CHAPTER 7
I sat in DeSpain's office in the back corner of the squad room in the neat, square, one-story, red-brick Port City Police Station.
DeSpain had his coat off and his gun unholstered and lying on the desk next to the phone.
"Damn thing gets me in the ribs every time I lean back," he said.
"Trouble with the nines," I said.
"They're not comfy."
DeSpain shrugged the way a horse does when a fly lands on him.
"You got something on the Sampson killing, or you just in to chew the fat?"
"I was hoping you had something."
"Here's everything I got," DeSpain said.
"Killer was probably male. There's no agreement on what he was wearing, except that it was black. Had on some kind of a black mask with eye holes cut into it. He came in during the play and stood at the top of the aisle maybe ten minutes. People figured he was part of the play. The piece might have been a target gun, though to tell you the truth none of the eyewitnesses know a handgun from their pee pee.
What everybody agrees is, he fired one shot and put the gun away, and walked out. Nobody saw where he went. ME took a.22 long out."
DeSpain picked up his gun and aimed it over my shoulder.
"Bingo," he said.
"Through his heart."
"Maybe the guy's a shooter," I said.
"Sort of showing off with the.22."
"There was a fad a while back like that," DeSpain said.
"Mob guys were using.22s."
"Or maybe it's the only gun he could get his hands on."
"And it was a lucky shot," DeSpain said.
"What do you know about the victim?"
"What is this, Travelers' fucking Aid?" DeSpain said.
"Hey, I'm telling you all I know," I said.
"You haven't told me shit," DeSpain said.
"True, but it's all I know."
DeSpain shook his head and turned the gun on his desk in a slow circle with his finger through the trigger guard.
"Don't know much more than you do. Studied acting in New York. Was in some plays I never heard of in places I never heard of. Got a job up here. Kept to himself. Stayed out of trouble. Sound like we're closing in?"
"Prints?"
"No record of him ever being fingerprinted."
"So what do you think?" I said.
"I think neither one of us knows shit," DeSpain said. He kept the gun turning slowly.
"Well," I said.
"It was about something?"
"Usually is," DeSpain said.
"Yeah, but this more than most," I said.
"I mean, if you just want the guy dead you don't dress up in a black costume and shoot him dead on stage in a crowded theater."
"Wouldn't be how I'd do it," DeSpain said.
"That's right. But somebody wanted to make a point."
"And did," DeSpain said. He grinned a big, wolfish grin.
"Except we don't know what the point was."
"He was there for a while," I said.
"What was he waiting for?"
"Maybe for Sampson to come to the front," DeSpain said.
"Get a clear shot."
"Or maybe for Sampson to say the lines he was saying so that the killing would have meaning."
"To whom?"
"I don't know."
"Me either," DeSpain said. He stopped twirling the gun and drummed lightly on it with a forefinger the size of a sap.
"But it might have to do with love," I said.
"It's what he was singing about when he got shot."
"Lucky in love," DeSpain said.
"So you've been thinking about it too," I said.
"Some," DeSpain said.
"So maybe it would mean something to a lover," I said.
"
"Cept he didn't have one," DeSpain said.
"That you know about," I said.
"You know about one?"
"No."
DeSpain did his wolfish smile again, pulling his lips away from his teeth with no hint of warmth or humor. He had big teeth, with prominent canines.
"Maybe it was a fruitcake," he said.
"Thinks he's a Ninja assassin. Buys a ticket. Walks in the front door, puts on his mask, works up his courage, does the deed."
"And that's why he stood there for however many minutes, working up his courage," I said.
"Sure. Ain't so easy for some people."
"You got a whacko file?" I said.
"Sure."
"Anybody fill the bill?"
"Not till we get desperate," DeSpain said.
"Then you make do," I said.
"I've squeezed a lot of square pegs into a lot of round holes," DeSpain said.
"Just need to shove sort of hard."
DeSpain had picked up the handgun and was now twirling it by the trigger guard around his forefinger, like a movie cowboy.
"You been a cop," he said.
"Can I see the file?" I said.
Still playing with the handgun DeSpain reached over to the computer on the side table behind his desk and turned it on with his left hand. When the screen brightened, he tapped the keys for a minute. A list of names formed on the screen.
"Want a printout?" he said.
"Or you want to read it off the screen?"
"Printout," I said.
DeSpain turned on the printer, hit a couple of keys, and the list began to print.
"Couple years," DeSpain said, "these things'll violate a suspect's civil rights for you. Won't have to lift a finger."
The paper eased out of the printer and DeSpain picked it up and handed it to me. He pointed at the list with the muzzle of the gun.
"Ding dongs are hard to keep track of," he said.
"List may need an update."
I nodded.
"You learn anything, you'll dash right on in here and tell me about it," DeSpain said.
"Sure. Who's working the case?"
"Me," DeSpain said.
"Keeping your hand in?" I said.
"Sure."
"I find something, I'll let you know," I said.
"
"Predate it," DeSpain said. He scratched a spot behind his ear with the muzzle of the gun.
"We're fighting crime up here day and night," he said.
"Day and fucking night."
"Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty," I said.
DeSpain's wolfish grin flashed again. It was almost a reflex.
There was no humor in the grin, or in the eyes that were as hard and flat as two stones.
"Yeah," he said.
"It is, isn't it."