“Or his, or hers,” Healy said.
“I think it’s two people,” Jesse
said.
Healy was quiet for a moment, thinking about it.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do
too.”
“How many of those hundred and twenty-three thousand live in
Paradise?”
“One hundred and eighty-two,” Healy said.
“And how many of them own a late-model red Saab ninety-five?”
“Three.”
Jesse felt his solar plexus tighten.
“And,” he said, “how many of
those three Saabs were parked up at
the Paradise Mall when Barbara Carey got shot.”
“According to the plate numbers your people collected,” Healy
said, “one.”
Jesse felt himself coil tighter.
“And the lucky winner is?” he said.
“Anthony Lincoln,” Healy said.
He put a note card on the desk.
“Name, address, phone,” Healy said.
“He has no criminal
record.”
Jesse picked up the card and looked at it.
“He has a class-A carry permit,” Healy said. “In the past year
he has purchased a Marlin twenty-two rifle, model nine-nine-five, semiauto with a seven-round magazine, and two boxes of twenty-two long ammunition.”
“The son of a bitch,” Jesse said.
“Be useful if we could tie the rifle to the shootings,” Healey
said.
“Funny gun for the kind of shooting we’ve been seeing,” Jesse
said. “I’d have said handgun.”
“People use the guns they can get,” Healy said.
“Think we got enough to confiscate it?”
“No. All you got is he owns a twenty-two and his car was parked
near one of the murders.”
“And it’s a Saab,” Jesse said.
“Like the one at the church
parking lot.”
Healy shrugged.
“Talk to the ADA on the case,” Healy said.
“Maybe he’s tight
with a judge.”
“Even if we can’t compel him,”
Jesse said. “Any good citizen
would be willing to submit his gun for forensics testing, unless he had something to hide.”
Healy smiled.
“Unless he wished to vigorously resist the intrusion of
government on the individual’s right to privacy,”
he
said.
