Gurney shrugged, asked matter-of-factly, “Did you notice the problem with the light pole?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The light pole that made a clear shot from the apartment impossible.”
If Klemper had intended to pretend ignorance, his thoughtful delay now made that position untenable. “It wasn’t impossible. It happened.”
“How?”
“Easy—if the victim wasn’t in the exact spot where some witnesses said he was, and if the weapon wasn’t fired from the exact spot where it was found.”
“You mean if Carl was at least ten feet away from where everyone saw him get hit, and if the shooter was standing on a ladder?”
“It’s possible.”
“What happened to the ladder?”
“Maybe she stood on a chair.”
“To make a five-hundred-yard head shot? With a five-pound tripod dangling from the gun?”
“Who the hell knows? Fact is, Kay Spalter was seen in the building—in that apartment. We have an eyewitness. We have dust impressions in her small shoe size in that apartment. We have gunpowder residue in that apartment.” He paused, gave Gurney a shrewd look. “Who the hell told you there was a five-pound tripod?”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is you’ve got contradictions in your shooting scenario. Is that why you got rid of the electronics store video?”
Again Klemper’s hesitation was a second too long. “What video?”
Gurney ignored the question. “Finding a piece of evidence that doesn’t fit your concept means your concept is wrong. Getting rid of the evidence tends to create a bigger problem down the road—like the one you have now. What was on the video?”
Klemper didn’t answer. His jaw muscles were tightening visibly.
Gurney went on. “Let me take a wild guess. The video showed Carl getting hit standing in a spot that couldn’t possibly work with the line of sight from the apartment. Am I right?”
Klemper said nothing.
“And there’s another little snag. The shooter was seen casing that apartment building three days before Mary Spalter died.”
Klemper blinked but said nothing.
Gurney continued. “The person your trial witness identified as Kay Spalter was actually a man, according to a second witness. And that same man was also captured on video in Mary Spalter’s community a couple of hours before she turned up dead.”
“Where’s all this crap coming from?”
Gurney ignored the question. “Looks like the shooter was a hired pro with a double contract. On the mother and son. Any thoughts about that, Mick?”
That set off a twitch in Klemper’s cheek. He turned away and paced slowly across the open space in front of the barn. When he reached the mailbox at the side of the road he stared for a while in the direction of the pond, then turned around and paced back.
He stopped in front of Gurney. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think none of this means a fucking thing. One witness says it was a woman, another says it was a man. Happens all the time. Eyewitnesses make mistakes, contradict one another. So what? Big deal. Freddie ID’d the bitch wife in a lineup. Some other little coke-head skell didn’t. So what? There’s probably somebody else in that slum dump who thinks the bitch was a space alien. So fucking what? Somebody thinks they saw the same person somewhere else. Maybe they’re full of shit. But let’s say they’re right. Did you happen to turn up the fact that Kay, the bitch wife, hated her mother-in-law even more than she hated the husband she topped? Didn’t know that, did you? So maybe what we should’ve done was send the fucking bitch up for two murders instead of one.” Pasty saliva was accumulating at the corners of Klemper’s mouth.
Gurney spoke calmly. “I have the Emmerling Oaks security video of the individual who probably killed Mary Spalter. The individual on that video is definitely not Kay Spalter. And someone else who saw the video insists the same person was in the Axton Avenue building at the time the shot was fired at Carl.”
“So fucking what? Even if it was a pro, even if it was a double contract, that doesn’t get the bitch off the hook. All it means is she bought the hit instead of doing it herself. So it wasn’t her own sweaty little finger on the trigger. So she hired the triggerman—just like she tried to do before with Jimmy Flats.” Klemper suddenly looked excited. “You know what? I love your new theory, Gurney. It ties in with the bitch’s attempt to hire Flats to hit her husband, plus her attempt to talk her boyfriend into doing it. Ties the knot tighter around her fucking neck.” He stared at Gurney with a triumphant grin. “What do you got to say now?”
“It matters who pulled the trigger. It matters whether the eyewitness IDs are right or wrong. It matters whether the trial testimony is honest or perjured. It matters whether the video you buried supports or destroys the shooting scenario.”
“That’s the kind of shit that matters to you?” Klemper sucked a wad of mucus out of his nose and spat it out on the ground. “I expected more from you.”
“More of what?”
“I came here today because I found out you worked homicide for twenty-five years in the NYPD. Twenty-five years in Sewer City. I figured anyone who spent twenty-five years dealing with every piece of shit that crawled out of a hole would understand reality.”
“What reality would that be?”
“The reality that when push comes to shove, right matters more than rules. The reality that we’re in a war, not a fucking chess match. White hats versus scumbags. When the enemy is coming at you, you stop the fucker however you can. You don’t stop a bullet by waving a fucking rule book at it.”
“Suppose you have it wrong.”
“Suppose I have what wrong?”
“Suppose Carl Spalter’s death had nothing to do with his wife. Suppose his brother had him shot to get control of Spalter Realty. Or the mob had him shot because they decided they didn’t want him to be governor after all. Or his daughter had him shot because she wanted to inherit his money. Or his wife’s lover had him shot because—”
Klemper broke in, red-faced. “That’s all total horseshit. Kay Spalter is an evil, conniving, murdering whore. And if there’s any justice in this fucking world, she’ll die in prison with her brains bashed out on the floor. End of story!” Tiny bits of the spittle around his mouth were flying into the air.
Gurney nodded thoughtfully. “You may be right.” It was his favorite all-purpose response—to the friendly and the furious, the sane and the insane. He went on calmly, “Tell me something. Did you ever run the shooter’s MO through the ViCAP database?”
Klemper stared at him, blinking repeatedly, as though it would help him understand the question better. “What the hell do you want to know that for?”
Gurney shrugged. “Just wondering. There are some distinctive elements in the shooter’s approach. Be interesting to see if they’ve popped up anywhere else.”
“You’re out of your mind.” Klemper started backing away.
“You may be right. But if you decide to check out that MO, there’s one more situation you should look into. You ever hear of an upstate Greek gangster by the name of Fat Gus Gurikos?”
“Gurikos?” Now Klemper looked honestly confused. “What’s he got to do with this?”
“Carl asked Gus to take care of something for him. And then Gus just coincidentally got hit the same day Carl did—two days after Carl’s mother. So maybe we’re really talking about a triple hit.”