• • •
I sat in his cubicle at the police department, the two of us eyeing one another warily while I went through my story for the second time. I’d left the Mustang where it was so Miguel could finish his work. Cheney identified the gun as a .45-caliber Ruger. Before he removed it from under the seat, he’d photographed it in place, donned latex gloves, and then eased a pencil through the trigger guard to keep the handling of it to a minimum. Once the Ruger was bagged and tagged, he’d asked me to accompany him to the station. I agreed so I’d appear to be morally upright. He said he’d drop me at the car wash later when we had a better sense of what was what.
The Ruger might not be the missing weapon. It might not be relevant to any ongoing investigation, in which case it could end up in the property room, forgotten on a shelf. But I didn’t see how it could be a miss. The stray casing found at the shooting scene was a .45-caliber ACP, which would have been a nice fit for the Ruger.
On our way to his desk, he dropped the weapon off in the lab, where a ballistics expert would test-fire it to see if the slug was a match for the one found at the scene. The Ruger’s serial numbers had been noted and someone in Records would run them through the computer in hopes the gun was registered. A superficial examination showed the weapon had been wiped clean of prints and a single round had been fired. When we finally sat down to chat, I said, “How soon will you know who owns the Ruger?”
“Assuming it’s registered at all, it may take a while. Records is backed up and I didn’t put a rush on the request. I’m fascinated to hear how it ended up in your car.”
“I’ll give you my best guess,” I said. I then laid out an explanation of Terrence Dace’s backpack being stolen by the panhandlers, Pearl’s spotting it, and her determination to get it back.
Cheney was more patient than I had any reason to hope.
In addition to recounting my participation in the raid and what I remembered of Felix’s actions, I used the occasion to talk about the Boggarts’ savage attack, which I was now convinced was because Felix had taken property that didn’t belong to him.
He said, “You think Felix stole the gun from them?”
“It’s the only explanation that makes sense. He was hunched in the backseat as we left the scene and he’s the only one who’s been back there. I think he was attacked because he came across the weapon at the camp and slipped it into the small of his back. I think the panhandlers bided their time and came after him. If he’d told them where he’d hidden it, they’d have come after me. The owner of that bicycle-rental shop down on lower State saw the whole thing and he’s the one who called 911. I talked to him a couple of days ago, hoping he’d be willing to identify the guy. He knows who it was because he’s seen the same three bums hanging out at the beach for years. He refuses to help because he’s worried about reprisals, and who can blame the man?”
Cheney made a note. “Let me find out who’s handling the case and we’ll see what we can do. You said three of them?”
“It’s the big galoot I’m talking about. Bald guy with a red baseball cap.”
“You have a name?”
“I don’t, but he’s not hard to find. Rush hour, he’s usually standing on the side of the Cabana Boulevard off-ramp with a cardboard sign. You can’t miss him.”
“You think he had a hand in Pete’s death?”
“Either that or he stumbled on the weapon after the fact. I can’t think how else he’d end up with it.”
“Might be completely unrelated,” Cheney said. “So far, we haven’t confirmed this was the gun used in the shooting. With all the firearms in circulation, plenty aren’t registered and can’t be traced.”
“I’ll tell you one thing. Those bums are badasses. They’ve put together that camp with stolen goods. They’ve tapped into the zoo’s water and electrical supplies and they’ve co-opted trash pickup. There must be half a dozen ways to bust them.”
“We’ll do what we can. If the fellow you describe has been in trouble with the law, it will give us some talking points.”
“I want to run something by you. I’ve been thinking about this and I’d be interested in your opinion,” I said. “Leaving aside the issue of how I came up with all this . . .”
“All this what?”
“Would you let me tell it my way? This is pertinent.”
“Fine.” He looked at me steadily. Instead of making eye contact, I found it easier to avert my gaze. I knew what I wanted to say, but I was organizing the story as I went along.
“This may take a while, so bear with me. Originally, Pete Wolinsky was hired by a fellow named Willard Bryce,” I said. Then I went through the entire sequence; Pete hiring Dietz, the surveillance, Dietz billing Pete, no pay. I told him about Mary Lee meeting with Owen Pensky, and her quitting her job the same day Pete was shot to death. I told him about the stolen charts. I told him about Eloise Cantrell, who made reference to gossip about Dr. Reed’s work. As I worked my way through the narrative, I could see Cheney putting together the bits and pieces. He gave no indication of what he was thinking, but I could feel my confidence erode as I went on.
“Pete had a shitload of debts and he was desperate for cash. I think he got wind of Dr. Reed’s problems and saw an opportunity to put the squeeze on him. You know, ‘Pay up or I’ll tell your boss and I’ll contact the NIH.’”
Cheney cut in. “Did Pete actually have evidence of wrongdoing?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. He might have suggested that even the hint of wrongdoing would tarnish Reed’s reputation and impact his career.”
“So you think he tried blackmailing Linton Reed over an issue of I-don’t-know-what without anything to back it up.”
“It doesn’t matter if he had anything to back it up. What matters is whether Linton Reed believed Pete would blow the whistle on him. What matters is Reed’s anxiety about the kind of trouble Pete could make.”
“Are you talking about scientific fraud?”
“That’s what it sounds like to me. He’s been in trouble before over lesser issues than this.”
“You told me Mary Lee Bryce quit her job.”
“She did. The same day Pete was killed.”
“If she quit her job, where’s the threat to Linton Reed?”
“She’s more likely to blow the whistle on him now. Besides, I have these medical charts Dace stole. Those should help. In the meantime, I did meet with Dr. Reed.”
That caught him short. “Why?”
“I wanted to hear what he had to say about Terrence Dace.”
“And?”
“He expressed regret about the deaths. He talked about how the study is set up and why he terminated Dace and his friend. Honestly, he made it all sound reasonable.”
“I’m sure he did,” he said.
“I’m trying to be fair about this, Cheney. That’s what I’m getting at. I’m not demonizing the guy. I’m not even saying he did anything on purpose. He had a theory about Glucotace. When he ran into a roadblock, instead of shutting the study down, he changed the data or deleted it.”
“Weak.”
“I know it’s weak. Most of this is circumstantial, but don’t sit there telling me it doesn’t count.”
“Speculation. No real basis in fact. You think doctors won’t stand together in a situation like this?”
“Indulge me, okay?”
He smiled. “I’m already doing that. This is me indulging you.”
“Just listen. Ruthie found a wad of cash that Pete stashed away. Suppose Linton’s prints are on the bills? Wouldn’t that suggest I’m on track here?”
“You’re grasping at straws. I don’t understand how we get from fraud to homicide.”
“Easy. Pete jacked him up for money. Reed paid him once, but he didn’t want to pay again, so he killed him.”