“I don’t think the gun had anything to do with his initial decision to stop there.”
I looked at Estelle with interest. “Why not?”
“I talked with both his parents and sister today.” She clenched her teeth. “Rough. You were right about jerking chains. You know, I’ve known Amy Salinger ever since we were in high school together our senior year. We were never in the same circle of friends, but I always thought she was a neat person. I couldn’t play games, seeing the way they hurt. I just tried to stick to general questions that wouldn’t give our investigative direction away. Sir, that family is swimming in guilt so deep, I felt like grabbing them by their necks and shaking heads. I guess it’s natural. Finally, though, Ryan Salinger came right out and asked me if we were investigating this as a murder.”
“And you said…”
“Yes.” Estelle shuffled some of the documents and put them back in the briefcase. “You should have seen the look on his face…on all their faces. It was like they’d been waiting just to hear that from us. They’re eager to help. Any way. Anything.”
“What’d Salinger say about the Magnum?”
“Only that it was his, the ammunition was his, handloaded by either him or the boy…he doesn’t remember which. Last deer season, he let Scott pack it. Had a shot and missed. Got a deer with the rifle. After that, he let the boy take the gun hunting or plinking whenever he wanted. The only stipulation was that it would be cleaned and then put away unloaded in the wooden case in the den.”
“And they were convinced it was suicide before you talked to them?”
“I think so. That was my impression. All Ryan Salinger asked me was whether we were going to be talking to the newspapers.”
“What did you say to that?”
“I told him that anyone with any interest in the case would have to talk to you. Or Sheriff Holman.”
“Good. I’ll get together with Holman sometime and we’ll work out a statement. In the meantime, I appreciate all your legwork. And by the way, what about the wood and plastic? The junk that was in Salinger’s back pocket?”
Estelle pulled the evidence bag out. She read the brief report. “The wood is spruce. Its shape is consistent in cross section with the leading edge of an airplane wing.”
“Model airplane, you mean.”
She nodded. “Yes. The plastic is a commercially available heat-shrink material used in model building as a covering. There are several brands, and the folks at the lab weren’t willing to guess which one this was.”
We looked at each other, thoroughly puzzled. “Huh,” I said finally.
“Huh is right,” she said, but before she could say anything else, the telephone on the counter jangled. “You want me to get that?”
I shook my head and held up a hand. “You know who it is as well as I do. Someone wants to cuss me out for leaving the hospital. To hell with ’em…at least for a little while. I’m tired of all the goddamned interruptions.” I nudged the plastic and spruce with my index finger. The phone finally gave up. “We were talking about that.”
“I don’t see the connection between this and Scott Salinger’s murder. No way. Was somebody flying a model airplane around up there? So what? You don’t kill someone for stopping to watch you fly an airplane. I guess you could cause someone to crash a model, and he might punch your lights out, but murder?”
“Strange place to fly it, too.”
“If you assume that’s what happened. We don’t know where Salinger picked up the scraps. They might have been in his back pocket for hours…who knows. Or why.”
“We’re not even sure that he knew. Was he into model airplanes? Did you ask anybody?”
“I asked Amy. Just sort of off-the-cuff. He was into sports…football, baseball, wrestling, you name it. And hunting. He wasn’t much to build models. Never was. A plastic car once in a while when he was younger…that was it.”
“Do you have photos of this stuff?” I fingered the wood through the thin plastic of the evidence bag. Estelle Reyes nodded. “I want to keep this, then,” I said. “Let me do some checking.”
The telephone rang again. I looked heavenward. “You didn’t call in, either,” I said. I got up from the table with a grunt and picked up the receiver on about the eighth ring. It was J. J. Murton. The simple son of a bitch actually started the conversation by asking, “Are you home now?”
I let that slide but cut him short. “I can imagine that Holman wants to see me, J.J. When he comes back into the office, tell him I’m home…and expect to stay here for a while. And I’ll be sound asleep for about four days, so I don’t want to be bothered. You got that?”
“I ain’t sure what he wanted,” J.J. offered, hoping that I’d fill him in.
“Couldn’t guess. If it’s about the Salinger case, tell him that Detective Reyes is working on it. Nobody needs to bother me.” I hung up abruptly and turned to grin at Estelle Reyes. “J.J. is trying to think again.” She was too polite to say anything about Murton.
Instead, she began gathering the evidence and putting it back in the briefcase. “Do you still want to see the Salingers?”
“Yes,” I said. “That would be better than a phone call. Bring them over here, if you would. And I do need to see Holman.” I glanced at my watch. “Maybe you could set it all up for tomorrow morning. That’d give me time to get this place in order, maybe even catch a little rest. I got a couple things I need to think about and sort out.”
Estelle Reyes left the manila envelope that contained the plastic-and-spruce-model parts with me, and promised to check in first thing in the morning. I walked her out to the car, and when she was behind the wheel, I closed the door and leaned my forearms on the windowsill. “I think we’re getting close, Estelle, I really do. I feel it.”
She nodded and asked, “Are you going to need anything?”
I shook my head. “Just some time to let things gel in my mind.” I straightened up and patted the car’s roof. I watched the Ford back out and kick up dust on the main road. With my hands in my pockets, I ambled back inside, forehead wrinkled in thought. Something was lying at the back of my mind, nagging. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I closed the heavy front door and turned the dead bolt. Back in the kitchen, I tossed the evidence envelope on the counter and poured another cup of coffee. I tried a cigarette, and it tasted as bad as the first.
“Damn, what’d they do to me?” I muttered. I looked at the envelope again. Nothing was clear to me. I didn’t want to make a false move out of ignorance and spook somebody out of the country. What the hell, I thought. Sleep on it. And when it all came clear, the world was the wonderful pitch-black of three-thirty in the morning.
Chapter 23
I fumbled the telephone, dialing a couple of times before getting it right. Eventually the phone rang, and I tried to picture my son’s household in Corpus Christi being jarred awake. Buddy should be up, I thought. Four rings. How could he get to the 4 A. M. flight briefings at the Naval Air Station if he didn’t get out of bed? After eight rings, I had just about decided that maybe my youngest son had found some leave time after his return from Spain and the family was off somewhere camping.
“Hello?” The voice was thick with sleep.
I immediately flushed with acute embarrassment. “You’re going to be late for your briefing, Buddy,” I said, trying to sound jocular.
There was a silence while a sleeping brain tried to digest that. “Who the hell is this?” Lieutenant William C. Gastner, Jr., asked. He was awake and ready to punch somebody, and then before I could speak again, he said with some disbelief, “Is this Dad?”
“This is Dad.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Well, shit!”
I laughed. “I jerked you out of bed, obviously. You aren’t flying today?”
“No. I flew in about twenty-three hundred hours last night. But the hell with that. Dad, how the hell are you? I talked with Camille after I got in. She said you were doing much better. I was getting things arranged so I could zip over that way.”