“Sure, sir, but I mean...”
“Family inside?” I asked.
“Just the mother, sir. That’s what makes it more of a tragedy, you see.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Well, sir, she’s a widow. Three sons. The oldest was killed in the last war. He’s the one sent the Luger home. Now this. Well, sir, you know what I mean.”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s get inside before I get like the brass monkey.”
Connerly led us to the front door, and rapped on it with a gloved hand. Ed stole a glance at me, and I knew he didn’t relish this particular picnic any more than I did.
The door opened immediately, and a small woman with quick blue eyes stood there. She might have been pretty in her youth, but that was a long time ago, and all the beauty had fled from her, leaving a parched, withered shell. Only the eyes remained to testify to what had once been — and they were misted with carefully guarded tears now.
“This is Detective/First Grade Willis and his partner, Mrs. Owens,” Connerly said.
Mrs. Owens nodded faintly, pulling her shawl around her against the wind that shoved its way through the open door.
“May we come in, ma’m?” I asked.
She seemed to remember her manners all at once. “Yes, please,” she said. “Please do.” Her voice was stronger than her body looked, and I wondered if she were really as old as she seemed. A widow, one son killed in the war. Death can sometimes do that to a person. Leave them looking more withered than the corpse.
“We’re sorry to bother you,” I said, feeling foolish as hell, the way I always did in a situation like this. “The law requires us to make a routine check, however, and...”
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Willis.” She moved quickly to the couch and straightened the doilies. “Sit down, won’t you?”
“Thank you.” I sat down with Ed on my right. Connerly stood near the radiator, his hands behind his back.
Ed took out his pad, and cleared his throat. I took that as my cue and said, “Can you tell us exactly what happened?”
Her lower lip began to tremble, and I saw the tears fighting to spill from her eyes. She bit down on her lip, and lowered her head, and when she raised it again, she’d succeeded in keeping the tears in check.
“Well, I... I don’t really know, exactly. You see, I was in the kitchen baking. This is Wednesday, and I usually bake on Wednesdays. The boys...” She hesitated and bit her lip again. “The boys like pie, and I try to bake one at least once a week.”
“Yes, ma’m.”
“I... I was putting the pie into the oven when I heard this — this noise from the attic. I knew the boys were up there playing so I didn’t think anything of it.”
“What are the boys’ names, Mrs. Owens?”
“Jeffry. He’s my oldest. And... and...”
“Yes, ma’m?”
“Ronald.” She choked the word out and ducked her head again. “Ronald was the one — Ronald...”
“Was Ronald the boy who was shot?”
She didn’t answer. She simply nodded her head, and the tears ran freely now. Then she began shaking her head, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. I got up because I was embarrassed as hell, and I began walking around the room. On top of the upright piano, four photos in silver frames beamed up at me. One was of an older man, obviously the dead Mr. Owens. A second was of a young man in an Army uniform, with infantry rifles crossed on his lapel. The other two were of the younger boys.
Mrs. Owens had stopped crying. She blew her nose in a small handkerchief and looked up.
“Which one is Jeffry?” I asked.
“The... the blond boy.”
I looked at the photo. He seemed like a nice kid, with a pleasant smile, and his mother’s light eyes. “Is he in the house?”
“Yes. He’s upstairs in his room.”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“All right.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to see the attic first.”
She seemed about to refuse, and then she nodded. “Certainly.”
“You needn’t come up, Mrs. Owens,” Ed said. “The patrolman can show us the way.”
“Thank you,” she said.
We followed Connerly up the steps, and he whispered, “See what I mean? Jesus, this is a rotten business.”
“Well, what are you gonna do?” Ed philosophized.
The attic had been fixed as a playroom, with plasterboard walls and ceiling. An electric train layout covered one half of the room. In the other half, covered with a sheet, lay young Ronald Owens. I walked over and lifted the sheet, looking down at the boy. He resembled the older Jeffry a great deal, except that his hair was brown. He had the same light eyes, though, staring up at me now, sightless. There was a neat hole between his eyes, and his face was an ugly mixture of blood and powder burns. I put the sheet back.
“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...”
“Can it,” I said. “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.
“Mmmm?”
“Yeah. Few scrapbooks. Old newspaper clippings.”
“Here’s something,” Connerly cut in.
“What have you got?”
“Looks like a box of clips, sir.”
“Mmmm? 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.”
“One of these is about the older brother,” Ed said, looking up from where he squatted on the floor.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Scrapbook, Art. All about the soldier. He was quite a hero.”
“That right?”
“Lots of stuff on the way he died. Nice collection.”
“Anything else there, Ed?”
“Few other loose newspaper clippings. Nothing really — hey!”
“What’ve you got?”
“Geez, that’s strange as hell,” Ed said.
“What? What is it?”
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 was scissored from one of the tabloids. It was simply the story of a boy and a girl who’d been playing in their back yard. 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 heartrending story of the fatal accident.
“Some coincidence, huh, Art?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Some coincidence.”