'Murder, calamity and scandal,' Hillerman said. 'They're usually the first things people look at.' My eyes leapt from the frames to the chairman.
Harvey Hillerman was a tall man, gray neatly-coiffed hair, with round tortoiseshell eyeglasses and a Montblanc sticking out of his shirt pocket. His desk was covered with shiny things: trophies, awards, metallic pens and things encased in glass.
He motioned to the framed editions. 'Each of those represents the bestselling newspaper of that calendar year.' He gazed at them for a moment, reflective, then motioned to the oversize chairs positioned at forty-five- degree angles in front of his desk. 'Wally, Henry, please sit,' he said. We both did so.
'Sir,' I said, 'before you say anything can I just say things didn't happen the way the Dispatch said they did.
Paulina, she-'
'That's enough, Parker,' Hillerman said. 'Mind if I ask where you've been the last few days?'
'New Mexico, sir.'
'New Mexico!' Hillerman exclaimed. 'What in the bloody hell were you doing in New Mexico, vacationing?'
'No, sir,' I said. 'I was following the lead Jack and I touched on in today's paper. The gun angle. It goes deeper-'
'Did you know about this trip to New Mexico?' Hillerman asked Wallace.
'O'Donnell made me aware of it last night,' he said, looking at his shoes.
Hillerman squinted his eyes as he stared at me. I didn't know whether to stare back or let the visual beatdown continue.
'So, Parker,' Hillerman finally said. His voice wasn't reprimanding, it was…interested. 'Tell us what you found in
New Mexico.'
I did a double take.
'Sir?'
'You went there for a reason. I'm hoping you didn't come up empty-handed.'
'Well,' I said, clearing my throat, 'I was able to identify the murder weapon as a Winchester rifle, model 1873. That model is extremely rare, considering Winchester discontinued the gun a hundred years ago. There are barely a few dozen still in working condition.'
Hillerman's eyes widened.
'I figured the gun had to have been stolen from either a private collection or a museum. Had a gun with that value been stolen from a collector, they would have filed the requisite insurance claims. There are less than twenty museums in North America with records of a Winchester 1873. Every museum still had the Winchester in their possession, except for one.'
'Let me guess. It was in New Mexico,' Hillerman said.
'That's right.'
'And did you find this museum?'
'Yes, sir, I did. The Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen in
Fort Sumner.'
'And?' Hillerman said.
'After getting railroaded at first by the manager, he eventually confessed that the model they were currently displaying was a replica, that the real one had been stolen several years back.
They couldn't afford the insurance or security measures and couldn't risk losing tourist dollars by simply closing the exhibit.'
'So the weapon this man has been using was stolen from a New Mexico museum and then brought to New York where it's killed four people,' Hillerman said. 'That's an awful long schlep, just to use a certain gun.'
'Not for this killer. He stole that gun for a reason,' I said.
'And why is that?'
'Because the gun he stole used to belong to Billy the Kid.'
Hillerman sat back in his chair. The cigar was still hanging from his mouth, but he seemed to have forgotten about it.
'What you're saying is, this killer is using Billy the Kid's old gun-as in the Billy the Kid-shoot-'em-up Billy the
Kid-to kill people in New York City.'
'Not just random people. He's got a motive, a pattern.
The killer has some sort of connection to either the gun itself or the Kid.'
Hillerman cocked his head and looked at Wallace. The editor-in-chief hadn't said a word in minutes. Wallace was between a rock and a hard place: attempting to keep control of his paper while having to account for his reporter being eviscerated in articles by their biggest competitor.
'Wallace,' Hillerman said. 'What do you think?'
Wallace seemed to come to life. 'We've already gotten three calls from Louis Carruthers's office about Jack's ballistics article. Apparently they knew about the similarities and were hoping to withhold information until further notice.'
'But you're saying Henry beat them to the punch.'
'That's right.'
'And this new information, the possible link between the killer and the Kid, what have you heard on that?'
'Complete silence from the NYPD,' Wallace said. 'And they haven't been silent about anything.'
'Which likely means they weren't aware of it,' Hillerman added.
'That's right.'
Hillerman again leaned back in his chair, gnawed on the end of his stogie, then threw the soggy mess into a trash can.
'Here's what we do.' His voice was angry, passionate. My heart was beating faster, my resolve growing stronger. 'We report the living hell out of this story. Henry,' he said, 'I want you to chase this down like a goddamn shark smelling blood. I want you to get Lou Carruthers's office on the line and get the
NYPD's cooperation. Since you seem to have scooped them on this, they'll give you a big wet one in return for the intel. I want copy for tomorrow's national edition about both the stolen Winchester and link to Billy the Kid. Just imply there might be a relationship, I don't want anyone jumping to conclusions, but we need your museum manager to go on the record. You got me?'
'Absolutely,' I said.
'Right. Parker, get yourself home and clean up. You look like you just got mugged in the Gobi desert or something. Hell of a fucking job, Henry.'
'What about Paulina Cole's story?' I asked.
'Fuck Cole,' Hillerman said. 'Good, honest, unbiased reporting beats out tabloid bullshit any day of the week. You give our readers something new about this case the Dispatch doesn't have, Paulina can pen hatchet jobs until her cooch defrosts, we'll sell more newspapers. Now get to work.'
Wallace and I were out the door before he could fish out another cigar.
29
I got out of the subway and walked toward my apartment.
The last hour had been a whirlwind of debriefing, notes jotted down with the penmanship of someone born without opposable thumbs, and the sketches for what I knew would be a terrific and stunning article.
Jack filled me in on David Loverne's murder, which was nearly unbearable to listen to. I had to distance myself, look at the situation objectively, try not to think that the murdered man we were discussing had once hugged me, shook my hand, even told me he expected great things from me. Had things turned out differently, the
