“Yes.”
“Probably his,” Martin said. “I reload for him. Did you find the bullet that killed him?”
“Yes, but I don’t know what it is yet,” Virgil said.
“Check and see if it’s a 230-grain plated roundnose. If it’s plated, not jacketed, it’s one of mine. He supplies the brass, I supply the bullet and powder. I can sell them to him for thirty cents a round and make a dime apiece. I guess that’s gone now,” Martin said. His house smelled like a soft-boiled egg, confirming the yellow spot on his chin. “They’d cost forty cents each if you bought them at a store, so he saves a dime apiece. He probably shoots a thousand rounds a year... Saved himself a hundred bucks.”
“Do you know if he had a .223?” Virgil asked, as Martin led him into a dining room that had been converted into a gun-repair shop and pointed him toward one of two leather easy chairs.
“Yeah, he did. Bought it up to Cabelas,” Martin said, as he dropped into one of the leather chairs. “A CZ 527 Varmint with a Leupold variable-power scope. Is that what those people got shot with downtown?”
“I think so. Mr. Andorra’s been dead a couple of weeks, so he didn’t do it. There’s an empty spot in his gun safe.”
“You’re saying it probably wasn’t a suicide, then,” Martin said.
“You could think of ways that it could be... He shoots himself, a friend drops in and finds him dead, decides he might as well do a little shopping down in the basement.”
Martin shook his head. “This is a small town. If a guy was going to steal a gun, it wouldn’t be something like that—it’d get spotted in a minute. Got this big, fat bull barrel on it, for one thing.”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, Glen wouldn’t commit suicide. He was tough, one of those guys who can live through hell and who’ll still go every last inch before he gives up the ghost. I don’t believe it would occur to him to shoot himself. Of course, it could have been an accident...”
“But the missing .223 wouldn’t be and the people downtown weren’t shot by accident,” Virgil said.
“That’s true,” Martin conceded. “I’ve been thinking about those shootings. One hit in the leg, the next in the hip. That’s either good shooting or bad shooting. Can’t tell until he shoots one more. With that scope and a decent rest, a good shot could keep five rounds inside a playing card at four hundred yards. He either meant to shoot them where he did or he doesn’t know how to use that scope. It’s a real good scope.”
Virgil said, “Huh.” He peered out the room’s side window, letting the silence drag on.
Martin: “You figuring something out?”
“Nobody at the shooting scene heard the shot,” Virgil said. “It just occurred to me that we don’t know that he shot just once. He could have missed, and nobody noticed.”
Martin said, “Somebody should have heard the shots.”
“Can’t find them if they did,” Virgil said.
“You’re sure they were shot with a .223?”
“Seems most likely. Why?”
“A .243 might do a similar amount of damage if it was a solid point. I know a guy in town who could shoot a two-inch group at four hundred yards, half minute of angle, but his go-to gun is a Remington 700 in .243. He does have a .223, and I believe more than one. Nice enough guy. The only thing that brings him to mind is, he’s a little gun nuts.”
“Nuts, how?”
“You know that big-titted girl that shoots the bow and arrow in that movie?” Martin asked.
Virgil thought he did.
“This guy would rather play with his guns than play motorboat with that girl,” Martin said.
“Okay, I’m gonna need his name,” Virgil said. And, “You’re a dirty old man.”
“Yeah, well, at my age, that’s what I got,” Martin said. His tongue flicked out and picked up the egg on his chin. He said, “Mmm.”
8
The gun nut’s name was Clay Ford. A tall, too-thin man with silvery eyes who appeared to be in his early forties, he was wearing a cowboy hat inside his house; otherwise, he was dressed like Virgil: T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. He lived three blocks over from Martin, and when he saw Virgil standing on his porch, he said, “I didn’t do it. If I had done it, I’d have done it better.”
