The Wrong Gun

13

Russ Timberlaine wouldn’t stop talking.

“It’s the wrong gun,” he insisted.

Lieutenant Sanders cocked his head. “Oh? What do you mean by that?”

Steve Winslow held up his hand. “As your attorney, I advise you not to answer any questions or volunteer any information until we have had a chance to talk.”

Sanders frowned. “Mr., ah, Winslow is it? No one wants to step on anyone’s toes here or deprive anyone of their rights, but I would like to point out Mr. Timberlaine has been given a full Miranda warning. He knows he doesn’t have to talk to us. He knows anything he says could be used against him. And if he wishes to cooperate, we are delighted to have his cooperation.

“Now, at the moment, I believe Mr. Timberlaine wants to explain how this gentleman came to be shot with his gun.”

“That’s not my gun,” Timberlaine said.

Timberlaine, Sanders, Steve Winslow and Tracy Garvin were standing in the hallway outside the gun room. A strip of yellow tape ran across the gun room door. On the other side, a Crime Scene Unit was processing the room for evidence. Photographs had already been taken, the medical examiner was just finishing up with the body, and detectives were dusting for prints.

A young officer ducked under the yellow tape and emerged from the crime scene carrying a gun in a plastic evidence bag.

“The murder weapon, sir,” the officer said to Sanders.

“Thanks. That’s what I wanted,” Sanders said. He took the bag, held it out toward Timberlaine. “There. Mr. Timberlaine. The murder weapon. A Colt.45, fully loaded, one shot fired. You’ve already denied this is your gun, but you haven’t seen it yet. So look and tell me. Is this your gun or isn’t it?”

Timberlaine barely looked at the bag. “That’s the whole point, officer. Yes, this is my gun, but it has not been in my possession for over a week. It was stolen from me over a week ago, and I have not seen it from then until now.”

“So when witnesses state they have seen you wearing this gun in a gun belt this very afternoon …?”

“Not this gun. Don’t you understand? This gun was stolen from me. This gun is a valuable antique. It was stolen from me, and a substitute left in its place. The gun I was wearing today was the substitute.”

Sanders held up the bag. “And this is the genuine gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A valuable antique?”

“That’s right.”

Sanders pointed. “The serial number’s been filed off this gun.”

“That’s right. That was done over a hundred years ago by the original owner, Pistol Pete Robbins.”

Sanders didn’t crack a smile. “Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then how can you prove it’s the real gun?”

“The gun is well documented. Any expert could authenticate it.”

“Do you have such an expert here?”

Timberlaine smiled slightly. “Yeah, but he’s not going to help you any.”

“Why is that?”

Timberlaine jerked his thumb at the body bag the medical examiner was zipping up. “ ’Cause that’s him.”

Sanders grunted. “Aha. And the substitute gun you claim you were wearing-where is that?”

“Upstairs in my room.”

“And why is that?”

“I was wearing my Western outfit for the auction. Hat. Vest. Gun belt. Boots. The works. After the auction I didn’t feel like wearing it anymore, so I changed out of it.”

“Oh?”

Timberlaine was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, sneakers and jeans. “Well, actually,” he said, “these are the same jeans. I changed my shirt and changed the cowboy boots for sneakers.”

“And the gun?” Sanders prompted.

“On the gun belt, up in my room.”

“Mind getting it for me?”

“Now just a moment,” Steve said. “That gun had absolutely nothing to do with the death of Jack Potter. I see no reason for confusing the issue here.”

“No one’s confusing the issue,” Sanders said. “We’re clarifying the issue. Would you like to have your client give me that gun, or would you like us all to stand here in the hallway until I can get a warrant issued?”

“No need for a warrant,” Timberlaine said, irritably. “Mr. Winslow, I appreciate your trying to look out for my interests. But the point is, I have nothing to hide. And it is in my best interests to see that these guns are identified, marked and kept straight, before anything happens to mix them up.”

Timberlaine turned back to Sanders. “So I’m delighted to give you the gun. I’d appreciate it if you’d put it in an evidence bag and label it, so there’s no question but that that is the gun I wore all afternoon. Then, if necessary, I will be able to demonstrate, first of all, that it is not my gun, the original rare gun that I purchased and, second, that it is not the gun that killed Jack Potter. So by all means, lieutenant, let me give you that gun.”

“Fine,” Sanders said. He handed the plastic evidence bag back to the young officer. “And just to make your position stronger, I’ll go with you when you get it. I’ll be able to verify the fact that the gun was in the holster where you said it was.”

“Fine,” Timberlaine said. “Come on.”

“I’m going too,” Steve said.

Sanders frowned. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Maybe not for you,” Steve said. “Mr. Timberlaine, if you insist on this course of action, I can’t stop you. But I’m sure going with you.”

“All right, all right,” Timberlaine said impatiently. “Let’s go.”

He turned and started down the hall toward the far end.

“Where’s your room?” Steve said.

“Over this wing on the second floor. From here the back stairs are quicker.”

Steve frowned. “I didn’t know there was a stairway here.”

“Oh, sure.”

At the end of the hall, Timberlaine turned left. There in an alcove was a staircase that couldn’t be seen from the main hall. They went up the stairs to the second floor, then back down the hallway.

“My rooms are on the second floor back,” Timberlaine said. He led the way to a door halfway down the hall. “Here we are.” He turned the doorknob, pushed open the door.

“Unlocked?” Steve said.

“Of course, unlocked. Why would it be locked?” Timberlaine said.

They followed him in. It was a huge suite. The room they had entered was a living room/sitting room with desk, couch, table, chairs, TV. Through double doors was the bedroom, dominated by a massive, four-poster bed, with carved wooden end tables. On one of these was a hat and gun belt. The hat was sitting on the gun belt, covering the holster.

“There you are,” Timberlaine said.

He started for the gun belt, but Sanders grabbed his arm. “You’ll pardon me, I’m sure,” he said. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a plastic evidence bag. “If you don’t mind, I’ll do that.”

Sanders walked over to the end table.

Tracy Garvin, whose wildest fantasies were coming true and who was hanging on every move, half expected the gun belt to be empty, but when Sanders picked up the hat, there was a gun in the holster. Sanders took a pen out of his pocket, used it to ease the gun out of the belt. He held up the gun with the pen, sniffed the barrel.

“The gun’s been fired recently.”

“That’s right,” Timberlaine said.

“Did you fire it?”

“Yes, I did.”

“When and where?”

“After the auction, I went out and fired it at the pistol range.”

“Oh? And why did you do that?”

“That’s hardly relevant,” Steve said. “In the first place, Mr. Timberlaine, you’re answering questions about this gun, and you haven’t identified it. You barely looked at the gun downstairs and you stated that it is genuine. I don’t think you know that. You’re just assuming that. You barely looked at this gun at all, and you’re claiming it’s the copy and the gun you fired at the pistol range this afternoon.”

“Well, it is,” Timberlaine said irritably.

“Maybe so, but the point is, you don’t know.”

“And the point is well taken, counselor,” Sanders said with a grin. He slipped the gun off the pen into the plastic evidence bag, zipped the bag shut. He crossed over to Timberlaine, held up the bag. “All right, Mr. Timberlaine. We now have a second Colt.45, also fully loaded with one shot fired. For the record, can you identify this gun?”

“Of course,” Timberlaine said.

“Fine,” Sanders said. “Please look at it carefully and tell me that you can recognize it as the gun you said it was.”

Timberlaine took the evidence bag, held it up, looked closely at the gun.

Tracy Garvin squeezed Steve Winslow’s arm. She knew this was when Timberlaine was going to notice the substitution.

But Timberlaine merely said, “Absolutely. This is the fake gun. The one I found substituted for the real gun. The one I wore today and fired at the pistol range.”