The Wrong Gun

“Nowhere?”

“That’s right. Nowhere. I was fed up, and I didn’t feel like talking with anyone. I sat down and watched TV.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Why should I kid about a thing like that?”

“You watched TV?”

“Yes.”

“What did you watch?

“The baseball game.”

“What game?”

“The Yankees.”

Steve looked at him. “This was four-thirty in the afternoon?”

“Around then.”

“And the game was still on?”

“They’re in California. The game started four o’clock our time.”

“How long did you watch the game?”

“Until the cops came.”

“Oh?”

“In the sixth or seventh inning. I don’t know. I was sittin’ there watching the game, I heard a siren. Went to the window, looked out. That’s when I saw the cop cars.”

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know. Sometime around six.”

“What’d you do then?”

“You know what I did. You were there. I came downstairs, asked the cops what was going on.”

“I didn’t see you come downstairs.”

“Right, right. I came to the gun room, I found you and the cops.”

“How’d you get downstairs?”

“What do you mean?”

“Which stairs did you take?”

“The front stairs.”

“Why not the back ones?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?”

“It’s the kind of question you may be asked. If you go on the stand, you’re gonna be grilled by a D.A. He’s gonna throw questions at you, and you gotta have the answers. It’ll be a damn sight better if you get used to answering them now. And stop trying to figure out why I’m asking and just concentrate on answering. Why the front stairs, why not the back stairs?”

“I looked out the window, saw the cop cars. They’re pullin’ up to the front door. Naturally, I’m going down the front stairs to meet ’em.”

“But you didn’t meet ’em there.”

“No. Because by the time I get downstairs they’ve already gone to the gun room.”

“And that’s where you met ’em?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why didn’t you come down the back stairs? It’s closer to the gun room.”

“I didn’t know they were going to the gun room,” Timberlaine cried in exasperation.

Steve smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. You shouldn’t have known they were going to the gun room. See, you’re answering just fine. Now, that’s when you came walking up and found the cops and saw me.”

“That’s right.”

“You had just come from upstairs.”

“That’s right.”

“Watching the ballgame, which was then in the sixth or seventh inning.”

“Something like that.”

“What was the score?”

“What?”

“The score of the game-what was the score?”

Timberlaine looked at him. “The Yankees were up three to two. California was batting, there were runners on first and third, and I think there were two fuckin’ outs, for Christ’s sake.”

Steve held up his hand. “All right, take it easy,” he said. “This is your alibi. It may seem stupid, but the more details the better.

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong. You stormed out of the auction; walked down the path; fired off the gun, shooting up in the air; put the gun back in your holster; walked around; went upstairs; took off the gun belt with the gun in it; took a shower; changed your clothes; watched the ballgame until you heard a siren; then came downstairs and saw the cops. Is that right?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Fine. Let’s talk about the gun.”

“What about it?”

“When you came upstairs to give it to the cops, the gun was on the end table by the bed. Only I couldn’t see it right away because it was covered up by your cowboy hat.”

“Yeah. So?”

“Think about it. When you were getting undressed to take the shower-you took off your gun belt, you took off your cowboy hat-do you remember putting your cowboy hat down on top of the gun belt?”

“Why should I?”

“Because that’s where it was when you went to get it for the cops.”

Timberlaine’s eyes widened. “You mean …?”

“Hey,” Steve said. “Ballistics says that gun killed Potter. The way I see it, that leaves only two possibilities. One, you’re lying and you shot him. Or, two, you’re telling the truth, and someone took that gun and shot him while you were taking a shower.”

Timberlaine frowned. “I see.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t remember.”

“Shit.”

“Well, why should I? There was no reason for me to think about it at the time.”

“I know that, but still.”

“But still what? Either I remember or I don’t.”

“Sometimes you can jog your memory. Think about it. You come back from your walk, you fired the gun, you’re pissed off. You walk across the patio, you don’t see anybody. You go upstairs. Which stairs?”

“Front stairs.”

“You go up the front stairs. You walk down the hall. You go into your apartment-is the door unlocked?”

“Yeah.”

“You leave it unlocked?”

“Usually.”

“When wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know. If I’m away. If I go to town for the day.”

“By town you mean New York?”

“Yeah.”

“It was unlocked then?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you lock it?”