Johnny Get Your Gun (8 page)

“Thank you, but I wouldn’t dare—at least not now. When I get home tonight, if I ever do, I’m going to mix myself a strong drink, listen to Ravel, and read the Book of Job.”

“Why don’t you do that right now.”

“Impossible, you know that. Do me a favor, phone headquarters and give them what facts you have about the shooting victim. I have to follow up on the boy with the gun.”

“Take care of yourself,” the nurse admonished as he turned to leave.

Fifteen minutes later Tibbs was back in the kitchen of the McGuire apartment. “You oughtn’t to come here so much,” Mike told him. “We’re looking for our boy to come home, but he won’t if you’re hanging around all the time.”

Tibbs was in no mood to be unduly polite. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said, and let it hang there.

Maggie had the first inkling, she looked up at him from where she sat, her eyes widening in renewed fright. “Has he done something?” she asked, forcing the words out from between her lips.

Virgil nodded. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. McGuire, desperately sorry, but I’m afraid that he has. Another boy, about fourteen years of age.”

Mike McGuire was suddenly sobered, his wounded pride was put aside. “Did he—hurt him?” he asked.

For Maggie’s sake Tibbs forced down the impulse to give it to him right between the eyes. “Something like an hour ago Johnny fired a shot into the Hotchkiss home, at least we are assuming it was your son. Fortunately no one was hurt.”

“Then who…?” Mike asked.

“Somehow, I’m not sure how, Johnny apparently made his way to the west side of the city. There four boys out in a car stopped him, again I can’t say for certain that it was your boy, and a scuffle followed.”

“What were they trying to do to him?” Mike asked in quick suspicion.

“I don’t know for sure, Mr. McGuire, one of them told me they thought he was lost and hoped they could earn a dollar or two taking him home. I don’t entirely believe that, but there is no evidence so far that they had any criminal intent. Whatever the circumstances, Johnny apparently became frightened and fired the gun. I don’t believe that he did it on purpose.”

“And…?” Maggie asked.

“One of the boys was hit, in the abdomen, I understand. I’m very, very sorry, Mrs. McGuire, to have…”

“Is the boy all right?” she interrupted him, her voice rising.

He shook his head. “He died in the hospital a few minutes ago.”

She buried her face in her folded arms. Tibbs looked
at McGuire whose color was now ashen. “If by any chance you see your son before I do, don’t under any circumstances tell him about the death. If he still has the gun…”

“I’ll take it away from him,” he promised. “You can have the damned thing, I don’t want it any more.”

“Exactly what kind of a gun is it?” Tibbs asked. “I know you said that it is a Colt .38, but that covers several models. Can you be more specific?” The question helped just a little to restore some emotional balance in the small room.

“It’s called a Chief’s Special,” Mike answered. “You know about it?”

“Yes, I do. I think you’d like to be alone now; you don’t need to expect me back any more this evening.”

“What if you find Johnny?”

Virgil Tibbs considered that for a moment. “In view of what’s happened, we’ll have to hold him—at least temporarily. But it might be the best thing for him, and for his mother, if we brought him here for a little while first.”

Mike rubbed his jaw with the flat of his hand. “That’s decent of you,” he said, and for the moment paid his guest the supreme compliment of overlooking his heritage.

One more weary time Tibbs drove back to headquarters and made his report. Then, his duty done for the time being, he headed for home. In his own car he drove to his apartment, turned on the lights, and gratefully kicked off his shoes. Despite the fact he had not eaten, the idea of food
did not attract him. Instead he mixed himself a drink, sat down stiffly on one end of his davenport, and nourished his spirit by studying a magnificent painting which hung on the opposite wall. It was an outdoors scene which proclaimed itself to be California; dominating the picture as its central subject was a lovely young woman. She had deep blue, widely separated eyes, golden blond hair brilliant in the strong light. She looked out of the canvas, directly at Virgil, proud and unconcerned by her nudity. Her perfectly formed breasts were not on display, they were simply part of her which added to the all-over perfection of her body.

To Virgil Tibbs the picture meant far more than the considerable cash value it represented. An original by William Holt-Rymers was entirely beyond his means, but this one was not only a gift from the artist, it had also been done particularly for him without his knowledge and the subject had sat for it as her contribution.

Presently the alcohol took the sharp edge off his fatigue; he reminded himself that he had had nothing to eat since noon. He got to his feet and raised his glass a few inches toward the picture.

“Thank you, Linda,” he said half aloud. The ritual completed he changed into a comfortable yukata, put a new recording of
Miroirs
on his stereo system, and opened his refrigerator door.

When he awoke in the morning the fact that his phone had not rung told him that Johnny McGuire had not been
located. It also implied that the gun he carried had been silent. By eight-thirty he was in his office, facing a pile of work which was always waiting on his desk. Bob Nakamura, his unofficial partner and office mate, sat a few feet away embroiled in his own case file. The weather outside was fine, the only redeeming feature of what otherwise promised to be a grim and possibly tragic day.

There was nothing new whatever concerning Johnny McGuire.

As soon as he had taken care of some urgent details left over from another case, Tibbs went to see Captain Lindholm, the chief of the detective bureau. After exchanging a brief greeting, he plunged directly into the thought which was in his mind. “I lost a bet last night,” he admitted. “I was confident, at first, that the McGuire boy would go home. He didn’t—you know what happened.”

The captain nodded. “He could have been too frightened or else got lost, pure and simple.”

Tibbs nodded. “I can buy it either way, sir, although I like the second a little better. Another thought—you know where the shooting took place. It’s only about five blocks from the Arroyo Seco. If the boy was lost, or too scared to go home, he might have hidden somewhere in the park. That is, if he knew it was there.”

Lindholm smiled. “I’ve had two men in plain clothes down there for the past hour. I’d like to send more, but we had two armed robberies after you went home last night.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Stick on the McGuire thing by all means. Let me know if you get into a corner or need more help.”

“Thank you,” Virgil said, and left.

Twenty minutes later Tibbs was back at the Huntington Memorial Hospital. The surgical team which had worked to save the life of Willie Orthcutt would have left a report. Because of something he had noticed the previous night, he was most anxious to see it.

Although no postmortem had as yet been performed, the preliminary findings were quite clear. The fatal bullet had entered the abdomen on a straight line, indicating that it had been fired from a point approximately three feet above the ground. Had prompt medical attention been available on the scene before the victim had been moved, he might have been saved, but this was highly problematical.

There was also a second wound, this one in the upper forearm. Assuming that the two shots had been fired from the same point, then rough triangulation, according to the surgeon’s estimate, gave the distance as between ten and fifteen feet. The bullet in the abdomen had entered just below the normal position of the belt buckle and had traveled in an almost exactly horizontal line; the one in the forearm had entered through the biceps muscle and had struck the bone. The triangulation presumed that both shots had been fired at almost the same time, otherwise a standing posture on the part of the victim could no longer be assumed.

The rest of the medical report was technical, but ended with the unqualified statement that death had been caused by the abdominal bullet which had passed entirely through the body. The fact that the spine had not been struck was immaterial in view of the fact that death had taken place. Tibbs absorbed the information with a sense of satisfaction; it was a thoroughly professional job of putting facts on paper. This saved much time and provided a piece of reliable evidence for the use of the Juvenile Court.

The hospital visit concluded, Tibbs drove to the address he had been given for the boy called Jeff. When he arrived, he found a modest home where the whole family was gathered, clearly in anticipation of an official visit. In the course of his work his racial heritage had often been a handicap to him. This time it might make things somewhat easier.

The parents of the boy greeted him as well as could be expected; they were obviously respectable, decent people who were seriously upset and fearful of the fact that their son was involved in a case of manslaughter. Jeff himself was there together with three sisters of varying ages who seemed content to remain still and unnoticed.

“All I can say, Mr. Tibbs,” Jeff’s mother began, “is that I’m thankful to God that the white boy didn’t shoot our son. It’s Jesus’ grace that he didn’t.” She was a big woman, well over two hundred pounds, but when she gathered her boy to her, she became only a relatively helpless mother striving to protect what was nearest and dearest to her.

Following the usual preliminaries Virgil turned his attention to Jeff. “What’s your full name, son?” he asked gently.

“Jeffrey William Howell.”

“All right, Jeffrey, as far as I know now you aren’t personally in any trouble and you don’t need to worry.”

“Thank God,” his father said in an unexpectedly rich bass. He was a thin man whose face and hands both testified to many years of physical labor. He stood quietly in the corner of the humble room.

Virgil was glad at that moment that he was a Negro, that he could establish empathy with these people who had been caught in the crossfire of a serious police case. At least to them the law did not have an exclusively white face.

The boy’s mother picked up the reins. “Mr. Tibbs, I’ve been worried sick about his running around in that hopped-up car. I know they’re his friends, but it isn’t right. It could have been him; it could have been our boy.” She hastily wiped her eyes.

“In your opinion, why does he go with that particular crowd?” Tibbs asked.

The fleshy woman recovered enough to answer. “Because of the boy they call Sport. He’s older; he owns the car. He’s the big man and they all want to run with him. And then there’s Luella.”

“Luella?”

“Yes. As far as I know she’s a nice enough girl, not
wild or anything like that, but the boys all like her maybe a little too much.”

“Oh, ma,” Jeffrey said.

“Well you know that it’s true enough, you told me so yourself.” She returned her attention to her visitor. “Let’s just say that Luella’s popular. She’s sort of Sport’s girl, but she gets along with all the boys in the crowd, sometimes she goes out with them.”

“That sounds very reasonable,” Tibbs commented.

“I guess that it is—what I meant is that Jeffrey, like all the other boys I guess, likes her and that’s one reason he goes with Sport and the others.”

“Thank you. Now, Jeffrey, tell me all about it, just as it happened.”

In the presence of his parents and of the law the boy was in a chastened mood. He told his version without ornamentation, hesitating from time to time as he realized the gravity of the circumstances in which he had been involved.

He had little that was new to offer; his story closely paralleled the one given to Tibbs by Charles Dempsey. In a few minor details he differed; Tibbs was well aware that the mark of a truthful witness is agreement on major points mixed with disagreement on smaller ones. Few people have perfect memories, especially concerning occasions when they were under unusual stress.

In one particular area Tibbs was explicit in his questioning—the moment when the first shot had been fired. It
was most important to determine if Johnny McGuire had pulled the trigger of his own volition or if he had done so involuntarily as a result of having been unexpectedly grabbed from behind.

Jeffrey did his best to answer. “Well, Beater, he was standin’ still like, he wasn’t goin’ for the kid at all. Then Sport, he grabbed him real quick. The white kid, he twisted like, fightin’ to get away. That’s when it happened.”

“Exactly what happened then?”

“Beater, I mean Willie, he grabbed himself in the guts, I knew right then he’d been hit.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Not then. After maybe a second or two he made a noise, like he was hurt.”

“Now, Jeffrey, I want you to think carefully, because this is
very
important. Exactly what did the white boy do after he fired the gun and hit Willie in the abdomen?”

Jeffrey shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I was awful scared. I’d been right by Willie, I only just got away in time.”

“Did anything else happen that you noticed, anything at all?”

The boy collected himself. “I don’t remember exactly. Sport, he yelled to watch out and let go of the kid, or the kid got away, I ain’t sure. I think the white kid he shot again, but like I said, I ain’t sure—it was all so fast. Anyhow, Willie he fell down and the white kid, he run like hell. I didn’t want to chase him.”

“I can understand that,” Virgil agreed.

“Then Sport, he said we’d have to take Willie to the hospital right away. He picked him up.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah, Sport, he’s strong. Willie, he was cryin’ when Sport put him in the back o’ the car. Then he told us to beat it before any cops come and he drove off.”

“Why did you call him ‘Beater’?”

“’Cause he was a real good drum man. He had a beat, he had.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I came home.”

“Did you tell your family what had happened?”