SW05 - The Wrong Gun

by Parnell Hall

  “And where’d you go then?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Nowhere?”

  “That’s right. Nowhere. I was fed up, and I didn’t feel like talking with anyone. I sat down and watched TV.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Why should I kid about a thing like that?”

  “You watched TV?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you watch?

  “The baseball game.”

  “What game?”

  “The Yankees.”

  Steve looked at him. “This was four-thirty in the afternoon?”

  “Around then.”

  “And the game was still on?”

  “They’re in California. The game started four o’clock our time.”

  “How long did you watch the game?”

  “Until the cops came.”

  “Oh?”

  “In the sixth or seventh inning. I don’t know. I was sittin’ there watching the game, I heard a siren. Went to the window, looked out. That’s when I saw the cop cars.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I don’t know. Sometime around six.”

  “What’d you do then?”

  “You know what I did. You were there. I came downstairs, asked the cops what was going on.”

  “I didn’t see you come downstairs.”

  “Right, right. I came to the gun room, I found you and the cops.”

  “How’d you get downstairs?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Which stairs did you take?”

  “The front stairs.”

  “Why not the back ones?”

  “What the hell kind of question is that?”

  “It’s the kind of question you may be asked. If you go on the stand, you’re gonna be grilled by a D.A. He’s gonna throw questions at you, and you gotta have the answers. It’ll be a damn sight better if you get used to answering them now. And stop trying to figure out why I’m asking and just concentrate on answering. Why the front stairs, why not the back stairs?”

  “I looked out the window, saw the cop cars. They’re pullin’ up to the front door. Naturally, I’m going down the front stairs to meet ’em.”

  “But you didn’t meet ’em there.”

  “No. Because by the time I get downstairs they’ve already gone to the gun room.”

  “And that’s where you met ’em?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then why didn’t you come down the back stairs? It’s closer to the gun room.”

  “I didn’t know they were going to the gun room,” Timberlaine cried in exasperation.

  Steve smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. You shouldn’t have known they were going to the gun room. See, you’re answering just fine. Now, that’s when you came walking up and found the cops and saw me.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You had just come from upstairs.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Watching the ballgame, which was then in the sixth or seventh inning.”

  “Something like that.”

  “What was the score?”

  “What?”

  “The score of the game—what was the score?”

  Timberlaine looked at him. “The Yankees were up three to two. California was batting, there were runners on first and third, and I think there were two fuckin’ outs, for Christ’s sake.”

  Steve held up his hand. “All right, take it easy,” he said. “This is your alibi. It may seem stupid, but the more details the better.

  “Now, correct me if I’m wrong. You stormed out of the auction; walked down the path; fired off the gun, shooting up in the air; put the gun back in your holster; walked around; went upstairs; took off the gun belt with the gun in it; took a shower; changed your clothes; watched the ballgame until you heard a siren; then came downstairs and saw the cops. Is that right?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Fine. Let’s talk about the gun.”

  “What about it?”

  “When you came upstairs to give it to the cops, the gun was on the end table by the bed. Only I couldn’t see it right away because it was covered up by your cowboy hat.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Think about it. When you were getting undressed to take the shower—you took off your gun belt, you took off your cowboy hat—do you remember putting your cowboy hat down on top of the gun belt?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because that’s where it was when you went to get it for the cops.”

  Timberlaine’s eyes widened. “You mean ...?”

  “Hey,” Steve said. “Ballistics says that gun killed Potter. The way I see it, that leaves only two possibilities. One, you’re lying and you shot him. Or, two, you’re telling the truth, and someone took that gun and shot him while you were taking a shower.”

  Timberlaine frowned. “I see.”

  “So?”

  “So, I don’t remember.”

  “Shit.”

  “Well, why should I? There was no reason for me to think about it at the time.”

  “I know that, but still.”

  “But still what? Either I remember or I don’t.”

  “Sometimes you can jog your memory. Think about it. You come back from your walk, you fired the gun, you’re pissed off. You walk across the patio, you don’t see anybody. You go upstairs. Which stairs?”

  “Front stairs.”

  “You go up the front stairs. You walk down the hall. You go into your apartment—is the door unlocked?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You leave it unlocked?”

  “Usually.”

  “When wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know. If I’m away. If I go to town for the day.”

  “By town you mean New York?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was unlocked then?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you lock it?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “So it was unlocked when you took the shower?”

  “Right.”

  “So anyone could have come in and taken the gun?”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you have seen ’em or heard ’em?”

  “No.”

  “Was the bathroom door open or closed?”

  “Closed.”

  “How long were you in the shower?”

  “I don’t know. Pretty long, I guess. I was pissed off, the water felt good, I didn’t want to see anyone. There was no reason for me to get out. I guess I was in there a fairly long time.”

  “It would have to be.”

  “What?”

  “Long enough for someone to have taken the gun, gone downstairs, shot Potter, got back upstairs and replaced the gun.”

  Timberlaine frowned. “Right.”

  “That would take some time.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And, of course, Potter is not cooperating. I mean, it’s not like he’s standing there waiting to be shot.”

  Timberlaine frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, the whole thing has to make sense. Either the killer brings Potter to the gun room, leaves him there, runs upstairs, gets your gun, comes back and shoots him. Or, the killer gets your gun, then finds Potter, brings him to the gun room and shoots him.” Steve shrugged. “Either way, it’s going to take time.”

  “I see that.”

  “And the killer would have to replace the bullet.”

  “Huh?”

  “When you gave Lieutenant Sanders the gun, it was fully loaded with one empty shell. That was the shot you fired up in the air on the path. If the murderer took the gun and shot Jack Potter, he’d have to reload one bullet, or there would have been two empty shells in the gun.”

  Timberlaine frowned. “That’s right.”

  “Which is why it makes much more sense the other way around.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We have two bullets fired, one into
the air and one into Jack Potter. By rights, one gun fired one and one the other. We know the fake gun killed Potter. So the whole thing would be simple if the real Pistol Pete gun were the gun you fired up in the air.”

  “But it wasn’t.”

  “Stick with me a moment. I know. That gun was stolen and the other substituted and the whole bit. But look. If the gun you wore at the auction were the real gun, you could shoot it in the air, go back to your room and leave it on your end table. And the murderer could kill Potter with the fake gun, then sneak upstairs and swap guns while you were in the shower. That would leave each gun with one bullet fired and you with the murder weapon. Simple, easy and possible.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not possible,” Timberlaine said. “I didn’t have the gun.”

  “I know you think you didn’t. But what if the murderer who swapped the guns swapped them back? Maybe just that afternoon? And you didn’t notice and so you wore the real gun at the auction and shot it in the air? After all, there’s no reason why you’d notice.”

  “But I did.” Timberlaine said. “When I put the gun on, I looked at it particularly. And it was not the real gun. Believe me, I would know.”

  Steve took a breath, blew it out again. “All right, fine,” he said. “But you see why it would be much better if it were?”

  “Of course. But the facts are the facts.”

  Steve rubbed his head. “Great. O.K. We’ll leave it. But whatever happened, one way or another, had to have happened while you were in the shower. Let’s get back to that. Before I digressed, I was trying to jog your memory. You came upstairs, the door was unlocked, you opened the door, you closed the door, you walk over to the bed and you start getting undressed. You take off the gun belt first?”

  “No, I take off the hat.”

  “You take off the hat first?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then how does it wind up on top of the gun belt?”

  Timberlaine frowned. “Son of a bitch.”

  “You didn’t put it there?”

  “I’m trying to remember. Let’s see. I took off my hat, I threw it down on the bed. Then I took off the gun belt, put it on the end table. Then I sat down on the bed to take off my boots and—” He broke off.

  “What?”

  “When I sat down I moved the hat off the bed.”

  “And set it on the end table over the gun?”

  “Probably.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. I know. But that’s what I did.”

  “Do you remember putting it on the gun belt?”

  “No, but that’s what I must have done.”

  Steve took a breath, exhaled. “O.K. And when you came out of the shower—do you remember seeing the hat or the gun belt then?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Think. Was there anything that you noticed—doesn’t have to be the gun belt, or the hat, or the cowboy outfit at all—but was there anything in the room you noticed different when you came out of the shower than when you went in?”

  Timberlaine narrowed his eyes a few moments, then shook his head. “No, I can’t remember.”

  “O.K. But if you think of anything, anything at all, no matter how trivial, let me know.”

  “Of course. Of course.”

  “You understand, if what you say is true, this is the only time someone could have taken the gun. The only time Potter could have been killed.”

  “I see that.”

  “That is a fact, though—from the time you went back to your room, you never left the room till the time you came down to find the cops—is that right?”

  “Hey, I told you. I took a shower, watched the ball game.”

  “You did that because you were pissed off about the auction and you didn’t want to see anybody.”

  “Right.”

  “Ordinarily, with a houseful of guests, and it being cocktail hour and all, you would have put in an appearance.”

  “Ordinarily.”

  “But you were pissed off, so you didn’t.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the thing that pissed you off was Melvin Burdett buying that cavalry piece.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you still think he got a tip?”

  “I know he got a tip.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t know. I just do.”

  “Fine. That’s what you thought then, and that’s what you think now. O.K. Say he got a tip—where did he get it from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where do you think?”

  “I tell you, I don’t know.”

  “You have no idea?”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really? What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Potter’s dead.”

  “I see. You thought it was Potter, now that he’s dead you’re not so sure?”

  Timberlaine shrugged. “Something like that.”

  “At the time it happened, right after the auction—you’re telling me you thought it was Potter?”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “You tell this to the cops?”

  Timberlaine’s eyes shifted.

  Steve sighed. “Oh, Christ.”

  “Well, how the hell was I to know?”

  “You weren’t,” Steve said. “There was no way to know. You couldn’t know, and I couldn’t know. That’s why I told you to keep your fucking mouth shut until we found out what the facts were. But you didn’t want to do that. You’re smarter than your attorney, why should you listen to him?”

  Timberlaine set his jaw. “I don’t have to take this.”

  “No, you don’t,” Steve said. “You can fire me and hire other lawyers. If you do, I suggest you play fair with them and tell ’em as much as you told the cops. Now what about the bullets?”

  Timberlaine blinked. “Bullets?”

  “Yeah. The bullets, the bullets. What bullets do you think? You came to me about bullets. I identified them for you, put them in glass tubes.”

  “Oh, that,” Timberlaine said.

  “Yeah, that.” Steve said. “Tell me, when you were shooting off your mouth, did you give the cops the bullets?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You mean in all the time you were talking about that’s not my gun, somebody stole my gun, I haven’t seen that gun in weeks, you didn’t say, I can prove it, I got bullets my attorney checked out for me?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  Timberlaine shrugged helplessly. “I guess I just didn’t think of it.”

  “Well, thank goodness for small favors,” Steve said. “The cops have enough evidence to play with without that. All right, you didn’t mention the bullets, that’s fine. Now that I’ve reminded you, you’re not going to mention ’em now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re not going to mention anything. From now on, the cops ask you something, you say, see my lawyer. Any question at all, you say, see my lawyer. And you don’t volunteer anything. You don’t get some bright idea, suddenly come up with something you think, gee, the cops ought to know, and you run and tell them. From here on in, you don’t give the cops the time of day.”

  Timberlaine blinked.

  “You got that?” Steve said.

  Timberlaine took a breath. “Yeah.”

  “Where are the bullets now?”

  “In a safe-deposit box.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve had all day. Just shut up about ’em and let ’em stay there.”

  Steve stood up, turned to go.

  Timberlaine said, “Hey, I want to get out of here.”

  Steve turned back. He held up his finger. “Good thought.” He pointed at Timberlaine. “Bet you wish you had it before you shot your mouth off to the cops.”

  20.
>
  STEVE WINSLOW WAS ON his way out the front door when a young cop stopped him.

  “Mr. Winslow?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Vaulding wants to see you.”

  “Who?”

  The young cop flushed slightly. “District Attorney Robert Vaulding.”

  “Oh, that Vaulding,” Steve said.

  The young cop gave him a look.

  Steve shrugged. “Hey, I’m from Manhattan. What do I know? So where’s Vaulding?”

  The young cop led Steve to the D.A.’s outer office, parked him in the corner and conferred in low tones with the officer at the desk. The officer picked up the phone and spoke into it, and moments later the door to the inner office opened, and a tall thin man in a three-piece suit said, “Mr. Winslow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Robert Vaulding. Please come in.”

  Steve sized the man up on his way in the door. Vaulding was young, probably no older than Steve himself. His jet black hair was cut short and carefully groomed. His appearance was impeccable if not fastidious. Even his nails looked manicured. The impression Steve got was that, having gotten elected to the position of district attorney, Robert Vaulding had attempted to make up for his lack of years by disguising himself as a conservative old fart.

  His smile, however, was still young, almost boyish. He grinned at Steve Winslow, said, “Sit down.”

  “I’ll stand,” Steve said. “You can skip the ceremony, Vaulding. Why am I here?”

  Vaulding’s smile became lopsided. “I heard you were direct.”

  “You heard right. Cut the shit. What’s the story?”

  “No story. I just thought we should talk.”

  “Why?”

  Vaulding frowned. “There’s no reason to be hostile.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Steve said. “I thought the habit of burying a suspect went out in the forties or fifties.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed. The cops and my client got lost somewhere between his place and here. An accident, I’m sure. And I’m sure anything he might have told them in the meantime is entirely coincidental. But I guess you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  Vaulding spread his hands wide. “What can I say? I’m sorry about that. But I assure you, Mr. Timberlaine’s rights were not violated in any way. He was perfectly aware of the fact he was under no obligation to speak, and anything he said was entirely of his own volition.”