Reach the Shining River (20 page)

34.

On Monday afternoon, Emmett picked up the evidence from the Union Station locker and delivered it to Leo Gilligan. He handed over everything except the roll of film, explaining each item in as much detail as he could. The next day he returned to the lab. The metal film canister sat unopened in his inside jacket pocket, pressing against his ribs like the muzzle of a gun.

Leo brought him to a coffee shop across the street from the Sharp Building. He was a fussy man with a thin mustache, close-bitten fingernails, and oily hair. He stirred three heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. On his left pinkie he wore a gold signet ring.

“I don’t have a report for you,” he said. “I could generate one, but it wouldn’t mean anything. Michael told me not to log any of the evidence, so legally it does not exist.”

“Did you keep benchnotes?”

He admitted he had. “But that doesn’t change the status of the evidence.”

“Let’s worry about that later,” Emmett said. “What can you tell me?”

“I can make some concrete observations. The shoelace fragment contained some dried blood. O positive, which I believe matches the victim’s. Though don’t forget that it’s the most common type in the country. Thirty-seven percent of all red-blooded Americans.” He smiled and sipped his coffee. “The tire tracks come from two different days. The second day, after the mud had dried some, they’re all from police vehicles. The first day’s tracks were tougher to reconstruct, but eventually I nailed them. Firestone A11s, standard issue on Dodge sedans from 1930 to ’32. The shoeprints likewise. Second day, cops; first day, high quality leather brogues. Men with some dough.”

Leo had bad breath. Emmett leaned back. “Do you always call him Michael?”

“That’s how he was introduced to me.”

Emmett didn’t like that Leo knew so much about the case. He wondered what Mickey saw in the guy to inspire trust. “What else?”

“On the other clothing items, not much. The fibers are cotton, dyed green. The button you found is hardwood, probably from a man’s suit jacket. Couple snappy dressers, sure, but not enough evidence to trace anything. Even if I had all the lab equipment in Chicago.”

“What about the shell?”

“Cartridge case. ‘Shell’ is shotgun terminology.”

“Whatever.”

Leo stirred more sugar into his coffee. “Here, Mr. Whelan, is where you have a real lead. As you know, the cartridge is a .38HV, which can only be fired from a 38/44 – a .38 Special, to use the vernacular. Smith & Wesson only began manufacturing this firearm five years ago, and I wouldn’t say there are too many in Kansas City. The standard-issue duty weapon for KC police is a regular .38, so the heavy duty model that fired this cartridge was probably owned by a criminal.”

“Or a detective.”

“A few detectives carry the Special, yes. Thing is, because they’re relatively new, the individual characteristics left on bullets and cases tend to be more distinctive than those fired by an older piece.”

“Which makes a match easier.”

“I don’t even need the gun. If you can get me another case which you know was used by the same piece, thirty seconds under the microscope will confirm a match. Though I have a feeling I’m telling you something you already know.”

Leo smiled, but his eyes were nervous. The science was over. So what was next?

“What can you tell me that I don’t already know?” Emmett asked.

Leo asked for more coffee and waited until the waitress had refilled his cup. Sweat dotted his hairline. He stared at the swirling surface and said, “Mickey hasn’t paid me yet.”

“Really?”

“He was supposed to meet me yesterday with the funds.”

“How much does he owe you?”

“Two hundred.”

“Two
hundred
?”

“You can ask him. It’s what we agreed.”

Leo bit his lower lip. Slowly, Emmett took his billfold from his pocket and counted off five twenties. “Here’s half,” he said. “The rest when we’re done.”

Leo folded the notes and put them in his shirt pocket. “Criminals,” he said, “I can’t help you with. Strange as it may seem, I know very little about that world. But most detectives on the force shoot at the Paseo Gun Club, near Fairyland Park. They tend to have their own bays, so linking a cartridge case with a specific individual should be straightforward.”

Emmett’s palms were sweating. He was close and he knew it. Good old Mickey. He had known who to go to.

Laying a dollar on the table, Emmett stood and put on his jacket. The film canister pressed against his chest. “You develop film?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Leo finished his coffee, licked his lips, and wiped his mustache and moist brow with a napkin.

“OK,” Emmett said. “Good to know.”

*

When he’d opened the locker at Union Station, Emmett found something that Mickey hadn’t mentioned. Lying between the cigar box of evidence and the roll of film, wrapped in brown paper and twine-tied like a birthday present, was an Army-model Colt .45. Silver-blue and well-oiled. Loaded. Looking over his shoulder, he examined it, surprised at its heft. The serial number on the cylinder had been filed off, though the bottom of the barrel was stamped UNITED STATES PROPERTY. Unregistered and unlicensed, clearly. Also in the wrapping were ten magazines of ACP cartridges and a wire cleaning brush.

He’d put the gun and ammunition in his Packard. As he drove away from the meeting with Gilligan, he sensed its presence in the trunk. Was that why he felt so bulked up? So in control? At the crime scene, gazing out across the water at the lights of Pendergast’s kingdom, Emmett had smelled the power and arrogance of City Hall, drifting across the Missouri like stink off the stockyards. Men so sure of what they could get away with that they killed even the most innocent with impunity. Pendergast trusted few, but he trusted Timmons. And now Emmett felt the balance slowly tilting. He had justice on his side. He had evidence. And he had an untraceable semi-automatic pistol.

He drove to the Paseo Gun Club. At reception was a burly ex-cop with a flat, menacing face. Emmett recognized him from the old neighborhood.

“How you doing?” Emmett said.

The man shrugged.

“I want to shoot a few rounds.”

“You a member?”

“No.”

The guy eyed Emmett’s jacket and striped tie. “We got a few public bays.”

“How much?

“Four bits an hour plus ten cents a target.”

“OK.”

“I’ll need a five-buck deposit and a look at your license. Where’s your piece?”

“In the car.”

The guy leaned on the counter with his knuckles and raised his shoulders. His eyes were like bullet holes in a roadsign. He wasn’t in this job for nothing. He would know a rogue piece if he saw one and know what to say to its owner.

Maguire, Emmett remembered. Mulberry Street. Beside the gravel pit. “You’re Joe Maguire’s brother, right?”

The guy frowned, trying to place him.

“Emmett Whelan. I was with Joe in St. Jerome’s.”

“You the prosecutor?”

“Yeah. County.”

Maguire moved some papers from the counter to a desk behind him. “Take bay three,” he said. “The kid will set you up with a target.”

Emmett held out a five-dollar bill. Maguire raised a hand. “On the house.”

He had not fired a weapon since his Army days in Fort Riley fifteen years ago. Back then he had been a decent shot, better than average with a Springfield rifle. His gun sergeant had recommended him for field artillery training, though he’d lost interest and ended up in the Signal Corps. But shooting, his sergeant always said, was like riding a bike. Once you know how, you won’t fall off.

A kid showed Emmett his bay, gave him earplugs, and pinned a fresh target to the corkboard wall. He gave the kid a nickel and told him to stick around. There were no other customers in the public area. Behind a riveted metal door marked PRIVATE came the thud of regular fire. Emmett removed the magazine from the stock, rubbed the action with a chamois, and reloaded. For a long time he tried out different stances – one hand or two; feet shoulder width apart or left foot forward – and squinted down the sights with either eye. Then, fumbling at times with the action but without interruption, he fired the full magazine – seven rounds. The muzzle noise was huge. The kid whistled and Maguire shot a glance from behind the counter. The air reeked of black powder and his arm and shoulder stung from the recoil.

Emmett felt like he was floating. His head buzzed with the echo. He wanted to curse and roar and shake the pistol like a drunken bandolero.

“Not so good, Mister.”

The kid laid the target before him. They stared at it. Not the shredded mess he expected: only one slug had found the cardboard, and it was way off center.

“Maybe you want to slow it down a little,” the kid said.

“Yeah.”

“One good thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t need to buy a new target.”

He stopped the session after using up five magazines. By the end he was finding the target more often than not. He decided that firing a handgun was tougher than shooting a rifle. And more thrilling. Definitely more thrilling.

The kid cleaned up the bay and took a shoebox from behind the counter. He wiped down the Colt and set it in the box beside the unused magazines. Emmett asked him to carry it out to the car. Beside the open trunk he handed the kid the five bucks Maguire had refused. He gaped at it.

“Put it in your pocket,” Emmett said, “before anybody sees.”

“Yes sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“Henry.”

“Henry what?”

“Henry Conway.”

“Your dad’s name Henry too?”

“My uncle. My dad’s dead.”

Emmett tapped the kid’s shoulder. “Tell me something, Henry – who uses the private bays?”

“Today?”

“Any day.”

“Different guys.”

“You know them?”

“Most, yeah.”

“After you clean up, what do you do with the shells?”

“I sort them for Ned, and he sells them to a scrap dealer.”

Emmett assessed the kid’s face: snub nose, poor teeth, dirty hair that fell in front of his eyes. Ten years old, at most. A scar on his chin and a collar three sizes too large. He could see him sleeping in a small room with three or four older brothers, running to Billy Christie’s for a bucket of beer for his uncle. Kid like this might know the meaning of discretion. Certainly knew the meaning of a buck.

“Richie T,” Emmett said.

Henry nodded.

“Has his own private bay, right?”

“He does.”

“When does he come in?”

“Couple times a week.”

“Get me two of his shells and I’ve got another ten bucks for you.”

“Which gun? Uses a couple.”

“.38 Special. Think you can do that and keep quiet about it?”

“Like eatin’ pie.”

Emmett slammed the trunk. Across the street was a derelict drugstore with a dark alleyway beside it. He pointed. “Meet you over there next Friday. This time.”

The kid nodded and sprinted back to the club.

*

That night Emmett cut the engine as he approached his house and glided to a stop beneath the spreading oak across the street. He slumped in the seat and listened to the cooling engine tick in the gloom. A light wind ruffled the oak leaves, and their vague, spiked shadows danced across the hood of the car.

He surveyed the house. A crowd of moths fluttered around the porchlight. The kitchen and sitting room lights were off.

She wasn’t home. He knew what she was up to. At night, she stayed at her parents’ house or with friends. When he was at work, she came by the house. Piece by piece, she removed her good furniture, her jewelry, her papers. When it suited, she would announce it was over. Would she sue him for divorce? Would she have the gall?

He had no idea what she told her parents. He had waited for Lloyd to raise the subject, but she likely hadn’t told him the truth. Yet how could she pretend that all was well?

He waited. In his lap was the Colt, reloaded. One sweaty hand gripped the gun’s checked-wood stock. The other held a pint of Irish whiskey. In his imagination he saw her return. She entered through the garage door, turning on the lights, fussing in the kitchen, going to the bedroom. He gave her enough time to get undressed. He got out of the car and slipped quietly through the front door. Shoes off, he climbed the stairs in the dark. He heard her moving about the room. He edged into their bedroom. She sat at her vanity in her negligee, brushing her hair. She saw him in the mirror and her arm stopped mid-motion. He raised the muzzle of the Colt. Her green eyes widened, and the mole beneath her left eye pulsed like a star.

Who was he kidding? She wasn’t there. And even if she was, it wasn’t her he wanted to shoot.