SW05 - The Wrong Gun

by Parnell Hall

“Let’s go back to the house, see if we missed him along the way.”

  They made their way back to the house.

  By the time they got back, the patio was filled with guests who had filtered out from the grand ballroom after the auction. Steve and Tracy looked around, but couldn’t see Timberlaine. His daughter and her boyfriend were no longer there either. They saw Burdett, who had a small cluster of guests around him, and who seemed to be pontificating on some subject or other, but there was no sign of their host.

  “Damn,” Steve said.

  “What do we do now?”

  “Well, no use getting worked up over nothing. Now we check the gun room, make sure the gun he’s running around with is the one we think it is. I’ll feel like a damn fool if all this time it’s sitting there right in its case.”

  “Right,” Tracy said. “But I don’t think it is.”

  They went inside, walked down the long hallway toward the gun room.

  They almost walked by it. The huge double doors were closed.

  Tracy had to grab Steve’s arm.

  “Wait a minute. Isn’t this it?”

  “Isn’t what it?”

  “The gun room. Isn’t this the gun room?”

  “Oh. I thought it was the next door.”

  “No, that’s the last room down. The gun room wasn’t the last room down. This has to be it.”

  “Then why are the doors closed?”

  “Maybe it’s locked.”

  “Why would it be locked?”

  “Maybe they keep it locked during the auction, and they forgot to open it when it was over.”

  “It’s not locked,” Steve said, twisting the doorknob.

  Steve pushed the double doors open. He and Tracy stepped into the room and stopped dead.

  The body of Jack Potter lay face up beside the display case in the middle of the gun room floor.

  He’d been shot in the head.

  Next to the body lay a Colt .45 with the letter R carved in the handle.

  13.

  RUSS TIMBERLAINE WOULDN’T stop talking.

  “It’s the wrong gun,” he insisted.

  Lieutenant Sanders cocked his head. “Oh? What do you mean by that?”

  Steve Winslow held up his hand. “As your attorney, I advise you not to answer any questions or volunteer any information until we have had a chance to talk.”

  Sanders frowned. “Mr., ah, Winslow is it? No one wants to step on anyone’s toes here or deprive anyone of their rights, but I would like to point out Mr. Timberlaine has been given a full Miranda warning. He knows he doesn’t have to talk to us. He knows anything he says could be used against him. And if he wishes to cooperate, we are delighted to have his cooperation.

  “Now, at the moment, I believe Mr. Timberlaine wants to explain how this gentleman came to be shot with his gun.”

  “That’s not my gun,” Timberlaine said.

  Timberlaine, Sanders, Steve Winslow and Tracy Garvin were standing in the hallway outside the gun room. A strip of yellow tape ran across the gun room door. On the other side, a Crime Scene Unit was processing the room for evidence. Photographs had already been taken, the medical examiner was just finishing up with the body, and detectives were dusting for prints.

  A young officer ducked under the yellow tape and emerged from the crime scene carrying a gun in a plastic evidence bag.

  “The murder weapon, sir,” the officer said to Sanders.

  “Thanks. That’s what I wanted,” Sanders said. He took the bag, held it out toward Timberlaine. “There. Mr. Timberlaine. The murder weapon. A Colt .45, fully loaded, one shot fired. You’ve already denied this is your gun, but you haven’t seen it yet. So look and tell me. Is this your gun or isn’t it?”

  Timberlaine barely looked at the bag. “That’s the whole point, officer. Yes, this is my gun, but it has not been in my possession for over a week. It was stolen from me over a week ago, and I have not seen it from then until now.”

  “So when witnesses state they have seen you wearing this gun in a gun belt this very afternoon ...?”

  “Not this gun. Don’t you understand? This gun was stolen from me. This gun is a valuable antique. It was stolen from me, and a substitute left in its place. The gun I was wearing today was the substitute.”

  Sanders held up the bag. “And this is the genuine gun?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A valuable antique?”

  “That’s right.”

  Sanders pointed. “The serial number’s been filed off this gun.”

  “That’s right. That was done over a hundred years ago by the original owner, Pistol Pete Robbins.”

  Sanders didn’t crack a smile. “Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then how can you prove it’s the real gun?”

  “The gun is well documented. Any expert could authenticate it.”

  “Do you have such an expert here?”

  Timberlaine smiled slightly. “Yeah, but he’s not going to help you any.”

  “Why is that?”

  Timberlaine jerked his thumb at the body bag the medical examiner was zipping up. “ ’Cause that’s him.”

  Sanders grunted. “Aha. And the substitute gun you claim you were wearing—where is that?”

  “Upstairs in my room.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I was wearing my Western outfit for the auction. Hat. Vest. Gun belt. Boots. The works. After the auction I didn’t feel like wearing it anymore, so I changed out of it.”

  “Oh?”

  Timberlaine was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, sneakers and jeans. “Well, actually,” he said, “these are the same jeans. I changed my shirt and changed the cowboy boots for sneakers.”

  “And the gun?” Sanders prompted.

  “On the gun belt, up in my room.”

  “Mind getting it for me?”

  “Now just a moment,” Steve said. “That gun had absolutely nothing to do with the death of Jack Potter. I see no reason for confusing the issue here.”

  “No one’s confusing the issue,” Sanders said. “We’re clarifying the issue. Would you like to have your client give me that gun, or would you like us all to stand here in the hallway until I can get a warrant issued?”

  “No need for a warrant,” Timberlaine said, irritably. “Mr. Winslow, I appreciate your trying to look out for my interests. But the point is, I have nothing to hide. And it is in my best interests to see that these guns are identified, marked and kept straight, before anything happens to mix them up.”

  Timberlaine turned back to Sanders. “So I’m delighted to give you the gun. I’d appreciate it if you’d put it in an evidence bag and label it, so there’s no question but that that is the gun I wore all afternoon. Then, if necessary, I will be able to demonstrate, first of all, that it is not my gun, the original rare gun that I purchased and, second, that it is not the gun that killed Jack Potter. So by all means, lieutenant, let me give you that gun.”

  “Fine,” Sanders said. He handed the plastic evidence bag back to the young officer. “And just to make your position stronger, I’ll go with you when you get it. I’ll be able to verify the fact that the gun was in the holster where you said it was.”

  “Fine,” Timberlaine said. “Come on.”

  “I’m going too,” Steve said.

  Sanders frowned. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Maybe not for you,” Steve said. “Mr. Timberlaine, if you insist on this course of action, I can’t stop you. But I’m sure going with you.”

  “All right, all right,” Timberlaine said impatiently. “Let’s go.”

  He turned and started down the hall toward the far end.

  “Where’s your room?” Steve said.

  “Over this wing on the second floor. From here the back stairs are quicker.”

  Steve frowned. “I didn’t know there was a stairway here.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  At the end of the hall, Timberlaine turned
left. There in an alcove was a staircase that couldn’t be seen from the main hall. They went up the stairs to the second floor, then back down the hallway.

  “My rooms are on the second floor back,” Timberlaine said. He led the way to a door halfway down the hall. “Here we are.” He turned the doorknob, pushed open the door.

  “Unlocked?” Steve said.

  “Of course, unlocked. Why would it be locked?” Timberlaine said.

  They followed him in. It was a huge suite. The room they had entered was a living room/sitting room with desk, couch, table, chairs, TV. Through double doors was the bedroom, dominated by a massive, four-poster bed, with carved wooden end tables. On one of these was a hat and gun belt. The hat was sitting on the gun belt, covering the holster.

  “There you are,” Timberlaine said.

  He started for the gun belt, but Sanders grabbed his arm. “You’ll pardon me, I’m sure,” he said. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a plastic evidence bag. “If you don’t mind, I’ll do that.”

  Sanders walked over to the end table.

  Tracy Garvin, whose wildest fantasies were coming true and who was hanging on every move, half expected the gun belt to be empty, but when Sanders picked up the hat, there was a gun in the holster. Sanders took a pen out of his pocket, used it to ease the gun out of the belt. He held up the gun with the pen, sniffed the barrel.

  “The gun’s been fired recently.”

  “That’s right,” Timberlaine said.

  “Did you fire it?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “When and where?”

  “After the auction, I went out and fired it at the pistol range.”

  “Oh? And why did you do that?”

  “That’s hardly relevant,” Steve said. “In the first place, Mr. Timberlaine, you’re answering questions about this gun, and you haven’t identified it. You barely looked at the gun downstairs and you stated that it is genuine. I don’t think you know that. You’re just assuming that. You barely looked at this gun at all, and you’re claiming it’s the copy and the gun you fired at the pistol range this afternoon.”

  “Well, it is,” Timberlaine said irritably.

  “Maybe so, but the point is, you don’t know.”

  “And the point is well taken, counselor,” Sanders said with a grin. He slipped the gun off the pen into the plastic evidence bag, zipped the bag shut. He crossed over to Timberlaine, held up the bag. “All right, Mr. Timberlaine. We now have a second Colt .45, also fully loaded with one shot fired. For the record, can you identify this gun?”

  “Of course,” Timberlaine said.

  “Fine,” Sanders said. “Please look at it carefully and tell me that you can recognize it as the gun you said it was.”

  Timberlaine took the evidence bag, held it up, looked closely at the gun.

  Tracy Garvin squeezed Steve Winslow’s arm. She knew this was when Timberlaine was going to notice the substitution.

  But Timberlaine merely said, “Absolutely. This is the fake gun. The one I found substituted for the real gun. The one I wore today and fired at the pistol range.”

  14.

  STEVE WINSLOW LEANED BACK in his chair, inclined his head toward Tracy Garvin and said in a low voice, “Think you can get out of here long enough to use the phone?”

  They were sitting at one of the dining room tables. The police had herded all the guests into the dining room and were holding them there while Lieutenant Sanders conducted the questioning. Steve and Tracy, by virtue of having found the body, had been among the first questioned. This had been brief, due to the fact that Steve had taken the position that Russ Timberlaine was a client, and therefore anything he had told them was a confidential communication. As a result, all he and Tracy could testify to was the actual finding of the body. Even then, they refused to discuss any reasons for being in the gun room and finding the body, but merely the fact they had done so. Their statements, both similar, were basically this: that they had gone to the gun room and found the body; that Steve had remained with it while Tracy went for help; that she had located Martin Kessington and brought him to the gun room; that he had left her and Steve there and gone to phone the police; and that he had rejoined them and waited with them until the police arrived. While that was somewhat less than Lieutenant Sanders might have wanted, he soon came to the realization it was all he was going to get, and Steve and Tracy were now confined to the dining room while Sanders finished with the other guests. Since he was taking them one at a time, and conducting all the examinations personally, they appeared to be in for a long stay.

  “Piece of cake,” Tracy said. “What do you need?”

  “Call Mark. Tell him to get his ass out here.”

  “On a Saturday night? He’s not going to like that.”

  “Tell him it’s murder.”

  “He’ll like that even less.”

  “Yeah. I don’t care for it much myself. Can you swing it?”

  “No sweat.”

  Steve jerked his thumb at the cop stationed at the dining room door. “What about him?”

  “Hey, they’re letting people out to go to the bathroom. It’s not like we’re being held as suspects.”

  “Not yet.”

  “What do you want me to tell Mark?”

  “Spare him the details. Just tell him there’s been a murder and I need him to investigate. If he’s got a pipeline into the cops out here that would help.”

  “You really think Timberlaine’s in trouble?”

  “I know it.”

  “Why’d you jump in upstairs, make him identify the gun?”

  Steve grimaced. “Because he wouldn’t shut up. Sanders was asking him why he fired off the gun at the pistol range, and he was about to say because he was pissed off about the auction. Which is just about the worst admission he could make right now. It won’t take much for Sanders to put it together. Timberlaine’s pissed off about the auction, he thinks someone tipped off Burdett, the one he thinks did it is Potter and Potter winds up dead. Once Sanders cops to that, Timberlaine’s apt to find himself assisting the police with their inquiries, as they say in British detective fiction.”

  “What’s your obligation at this point?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you accepted a retainer from the man with regard to a stolen gun. Does that mean you have to represent him for murder?”

  Steve looked at her. “You don’t want me to?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m just asking.”

  “Yeah, but why?”

  “Because Timberlaine won’t shut up and refuses to follow your advice. He’s spilling his guts to the cops now, and we’re cooling our heels here ’cause he didn’t want you with him. I’m just wondering why you’re not telling him to go to hell.”

  Steve took a breath. “There’s a good chance I will. But not until after the cops I.D. the murder weapon.”

  “How come?”

  “Because until they do, the other gun, the one Mark bought and I altered, is still evidence in the case. I need to keep my hand in to make sure that evidence doesn’t come out.”

  “Great. You gonna tell Mark?”

  “Tell him what?”

  “What do you think? About the substituted gun.”

  “I’ve got to, Tracy. He’s a friend. He’s got a right to know.”

  “Don’t you think he’s gonna be a trifle pissed?”

  Steve smiled slightly. “I think it would be safe to say that.”

  15.

  MARK TAYLOR’S EYES WERE bugging out of his head. “Run that by me again.”

  “Well, Mark, the bottom line is the gun you bought is being held in evidence in a murder case.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “But don’t worry,” Tracy said. “Steve filed the serial number off, so there’s no way the cops can trace it back to you.”

  Mark Taylor blinked. “That’s a felony.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t commit it,” Steve said. “I did.
You’re totally in the clear.”

  “I’m an accessory.”

  “No, you’re an unwitting accomplice,” Tracy said. “They hardly ever go to jail.”

  Taylor looked back and forth between the two of them. “O.K. the two of you rehearsed this pretty well. I’m gonna assume we’re not really in trouble, or you wouldn’t be kidding about it.”

  “Well, you’re half-right, Mark,” Steve said. “It’s a mess, but it could be worse. The cops are holding our gun, yes, but only so it doesn’t get mixed up with the murder weapon. It looks just like it, you see.”

  “Gee, what a surprise. And which gun is the murder weapon?”

  “Apparently, the original gun we set out to copy. Now, wait a minute. That’s confusing. Because the gun we set out to copy was not the original. It was the first substitute.” Steve grinned. “Sounds like the Miss America Pageant. The First Alternate Gun. In the event the real Pistol Pete gun was unable to fulfill its duties, then—”

  “Jesus Christ,” Taylor said. “What the hell is with you?”

  “We’re punchy, Mark,” Tracy said. “We’ve been living a murder mystery out of a storybook for two days and it just came true.”

  “Plus we snuck out on our police guards, so we feel like school kids getting away with something,” Steve added.

  Steve and Tracy had slipped out of the dining room just in time to intercept Mark Taylor and hustle him down to one of the gun examination rooms. Since that was at the opposite end of the building from the gun room, it seemed a place where they would have a good chance of not being found.

  Taylor exhaled. “Great. I’m glad you’re having so much fun. Would you mind telling me why you got me out here? Or was it just to have a good laugh at my expense?”

  “Didn’t Tracy ask you if you had any police ties out here?”

  Taylor made a face. “This is Nassau County. I don’t know from Nassau County. I’m trying to find out about Nassau County, but it happens to be the weekend and everybody’s off. I reached my receptionist, and I got her callin’ around trackin’ down all my operatives asking them if they got any ties out here. But it’s the weekend, reachin’ ’em is gonna be a bitch, I don’t know if she can do it. If I can get to a phone, I’ll call in and find out.”