Parker 02 - The Guilty (14 page)

"Right, Parker, I appreciate you coming down here, it

flatters me to no end that a former student thinks so highly of

me to believe I might be of some assistance on a murder case.

But I'm a college professor. Nothing more, maybe a little less."

I looked around her office. "Mrs. Trimble, it's clear you

have a passion for these weapons. Now regardless of what that

says about you, I'd sure as hell trust someone who has a

passion for something over someone who gets paid to do it.

I think Amanda's right. But I'm not a cop, I'm not asking you

to help catch a murderer. But I think there's more to this than

simple killings. I think this guy has a motive, and I think his

gun is a clue to that."

Agnes took the candy cane from her mouth, tossed it in the

garbage. Looked me over. "You know my father took me to the

range when I was a little girl. Had one set up in our backyard.

Picket fence with empty paint cans on it. Only seven-year-old

in my town who could shoot paint cans from twenty yards out

with a 9 mm with eighty-seven-percent accuracy. I know guns.

I don't like what they can do, but I'm in awe of them."

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"I can see that," I said. "And that could be the difference

here."

"Do they know what kind of gun it was fired from?"

"Not specifically," I said. "But there are clues. A witness

to Jeffrey Lourdes's murder said she got a good look at the

weapon. She said it looked old, like she'd seen it in a movie.

It might have had a wood stock. That's as much as I know."

"Mr. Parker, hundreds of guns fit that description. If that's

all you have..."

"Does the phrase 'gun that won the West' mean anything

to you?"

Agnes's eyes opened wide. She brought a hand to her

mouth, chewed on a fingernail. Suddenly she stood up, started

running her finger along the spines of various books on her

shelf. She stopped at one. Took it out and laid it on her desk.

She flipped it open. It was text heavy, filled with old photographs and illustrations. She turned to the index, flipped some

more, scanned down, then stopped when she found what she

was looking for.

"You say you think this rifle bears a significance to the

case?" she asked. All the playfulness had left Agnes Trimble's

voice. She was working now, the switch I assumed made her

so good at her job was now turned on.

"I don't know about the case, but it does to the man committing these crimes. I just need to prove it. I need to know

why this gun is so special to him."

She turned the book around so it faced me.

"Could this be the gun?"

On the page was a photograph of a rifle. It had a wooden

stock, like Lourdes's assistant said. Other than that, I didn't

know.

"Look here," Agnes said. "Rather than a traditional trigger

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guard, it has a reloading mechanism with only one side

attached to the frame. Makes for easy and fast reloading.

These kind of rifles are as common as sequin jumpsuits. You

asked about the gun that won the West? Well, here it is."

The caption beneath the rifle read,
Winchester 1873, First

Model Rifle, S/N 27.

It was a beautiful piece of firepower. I examined it.

"At the time, this gun was given the highest production run

of any rifle in history," she said. "As much as the Winchester

won the West, it nearly drowned it in blood as well."

"Does the Winchester 1873 take .44-40 magnum rounds?"

Agnes nodded, her fingernail underlining a passage in the

text.

The Winchester 1873 lever action rifle was originally

chambered for the .44-40--a bottlenecked cartridge that has

acquired legendary status and is often referred to as 'The car-

tridge that won the West.'

I read the line, wondered if this was the gun the killer was

using. The rifle obviously had history, a literal one at that.

But why would somebody in the twenty-first century use a

nearly hundred-and-forty-year-old gun?

"So the gun was accurate," I said to Agnes. "And fast. But

it surely can't match some of the weapons around today.

Hell...Uzis, semiautomatics, Saturday night specials."

"Yeah, I've seen movies, too. And yes, there are many

guns currently on the market that obliterate the necessity of

the Winchester. But if this
is
the gun, and I'm assuming at this

point that's a big if, this man is not using it for efficiency or

posterity."

"So why use it?" Amanda said. She was into this, a little

too much.

"The Winchester 1873," Agnes said, her voice taking on a

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reverential tone, "until the Uzi 9 mm came along, was the

most famous and most recognizable gun in the world. Over

half a million were produced and in circulation before the turn

of the century. Between lawmen, outlaws and other savory

and unsavory types, just about anyone who needed to kill

someone was doing it with a Winchester model 1873."

"What made it so popular?"

Agnes breathed out, whistled. "Oh, well, take your pick.

The construction was far more rugged than the previous

models. That beast could take a pounding. It had a leveraction mechanism, and what that does is allow the shooter to

fire several cartridges without having to reload. The 1873

model was lighter and faster than its grandfather, the 1866.

The 1873 had a steel frame, which allowed Winchester to use

a centerfire instead of a rimfire for the first time."

Amanda said, "You know if I knew you knew all this, I

might not have registered for your class."

"If I didn't know all this, I wouldn't have a dozen unregistered students every semester taking my class for no credit."

"So what's the difference between centerfire and rimfire?"

Agnes seemed to get that I knew a little less about weaponry than

your average twenty-five-year-old. She spoke with no condescension, and I could tell her interest was more than academic.

"The centerfire was one of the most important technological advancements in the history of advanced weaponry. See,

with a centerfire, a gunman could use more than one cartridge

at a time."

"Or gunwoman," Amanda added. "Hey, I know about

Annie Oakley."

Agnes continued. "The older model Winchesters used a

rimfire, which fired at a lower velocity and smaller caliber

since the firing mechanism would often be damaged when

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using higher power ammunition. The steel frame made it the

first rifle which could be used in just about any weather condition. It truly was an all-purpose killing machine."

I said, "Athena Paradis and Joe Mauser were killed by

.44-40 magnum rounds. I'm willing to bet Jeffrey Lourdes

was the same. My friend on the force told me the .44-40

rounds are pretty uncommon calibers to be used in an urban

setting."

"They are, mainly because they're impractical as hell,"

Agnes said. "But in the 1880s, you didn't have Uzis. A good

rifle, accurate, powerful and easily reloaded, could win a war,

wreak havoc everywhere, or keep the law."

"So basically this was a bad-ass rifle of the first degree."

"I believe that's how pretty much any historian would put

it."

I sat back and tried to digest all of this. According to all

the facts we had so far, a young man could be running around

New York with a rifle made famous in the nineteenth century.

A rifle that would be described as a "killing machine." So far

he had targeted three people who had seemingly no connection to each other aside from their propensity for front-page

coverage. Popular gun, popular targets. I knew there was

more to this story. That there was a very specific reason, if

this
was
the right gun, that this monster was using it.

Agnes continued, confirming my thoughts. "Nobody

would be using this weapon today without a purpose."

"I know that," I said. "But we don't know what that purpose is. Where could someone find this gun?" I asked.

"Oh, hell, I don't know. Someone who wants it bad, that's

for sure."

"Look, Agnes," I said. "Three people are dead. Who knows

how many more are targeted, or if the cops can catch this guy

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before he crosses anyone else off his list? Right now all I want

to do is find out if this is the gun being used, and if so, why.

I know in my heart if I can answer that question, we'll find

out who this man is."

Agnes looked at me, looked at Amanda.

"You love her?" she asked.

Amanda's mouth opened. The question knocked me a bit,

but I looked her in the eye and said, "Yes I do." I felt Amanda's

hand on mine.

"Then promise this girl right here that if you feel yourself

getting too close, you'll back off. The kind of man who would

go out of his way to use a weapon with such a bloody history

won't think twice about collateral damage. Reporters are no

good dead."

"I know that," I said.

"Museums," she said. "Museums with Old West exhibitions. Collectors, but antique and current. Start your search

with everything below the Mason-Dixon line. Anyone who

goes out of their way to possess a working Winchester 1873

knows its history well. And appreciates it."

"This killer surely does both," I said. "Hey, would you

mind if I make a copy of this?"

"Not at all, Xerox machine is down the hall, second left,

next to the Wet Paint sign."

I gently took the book, brought it to the machine, laid it

flat and made three copies of the page featuring the Winchester. I put the copies in my backpack, then brought the book

back to Agnes.

"Thanks," I said.

"Don't mention it. Now, what you do know," she said, "is

that someone is looking to make a statement. The Winchester 1873 wasn't just any gun. This was the gun that won the

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West, back when our country was going through its bloodiest and most dangerous time."

"And now somebody's brought that gun back east," Agnes

continued. "And you better pray to God they're not looking

for this gun to do what it does best, and pick up where it left

off. Because these dead people? They'll just be the beginning."

19

She shivered in the morning air. She wore a tan polo shirt

and skirt, the wind whipping through her uncombed hair. The

weather report said today would be chilly and she could have

easily worn a coat, but found herself caring less whether she

was comfortable and more about getting out of the house.

Last night had been a disaster. She remembered dancing

on tables. She remembered pouring alcohol down her throat

seemingly by the gallon. She remembered going home alone,

and her bloodshot eyes reminded her that she'd cried herself

to sleep. She remembered making a phone call around three

in the morning, but it went right to his voice mail. She woke

up with mascara stains on her pillow, throwing it into the

laundry in a fit of rage. It was then that she remembered her

meeting this morning.

There were three messages on her cell phone. She didn't

even remember it ringing. One was from her friend Shayla

calling to make sure she got home all right. The second was

from her friend Bobby, one of the bazillion gorgeous gay men

of New York City who spent more money on clothing than

the U.N. spent on military aid and seemed to have swept all

the decent straight guys under some giant heterosexual carpet.

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Bobby had been positively shattered by Athena Paradis's

murder. He owned an autographed copy of her book, had

preordered her CD, and her image wallpapered his Mac.

Bobby was also checking up on her. She'd gone to the bar

with Bobby and her "friend" Victoria, though neither he nor

Victoria seemed concerned enough to actually leave the bar

to check on her. At least that's the sense she got, considering

there was house music blaring in the background on their

message.

The third was from her mother asking to meet up for

dinner. Her mother sounded sad, even a little scared. She

deleted the message and erased the call from her memory.

She wore dark sunglasses. Not that anybody would recognize her. Recently her jaw had been hurting. She'd seen a

doctor a few weeks ago who said she might need another operation, that the first one might have damaged a nerve. She

drank so much vodka to numb the pain that more than once

she feared having to get her stomach pumped.

She was in no shape for this meeting, but when she remembered the woman's voice, the urgency, the
it's about

your father, I just want your side of the story,
she knew she

had to keep it.

The diner was just a few blocks from her apartment. She

went there almost every morning, and it had been her suggestion to meet there. On weekdays she ordered a cappuccino to