“I know, I know. But he could have set her up for it. He said they drove the same route every week at the same time.”
“You’ve been watching too much television. This isn’t New York or the wild West. Where does a man like Watson hire a killer?”
“You’re right,” Albindi said. “I guess I’m reaching.” He rolled another set of report forms into his typewriter and began pecking at the keys with two fingers.
Whittaker started to do the same, then paused. “You know, Al,” he said slowly, “I don’t see Watson hiring a pro, but what if someone else had it in for her? That regular drive would put her in rifle range every Friday night. It’s worth a look.”
April had become skittish; temperatures plunged and topcoats were a necessity again as Albindi and Whittaker dug into Mildred Watson’s background.
They began by driving out to the Watson home Saturday afternoon through a bone-chilling spring rain. The house was located in an older section of town where property had held its value. The ’30’s construction had mellowed well and mature trees and shrubbery muffled all but the loudest traffic noises from the nearby freeway.
Set on a half-acre lot, the Watson home was typical of the neighborhood. It was a comfortable, two-story brick surrounded by tall, full-branched maples and screened from its neighbors by dense plantings of evergreens and overgrown privet. A blacktop drive along one edge of the yard led to a small garage in the back and flared into a circular turnaround there.
After leaving Whittaker a few doors down to interview the neighbors, Albindi parked in the Watson driveway. The garage was too small for a modem car and, judging from the clutter of cartons and tools inside, Watson probably used it as a storage shed and kept his car parked in the turnaround.
The rain had slacked off to a misty drizzle and Philip Watson looked like an ordinary do-it-your-selfer on his day off as he rounded the corner of the house with an extension ladder of lightweight aluminum on his shoulder. He broke step momentarily at the sight of Albindi, who called, “Need a hand with that?”
“Thanks,” Watson replied, “but it’s not heavy, just cumbersome.” He slid it into the garage, closed the doors and turned to Albindi. “Yesterday was so warm, I thought I’d do a little yard work. Clean out the gutters, lop off a few dead limbs. Now, though...”
They looked across the deep yard to the back where a tall thick hedge of forsythia sported an occasional bright yellow blossom. “Mildred said they meant that spring was really here, but I guess it’ll be another couple of weeks yet.” He shivered slightly as he led the way out of the chill into a warm, neat kitchen.
The young girl who stood with her back against the refrigerator held herself as erect as Watson and had his slim frame. Her light-brown hair was as long as any teenager’s; but her clothes were an abnormally dark-hued assortment, as if her pathetic attempt to show mourning had been frustrated by the gaudy wardrobe of youth. A navy bodystocking clashed with her purple and black jumper, but she crossed the room with dignity when her father introduced Albindi, and offered her thin hand firmly.
“Have you found out who did it yet, Lieutenant?”
Briefly, Albindi explained the lack of clues offered by the tenement. “I was hoping you or your father would know if your mother had any enemies who knew about that standing bridge date.”
Ellen Watson looked blank, but her father stiffened. “Are you suggesting that anyone we know could do a thing like that? You think we socialize with arsonists, rioters, snipers? You know where to look for that element, Lieutenant, and it’s not among our friends!”
“Daddy, please!” the girl cried.
He glared at her. “It’s your own mother they’ve killed! Are you going to preach to me now about understanding murder?”
She flinched, but stood her ground. “Rage and frustration aren’t limited to any one class, Daddy. You don’t know why Mother was killed and you shouldn’t judge until you do.”
Watson’s anger changed to bafflement as he looked at her. “Okay, Ellie, that’s enough. Why don’t you finish getting ready? Nora said she’d be here soon.”
To Albindi, he said, “Ellen’s going to stay with my wife’s sister till after the funeral.” He sighed when the door had closed behind her. “I just don’t know any longer. You have kids, Lieutenant? Do they listen when you try to tell them how things really are?”
Albindi shook his head. “I try to let them find out for themselves. Besides, my truths may not be theirs.”
“You sound like Mildred. Truth is truth, isn’t it? And everyone knows—”
“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d rather discuss your wife’s enemies.”
There were none, Watson repeated. People might have gotten a little angry at some of Mildred’s radical ideas, but nobody took her seriously and he’d put his foot down on her joining any of those “commie” groups or taking part in any demonstrations.
“Except that it was getting harder to keep her under control,” Whittaker said when they met and compared notes afterwards. “The neighborhood consensus is that they were on the verge of divorce.”
“Over politics?” Albindi asked dubiously.
“Well, except for that bridge date with her sister, they pretty much went their separate ways. Watson moves in rather conservative circles and she was becoming an embarrassment. For instance, at a company party last month, she started sounding off about tax deductions to businesses and how they were nothing more than welfare for the rich. Watson’s boss was livid. Mrs. Watson thought it was funny, but Watson told someone it cost him a promotion.”
“So what was holding up the divorce?”
“The kid,” said Whittaker. “They both wanted her and she’s old enough now to choose which parent she’d live with. Friends say the daughter was always a daddy’s girl and Mrs. Watson wouldn’t take the chance; but recently they’ve heard the girl call him a narrow-minded bigot, so Mrs. Watson was putting on pressure.”
“Even so...” Albindi mused.
“Right,” Whittaker agreed. “We still come back to the fact that he was driving while she was shot. Did you tell him about the rifle? I wondered what he’d say.”
“Yeah. He didn’t turn a hair. Just said he used an M-1 in Korea twenty years ago and was surprised any were still around.”
“He didn’t happen to bring one home as a souvenir, did he?”
“He says not. I talked to Mrs. Watson’s sister alone when she came to pick up Ellen and she doesn’t seem to be a member of Watson’s fan club. I asked if she’d ever heard of his having a rifle and you could see the wheels turning in her head. I got the feeling she’d have loved to say yes.”
“But?”
“But nothing. She and her sister were very close. Restricting firearms was another of Mrs. Watson’s hobbyhorses and she’s sure she’d have heard about it if Watson had a rifle in the house.”
“So there we are,” Whittaker said. “Might as well face it, Al, our little city’s in step with the bigger ones. Riots and now snipers. Unless you can nail Watson carrying an M-1 and put him in two places at the same time, it can’t be a private kill. Nobody else seems to have been that bugged by Mrs. Watson. They just put her down as a misguided nut, and sympathized with Watson for having to five with her.”
“I guess you’re right,” Albindi said regretfully, shaking his head.
They spent the next morning in the unheated tenement on South Winston, hoping for a clue to their anonymous sniper which the lab crew might have overlooked. As they worked, they were joined by one of the building’s squatters, a seedy old man with rheumy eyes, shaky fingers and an obvious hangover.