The Wrong Gun

“The gun room. Isn’t this the gun room?”

“Oh. I thought it was the next door.”

“No, that’s the last room down. The gun room wasn’t the last room down. This has to be it.”

“Then why are the doors closed?”

“Maybe it’s locked.”

“Why would it be locked?”

“Maybe they keep it locked during the auction, and they forgot to open it when it was over.”

“It’s not locked,” Steve said, twisting the doorknob.

Steve pushed the double doors open. He and Tracy stepped into the room and stopped dead.

The body of Jack Potter lay face up beside the display case in the middle of the gun room floor.

He’d been shot in the head.

Next to the body lay a Colt.45 with the letter R carved in the handle.

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.