Parnell Hall - The Wrong Gun

“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.”