in the restaurant with Joe, and they stayed there after Joe left. They were still there when Luther left, and they arrived at the house right after he did. Oh….” The chief’s eyes got wide.

  “You see? If he was killed right before Joe got there, none of the strangers could be our shooter. They were in the restaurant, with Luther, when the crime was committed!”

  “Well shit, who am I gonna suspect now?” Walter wondered aloud, poking at his lunch.

  “Kimble’s son discovered the body according to his story, right?” the coroner asked. “He left the restaurant first, right?”

  “Yeah, a little ahead of the others.”

  “What if he did it? He comes home, shoots his dad, takes off the gloves and calls the cops.”

  “You think?”

  “Do you really think Joe Kimble would kill his own father right after breakfast with a police officer?” Phyllis demanded.

  Nicole shrugged. “Don’t ask me about motive or behavior. All I do is physical stuff. Unless Luther seriously misjudged the warmth of the corpse, I don’t think we’re going to fix the time of death so specifically that it rules out the son.”

  Walter was still pulling at his lower lip.

  “Even if the three strangers didn’t do it, they’re involved. Somehow. It just doesn’t make sense without them. I mean, Ralph lives his whole life here without any kind of serious trouble. Then these three show up. One day, he’s arguing with them on someone’s lawn. The next, he’s dead. There’s some kind of cause and effect there…”

  He turned to Phyllis. “Look, I’ma keep the three strangers a little longer, see what I can shake loose. Do me a favor? Don’t tell them they aren’t suspects any more?”

  “Walter, you can’t be serious.”

  “I’ll keep them on suspicion of conspiracy if I have to, but unless things take a hard turn I’ll let ‘em go tonight, is that okay? I want a chance to sweat them some more. They look like they might jackrabbit if I let them out.”

  Phyllis frowned.

  “C’mon Phyllis. You can’t think their hands are clean, can you? There’s got to be a connection. Gimme a chance to find it.”

  She nodded. “Tonight though. Early.”

  “You bet.”

  * * *

  While the cop, the lawyer and the doctor were splitting up their tab, the real killers were starting a late lunch. When done, they went to their truck for the fetal compass.

  “How’s this thing work again?” Carl asked, holding it in his lap with a look of distaste.

  “The finger points the way. Doesn’t get much easier than that.”

  “All right, let’s find this Kimble kid and give him the offer.” Carl craned his head and said, “Looks like it’s pointing east.”

  Jolene put the truck in gear and started pulling out of the parking lot.

  “Wait a minute… it’s pointing back south.”

  “You think he’s moving?”

  “Try something,” Carl said. “Drive in a circle around the motel.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No, serious…” As they turned a co
rner, Carl started shaking his head. “Don’t believe it. The guy we want is in the same hotel.”

  “What are the odds?”

  “Actually, I think there’s only two hotels in town. So the odds are fifty fifty, I guess.”

  “Can you pinpoint his room?”

  “Sure enough. Slow down here… bingo. Room ten. Suppose he’s in?”

  “He must be in if the compass is pointing at him, right?”

  Carl smacked himself on the head. “Right, right.” He put the jar on the floor. “So, who makes the approach?”

  “You want to?”

  “I could. Unless you want to.”

  “He’s a guy, you’re a guy. He’ll listen more to you. Especially if you need to talk tough.”

  “If that’s the way you want it.”

  “I’ll stay out here with the rifle?”

  “Yeah, in case things get hectic.”

  Carl stepped into the back of the truck and selected a snubnose revolver with a silencer. Not as quiet as the gun he’d used that morning, but this one he’d be carrying away with him, and he wouldn’t need to clear it between shots—should it come to that. He holstered it and zipped up his coat.

  “I look all right?” he asked Jolene.

  “How you mean?”

  “I dunno… do I look like someone you gotta take seriously?”

  “Sure. Good thing you changed out of those coveralls. Now put your game face on.”

  * * *

  Back at the police station, Chief Walter Stelke was questioning Leslie.

  “Hi,” he said—his usual opening gambit. Leslie stood and held out a hand. The chief stood as well and shook it.

  “So. You’re Leslie Mundy.”

  “That is correct.”

  “You’ve met your attorney?”

  “I have,” Leslie said, nodding to Phyllis.

  “All right then. You do it?”

  “No,” Leslie said, with a little smile.

  Walter shrugged, with a wry grin. “You never know. I gotta give it a try, right? So then. You didn’t do it. Who did?”

  “I’m not sure, but I have some theories.”

  “Care to share ‘em?”

  “They’re just conjecture at this point,” Leslie said modestly. “Am I a suspect?”