But I didn’t remember even that one having so much blood.
I forced my attention away, to the investigation I’d come here to do. What was that on the wall? If it was a bullet hole, to corroborate Steve’s story — no. Damn. Something waxy, like a kid’s crayon, except that it was pretty high for a kid to reach, and white besides.
“If I have to,” I’d told Steve, “I’ll work it all over there from the beginning on my own. But if I go over there, I’m going to search. Really.”
He’d answered, “Search,” and he’d known what I meant when I said it. He’d even insisted on signing a consent to search form, to make sure everything was legal — well, semi-legal; nobody had witnessed the document — even if it didn’t follow departmental rules.
I had to give him one more warning. “If you’re lying, Steve, I’ll find it out.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I want you to go.”
So I was here, in a two-bedroom apartment. There was nothing in the living room of great interest. A beige couch, unimaginative decorator style, the kind rental places supply, with no cushions except those that came with it. No plants, no china ornaments, no pictures on the walls. End tables, chairs — Steve, unlike most men with whom I’d come in contact, didn’t have a recliner, not that that meant anything. Stereo, TV, a few books.
Most of the little that was in the room looked as if it was Evelyn’s. Some college textbooks, her diploma and transcripts lying on an end table, dust on top of them as if they’d been lying there for several weeks. Well, of course she was job hunting, but what a funny double major, drama and political science. I couldn’t imagine what kind of work she’d done — or expected to do — with that combination.
I made myself dig down in the sides and back of the chair despite the lack of plastic gloves and my own squeamishness, which has, for I hope obvious reasons, become more pronounced of late. I might as well not have bothered; all I found was a balloon and a fingernail file, both very bloody. Laying them down, I went to wash my hands. The bathroom off the hall was just a bathroom. A toothbrush, an electric razor, pre-shave and aftershave lotion, towels and washcloths and soap. This must be Steve’s bathroom. Evelyn must have used the one off the master bedroom.
Bedrooms. Master bedroom first. King-size bed, unmade. Dresser — I wasn’t used to crime scenes involving my friends, and this felt more like prying than investigating. But I found no gun hidden in Steve’s underwear, or in Evelyn’s, or in the bathroom, which contained talcum powder, Lady Shave, bubble bath, and a lot of makeup, most of it dusty, as if it hadn’t been used in weeks.
The smaller bedroom, Steve’s, I suppose, was mostly filled with boxes, still unpacked, many of them taped shut. A single bed, sheet thrown back, with a man’s undershirt and a towel lying on it, and an alarm clock and a shoeshine kit (not dusty) on the table beside it. A few of Steve’s clothes had been in the second closet in the larger room, but most of them were in here. No dresser, which explained why his underwear was in Evelyn’s dresser. The boxes of .38 wadcutters on a closet shelf, right beside the box of .38 copper jackets was totally expected; Steve was conscientious about going to the firing range two or three times a month.
The boxes were all neatly labeled — books, dishes, theatrical props — for all that meant, and some of them appeared, from the condition of the tape, never to have been unpacked even the last time they had moved.
I went back into the living room. A stereo cabinet full of records — I wonder, I thought, and knelt in front of it.
“Looking for something, Lorene?”
It was at that moment — until I realized it was Sergeant Collins behind me, speaking to me, and my heart slowed its gallop just a little bit — that I realized what people meant when they said they nearly jumped out of their skin.
“I expected to find you over here, as soon as we booked him in and found out his door key was gone. Still convinced he didn’t do it?”
“I can see why you think he did do it,” I said, “but he didn’t. Though I’ll agree his version isn’t accurate either.”
“He did shoot her, Lorene, there’s no getting around that.”
“I’m even beginning to doubt that.”
“Look, I’d be willing to agree maybe there was some kind of struggle, only not quite the way he tells it. Or I’d be willing to agree she somehow goaded him into shooting her, and he’s scared to admit it. Or I’d be willing to agree he’s so shook up he doesn’t even really know what happened. But if the first is true, then where the hell is the twenty-two? And if the second is true, then why is he telling such a silly story? And if the third is true — and it’s really the most likely — then why does he go on insisting he’s telling the exact truth?”
“The way I see it,” I replied, “is that if what he thinks happened didn’t, and if what you think happened didn’t, then there should be something here to say what did happen. And for starts, I’m looking for that twenty-two.”
“You really believe him, don’t you?” Collins said.
“Yes. I do.”
“And you know him. I don’t, not really. But you’re telling me somebody like you and me, somebody that carries a pistol all the time, isn’t capable of killing?”
“I didn’t say that.” My head was aching abominably. “I’m sure he’s capable of killing — just like you and me. If it had been the way he told it, yes, that could happen. Or even, if he’d shot back reactively when she shot at him, that could happen, but he wouldn’t lie about it. But — what you say happened — that’s not killing. That’s murder. And no. He’s not capable of that. And what are you doing here?”
“Search warrant,” Collins said, waving it at me. “Because I got to thinking. You believe him. And you’re a good cop.”
“Somebody noticed?”
“Somebody noticed. And I’ll admit I don’t know the man and you do, and sometimes I do jump to conclusions. He’s got to be smart to have the job he has, and a smart man isn’t going to think we’d mistake a thirty-eight slug for a twenty-two. Even if he panicked, he’d tell a better lie than that. And if he was too shocky to remember what happened, he’d admit it. So — I want to know what really happened.”
“He’s shocky,” I said. “But he knows what he did and what he saw. So...” I broke off, turned back to my search.
Sergeant Collins leaned forward. “Back up, that record you just tipped out, what’s—”
I was way ahead of him, and I intercepted his hand, automatically taking command of the scene because I’d done it so many times before. “Don’t touch it until I’ve photographed it.”
It was an R.G. twenty-two. It contained two rounds, both empty. Sergeant Collins, holding it gingerly, so as not to disturb fingerprints, sniffed at it. “Umm-hmm,” he said.
“I told you—”
“All right, you told me, but the fact remains she was killed with a thirty-eight and it’s about a hundred percent sure it was his. Anyhow, if that gun was fired in here, where’d the bullets go? For that matter, where’d they come from? I didn’t find any twenty-two ammo here, and if you had, you’d have told me already.”
I looked slowly around the room, up at the ceiling, across the walls, down at the bloody mess on the couch and the floor, and quite suddenly I knew what happened, knew exactly what happened just as well as if I’d been here watching. Now all I had to do was prove it, but that depended on a lot of things. “Did they do a gunpowder residue on her hands?” I asked.
“No, just on his. Do you want one on her? You don’t usually get anything from a twenty-two, don’t you know that?”