'Good work, Dobbs.'
CHAPTER THREE
It was a large-caliber handgun,' said the witness.
His name was William Jones and he was sixty-eight years old, a retired schoolteacher. Merci thought he looked like Dean Martin, and acted like him too, but the drunk part wasn't an act. She could smell it on his breath. He was wearing brown plaid shorts, a blue plaid shirt and a pair of Ugg boots. His legs were luminescent white and skinny. It was now 7:34 A.M. and they were standing on the street opposite the Wildcraft driveway. Some neighbors had congregated outside the tape.
'How do you know?' she asked.
'I shot a million rounds when I was young. Twenty-two. Thirty-eight. Forty-five. I was in the service, nineteen fifty-one to fifty-three. I know my firearms. And the sound carries up here in the hills.'
Jones said he lived in the garage of his son's house here in Hunter Ranch. He said he was welcome in the house, but preferred the garage because a man needs his own place to call home. Actually, he didn't get along with his daughter-in-law, but that was another story, wasn't it?
He had been awake at five o'clock because he was a light sleeper and his stomach was bothering him. When he heard the shot it was exactly 5:06 and he knew exactly what it was. He went into his son's house, found the Sheriff's Department number in the front of the phone book and called.
Merci remembered that Crowder had marked the Dispatch call a five-ten. Good enough, she thought.
William Jones went on: 'After I called I went to the bathroom relieved myself, washed my hands. Then I went back into the kitchen-that's where I'd made the call from-and watched out the window for the cops to come.'
Merci noted all this then looked up at Jones. He was lighting a cigarette, peering cagily through the smoke at her.
'Everybody okay?' he asked.
'Archie was shot but he's alive. His wife died.'
'Gwen? Oh, damnit all, you couldn't have found a nicer couple of kids. Oh, damnit'
Jones froze a beat, then kicked the air and nearly fell over, his cigarette trailing sparks. The boot almost came off and Jones balanced on one thin leg while he worked his foot back in. He steadied himself sighed and looked up toward the Wildcraft house, then back to his garage, then at Merci.
'Shit,' he said. 'You don't mind, I hope.'
He pulled a flat dark bottle from the rear pocket of his shorts, tool a drink and put it back. Canadian Mist, Merci noted.
'What did you see?' she asked.
'Nothing at first. Then, after I went to the bathroom and came back I saw a black Cadillac STS heading away from Archie and Gwen's place. I know my cars, too. It was five-eleven.'
Merci looked hard at Jones because she wanted him to be as good a witness as she thought he was. So he's drinking whiskey at seven in the morning, she thought: that doesn't mean he can't see straight.
'California plates, and I got the first two letters,' said Jones, peering at her again. 'They were OM.'
'Did you see the driver?' asked Zamorra.
'No. Couldn't see anyone at all. Much too dark.'
'How fast was it moving?' he asked.
'Twenty, maybe. But accelerating.'
'Like it was just pulling away from the house?' Zamorra asked looking at Merci. 'Precisely. And no, it didn't come from the driveway-I'd have noticed it. It could have been parked on the street across from Archie's, but the magnolia tree right there blocks that angle. It was heading down the hill, right in front of Archie's place, when I first saw it. I looked out the window and there it was.'
Merci looked out at the expensive neighborhood: big lots, big trees, horse corrals and stalls, houses set back and hardly visible. One property even had a pond. The morning sun tinted everything gold. She could see the Jones garage across the street, at the end of a long drive lined with Italian cypress that looked eighty feet tall.
A hundred and fifty-five yards from Wildcraft's house to Jones's ear, she thought, more or less. And farther from the Wildcraft bathroom to Jones's ear, plus the walls and ceiling, which was probably why Jones hadn't heard the shots that killed Gwen.
'What about Wildcraft's driveway light?' she asked.
Jones said it was on. He squinted his eyes at Rayborn again, and at first she thought it was the sun. But the sun was behind the magnolia tree and the tree was behind Jones.
'No,' he said.
'No what?'
'No. In my opinion it was not a murder-suicide,' he said.
Suicide had come to her mind as soon as she learned that they were dealing with two gunshot victims. And come to her mind again when she learned they were a deputy and probably his wife. Rayborn was acutely aware that far more cops die of suicide than are killed in the line of duty. It had once been her opinion that the law enforcement suicide problem was due to low hiring standards. Then, one year ago, Paul Zamorra came very close to killing himself and Rayborn had seen beyond this narrow conviction.
'Why not?'
'Archie's a good man, Sergeant Rayborn. Sharp. Looks like a young Gary Cooper. And his wife wasn't just beautiful, she was sweet as a girl can be. You hear about perfect couples, well, that was one. They had everything.'
'We don't know what happened,' she said.
'You can rule that out,' said Jones.
'You ever hear them fighting?'
'Once in a while.'
'How many times is once in a while?'
Jones considered. 'Twice in six months.'
'When was the last time?'
'Yesterday afternoon, around three. I was pulling weeds. It was coming from their yard.'
'What was?'
'Yelling. Mostly her. Gwen yelling but Archie quieter. He wasn’t saying much.'
'Who said what?'
'I couldn't make out a single word. Just two people arguing. I went back in and got another beer. I can't stand couples fighting. Worst sound in the world. Reminds me of my ex.'
They thanked him but Jones just stood there and stared at the Wildcraft home.
Merci looked at the little crowd forming outside the yellow ribbon that sealed off the driveway. She and Zamorra took a few minutes to walk over and find out what they had seen and heard: nothing. She got names and addresses and phone numbers for later, just in case.
They started back toward the house. One of the CSIs slowly walked the side of the driveway-long strides, head steady, cap down low-staring hard at the concrete. To Merci he looked like her father use to, working the East Walker for trout.
She stopped and watched him. She liked his focus and intensity. 'Paul, I think we should get that black Caddy to all Southern Cal enforcement-first two letters OM. I know it's late. I know it might be nothing. I know Jones drinks his breakfast. But it's worth the try,
'I'll make the call, Merci.' Zamorra hesitated. 'You think Archie might be our guy here?'
'I hope not.'
In the last year Zamorra had become a department suicide counselor. Merci had heard good things about some of Paul's work, though he'd hardly said two sentences about it.
'What do you think, Paul?'
'I want to talk to his friends. Family, if he's got any. First I'll have Gilliam send a tech to the hospital. We
