Aaron Elkins - Where there's a will

“She used a Swiss garlic-chopper,” Fukida said.

“Come again?”

“A Swiss garlic-chopper. Like a miniature cleaver. With an old branding-iron paperweight as a mallet.”

John glanced at Gideon. “Score one for you, Doc.”

Gideon modestly shrugged it off. “Easy when you know how. I wonder what she did with them-with the toes.”

“I asked her that,” Fukida said. “They had pigs at the time. She said she tossed them in the trough.”

Gideon shuddered. “Tough lady.”

Axel’s job had been to drive the fainting Torkel to the airport, get the plane out of the hangar and gassed up, and get his uncle into it to await the arrival of the pilot. Felix had stayed the night with Dagmar to provide moral support and assistance once the fire and the body were discovered and the police and fire departments got into the act.

As soon as the Grumman had taken off, everyone but Felix had gone back to their homes. The spouses-Malani and Keoni-had been kept in the dark and fed the same story that the police were shortly to hear. Torkel was to call Inge the next day to let them know he was safe, but of course that never happened.

Fukida, now chewing a couple of sticks of spearmint gum, tipped his chair back and clasped his hands behind his neck, signifying that he had come to the end.

“It all fits,” John said half to himself. “It all goddam fits.”

“I don’t quite get it,” Gideon said. “Were they ever going to tell the police what really happened, or did Torkel plan on being Magnus for the rest of his life?”

“At the time, I don’t think they had it all worked out,” Fukida said. “They weren’t exactly doing a lot of long-range planning. They were all scared, not just Torkel.”

“And what about the wills?” John asked sourly. “Don’t tell me it didn’t occur to them that they were whole lot better off if Torkel was supposedly dead, gone, and out of the picture, and Magnus’s will would be the one that counted. They all profited from the switch.”

“I don’t know. They say that didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“And you buy that?”

Fukida stretched the thick rubber bands on his wrist. Gideon braced himself for the snap, but the sergeant just eased them back. “I think I do, yeah. I’d guess it didn’t cross their minds at the time.”

“Well, then, you have more faith in people than I do.”

“Not much. Because I would also guess it damn well did cross their minds later on, especially when they never heard anything from Torkel-and that it had a whole lot to do with why they stuck to their story. Right up until today.”

“Another reason being,” John said, “that it also occurred to them they’d committed all kinds of prosecutable offenses, jail-time offenses.”

“That, too.”

“What’s going to happen with the wills now?” Gideon asked.

“Not my worry. Question for the lawyers.”

“Are you going to reopen the criminal case?”

“Counsel’s checking the various statutes of limitation now. If there’s anything still actionable, you bet we are. I don’t like being jerked around like that.”

“They did come forward on their own,” Gideon pointed out, wondering why he was defending them.

“Yeah,” John said hotly, “but only because they were scared. And there’s something still actionable, all right. There’s no limitation on murder.”

Now rubber thwapped against flesh. “You see these people as accessories after the fact now?”

“Maybe before the fact.”

Fukida eyed him. “Now wait a minute. Are you saying you think they had something to do with the murder itself? I thought these were your buddies.”

John sighed. “Teddy, are you done? Can I tell you what I came here to tell you?”

Fukida crossed his arms, uncrossed them, turned his cap around backward, which made a boyish shock of black hair pop ridiculously out of the opening, and crossed his arms again. “I wish you would, already, instead of sitting there like the goddamn cat that ate the canary.”

“Okay, then, let me read what I was going to read before.”

“About the guy that got shot in the knee,” Fukida said with a sigh. “Sure, what else do I have to do today?”

“Just shut up and let me read.” He found his place in the book, cleared his throat, and began to read aloud, something he did clumsily.

… on surgical exploration there were found to be two bullets and a cartridge case in the knee joint. All three missiles entered through one entrance wound. The bullets were. 32 ACP and. 380 ACP caliber and the case was. 32 ACP.

He looked up, scowling. “You guys following?”

“No,” said Fukida through his sandwich. Gideon had never seen anyone take such small bites, or work his way around the edges the way he did. The thing looked as if it had been nibbled by a family of rabbits.

“I’m following,” Gideon said. “It’s pretty much the same situation described in the autopsy report.”

“It’s the exact same situation.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. Two bullets through the knee is not the exact same situation as two bullets through the heart.”

John brushed this aside. “I’m talking about the situation with the bullets and the cartridge case. That’s the same.”

“Okay, so?”

“So this.” He went back to the book.

It was hypothesized that a. 32 ACP cartridge was inadvertently put in a. 380 automatic. The cartridge slipped forward, lodging in the barrel. A. 380 ACP cartridge was then chambered. On firing, the. 380 bullet struck the. 32 ACP primer, discharging the cartridge. The whole complex of two bullets and one case was swept down the barrel, emerged from the muzzle, and entered the victim.

He slapped the book closed, tossed it onto the files on the crowded desk, and loomed over Fukida. “In other words, piggyback bullets!” he yelled, arms spread. “Tandem bullets! You ever hear of those before?”

“ No! ” Fukida yelled back up at him.

“Me neither,” Gideon said slowly, as John’s point sank in, “but I see where you’re going with this. You’re saying-”

John dropped back into his chair. “Right!” he said, still shouting. “I’m saying that it’s all baloney, the whole cockamamie story. There weren’t any hitmen, there wasn’t any execution, there wasn’t any-”

“Whoa-whoa-whoa,” Fukida interrupted. “Slow down, sport. Control yourself, breathe deeply.” He made calming motions with his hands. “Look, I’m just a simple island cop, I don’t know from piggyback bullets. You want to explain what the hell you’re talking about?”

John made a visible, not-altogether-successful effort to contain his agitation. “I am talking,” he said with excruciatingly precise diction, “about the old Walther semi-automatic that they had in the Big House back then. It was-”

“What big house?” Fukida asked.

“ The Big House. It’s where Inge’s dude ranch is now. Back then, it was where Torkel, Magnus, and Dagmar lived. They built it-”

“Wait, goddammit! They had a gun right in the house?” Fukida made a disgusted gesture at the files. “I was just looking at the early interrogations. Dagmar was asked if they had one.” He poked irritably among the folders, looking for the right one to prove his assertion, but gave it up and batted them aside. “She said no, definitely not, except for some old varmint rifles that the section managers had.”

John shrugged. “She lied. What else is new?”

Fukida slowly shook his head. “These people.”

“John,” Gideon said, “is this the pistol you and Felix were talking about in Waikiki? I thought it didn’t work.”

“They said it didn’t work. Obviously, it worked, all right, only not real well. That’s exactly my point.”