“Where’s the gun?” I asked Connerly.
“Right here, sir.”
He fished into his pocket and produced the Luger, wrapped carefully in his handkerchief. I opened the handkerchief and stared at the German gun.
“Did you break it open, Connerly?”
“Why, no, sir. A patrolman isn’t allowed to...”
“If you broke it open, you’ll save me the trouble.”
Connerly looked abashed. “Yes, sir, I did.”
“Any shells in it?”
“No, sir.”
“Not even in the firing chamber?”
“No, sir.”
“One bullet, then. That’s strange.”
“What’s so strange about it?” Ed wanted to know.
“A Luger’s magazine fed, that’s all,” I said. “Eight slugs in a. clip. Strange to find only one.” I shrugged, handing the pistol back to Connerly. “Let’s see what else is around here.”
We started rummaging around the attic, not really looking for anything in particular. I think I was just postponing the talk I had to have with the young kid who’d shot his own brother.
“Bunch of books,” Ed said.
“Mmmmm?”
“Yeah. Few old newspapers.”
“Here’s something,” Connerly said.
“What’ve you got?”
“Looks like a box of clips, sir.”
“Yeah? For the Luger?”
“Looks that way, sir.”
I walked over to where Connerly was standing, and took the box from the shelf. He had carefully refrained from touching it. The box was covered with a fine layer of dust. There were two clips in the open box, and they, too, were covered with dust. I lifted one of the clips out, running my eyes over the cartridges. Eight. The second clip had only seven cartridges in it.
“Only seven here,” I said.
“Yeah,” Connerly said, nodding. “That’s where the bullet came from, all right.”
“Anything else there, Ed?” I asked, turning to where he was kneeling over another box on the floor.
“Just these loose newspaper clippings. Nothing really... hey!”
“What’ve you got?”
“This’s strange as hell,” Ed said.
“What? What’s so strange?”
He got to his feet and walked over to me, holding a clipping in his big hand. “Take a look at this, Art.”
The clipping had been scissored from one of the tabloids. It was simply the story of a boy and a girl who’d been playing in their backyard. Playing with a Colt .45 that was a war souvenir. The .45 had gone off, blowing half the girl’s head away. There was a picture of the boy in tears, and a story of the fatal accident.
“Some coincidence, huh, Art?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Some coincidence.”
I put the box of Luger magazines back on the shelf.
“I think we’d better talk to the kid now,” I said.
We left the attic, Connerly whispering something about the way fate sometimes works. He called Mrs. Owens, and she came up to lead us to the boy’s room on the second floor of the house.
She rapped on the door and softly called, “Jeffrey?”
I could hear sobbing beyond the door, and then a muffled, “Yes?”
“Some gentlemen would like to talk to you,” she said.
The sobbing stopped, and I heard the sound of bare feet padding to the door. The door opened and Jeffrey stood there, drying his face. He was thinner than the photograph had shown him, with bright blue eyes and narrow lips. His hair hung over his forehead in unruly strands, and there were tear streaks under his eyes and down his cheeks.
“You’re policemen, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yes, son.”
“We just want to ask a few questions,” Ed said.
“Come in.”
We walked into the room. There were two beds in it, one on either side of the large window. There was one dresser, and I imagined the two boys shared this. Toys were packed neatly in a carton on one side of the room. A high school pennant and several college pennants decorated the walls, and a model airplane hung from the ceiling.
Mrs. Owens started into the room, and Ed said gently, “If we can talk to him alone...”
Her hand went to her mouth, and she said, “Oh. OK, all right.”
Jeffrey walked to his bed and sat on it, one leg tucked under him. He stared out the window, not looking at us.
“Want to tell us how it happened, son?”
“It was just an accident,” he said. “I didn’t mean to do it, honest.”
“We know,” Ed said. “We just want to know how it happened.”
“Well, we were upstairs playing with the trains, and then we got sort of tired. We started kidding around, and then I found Perry’s... that’s my older brother who was killed in the war... I found Perry’s Luger and we started foolin’ around with that.”
“Is that the first time you saw the gun, son?”
“No, no.” He turned to look me full in the face. “Perry sent it home a long time ago. Before he was killed, even. One of his buddies brought it to us.”
“Uh-huh. Go on, son.”
“Well, then we found the bullets in the box...”
“You didn’t know the bullets were there before this?”
“No.” Again, Jeffrey stared at me. “No, we just found them today.”
“Did you know where the gun was?”
“Well... yes.”
“You said you found it, though. You didn’t mean that, did you, son?”
“Well, I knew it was in the attic someplace because that’s where Mom put it. I didn’t know just where until I found it today.”
“Oh, I see. Go on, please.”
Ed looked at me curiously, and then turned his interest back to the boy.
“We found the bullets, and I took a cartridge from one of the magazines, just to fool around. I stuck it in the gun and then all at once the gun went off... and... and... Ronnie... Ronnie...”
The kid turned his face away, then threw himself onto the pillow.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” he said. “Honest, honest. The gun just went off. It just did. I loved my brother. I loved my brother. Now there’s just me and Mom, just the two of us. I didn’t want it to happen. I didn’t.”
“Sure, son,” I said. I walked to the bed and sat down beside him. “You liked your brother a lot. I know. I have a brother, too.”
Ed gave me another curious look, but I continued to pat the kid’s shoulder.
“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “I did like him. I liked Perry, too, and he was killed. And now... now this. Now there’s just me and Mom. They’re all gone. Dad, and Perry, and... and... Ronnie. Now we’re all alone.” He started bawling again. “It’s my fault,” he said. “If I hadn’t wanted to play with that old gun...”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “Accidents happen. They happen all the time. No one could possibly blame you for it.”
His tears ebbed slowly, and he finally sat up again. “You know it’s not my fault, don’t you?” he asked solemnly.
“Yes,” I said. “We know.”
He tried to smile, but failed. “It was just an accident,” he said again.
“Sure,” I said. I picked myself off the bed and said, “Let’s go, Ed. Nothing more for us here.”
At the door, I turned to look at Jeffrey once more. He seemed immensely relieved, and he smiled when I winked at him. The smile was still on his mouth and in his eyes when we left him.
It was cold in the Merc, even with the heater going.
We drove in silence for a long time, and finally Ed asked, “All right, what was all that business about?”