Gunmetal Blue Page 11

  Again I just did not know what to say. So again he continued.

  Then I walked around your office, detective. I walked around trying to figure out where you might have stored that recording. Then I found your safe and I was in the process of trying to break it open when I heard the elevator ping. I looked up and I saw a woman come off the elevator and toward your office. My first glimpse of her, I thought: How pretty! Who knows, there might have been a moment when she thought that I was you.

  And she spoke. She said: Hello? Art? That’s what she said. I won’t forget your wife’s voice, detective. She had a lovely voice. It was resonant, but contained octaves. With those words alone you could sense there was something sweet about her. That’s how my wife used to sound, detective, when I came home from work. That was before she got messed up with that lawyer of hers. Before you involved yourself in the mess.

  I took a deep breath like I was about to say something, but there were still no words. There were still no words. So he went on.

  Your wife stepped through your office door, detective, and she saw me kneeling by your safe, and she didn’t think twice about what she saw. She thought she saw you. In that moment I became, perfectly, you. I received her as you received her every day of your life together. When she asked how I was doing, I told her: Fine. Upon hearing my voice, she paused. I could sense her tense up and when she realized that I might not be you she backed out of your office and into the elevator foyer. At that moment, I was no longer you. The illusion was broken. And your Glock was right there. I picked it up and I shot her. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. I don’t know what got into me, detective. I’ve never shot a thing in my life. I never intended to shoot anything. But the gun was right there and I couldn’t stop. It just felt like the most natural thing in the world. Like the gun just appeared in my hand. Like it shot itself. It’s a Glock. What can I say? I unloaded all seventeen rounds into her. She was lovely, really, in that black dress. It wasn’t my plan to kill her, but then it was. I wanted to make you feel what you seemed unable to understand. I wanted you to feel my pain, detective. My final shot was right at her face. Between her eyes to put her out of her misery. I will tell you that before the final bullet was shot, she suffered. After I shot her, I wanted to kill myself, but there were no more bullets. So I walked home. It was a long walk, so it wore me out. When I got home I took a nap because I was tired.

  Again I didn’t know if it was my turn to talk, or if I could gain anything by talking.

  Now my wife wants me back, detective. My wife wants me back. And she said so, only yesterday. So I wish I could return yours to you, but I can’t do that. And that’s why I’m here…to figure out what to do next.

  I looked at the Glock 26 sitting on the table between us. It had a clip in it but I didn’t know if the clip was loaded or not.

  Go ahead, detective, he said. If that’s what you want. Go ahead. Just shoot me. I’m OK with it.

  I shifted in my chair, and maybe he thought I was making a move for the gun, but he didn’t do anything. I backed off.

  No, please. Be my guest, detective. Pick up the gun and shoot me.

  She was a wonderful woman, I told him.

  I imagine so, detective. I heard it in her voice.

  No. You can’t imagine.

  OK, detective. Maybe I can’t. Tell me…

  She was wonderful beyond what you can imagine.

  Then I’m sorry for your loss, detective…

  There’s no way for you to understand what you have done to me.

  My wife tried to divorce me. I can understand a little of what it means to lose that.

  That’s not the same. It’s not equal. This is worse. Much worse. I was only doing my job. I only asked you a few questions.

  I’m sorry, detective. I never intended this. But I was possessed by you. And then of course, she walked through your office door. Can you believe that?

  I can’t believe I’m talking to you. I should kill you.

  You still can, detective. There’s your Glock. Go ahead and shoot. Put me out of my misery.

  I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to call the police.

  I called 911. I said: There’s a potential killer with a loaded gun sitting at a table outside the cafe.

  After I called the police I looked at him.

  Can I buy you a coffee or something? he asked. While we wait for the police, detective?

  No. I can’t drink coffee right now.

  I’m thirsty.

  He reached for his glass of water, took a sip, and set his glass down.

  I could hear the sirens in the distance. That’s what I remember, though it makes no sense. Maybe those sirens belonged to a different crime or injury.

  Why did you shoot her so many times? I asked.

  Do you want to know the truth, detective?

  Yes.

  Because she reminded me of my wife. My wife, who also wanted to destroy me. I also wanted to send a message. I wanted to let you and her and everyone else to know that it’s not OK to ruin a man’s life like you ruined me.

  I didn’t ruin you. I was only doing my job. I have a daughter, you know. I had a family. I was put on earth to live in the circle of my family, happily. You took that all away.

  It was a mistake, detective. Do you know, after the divorce proceedings, my wife asked to take me back! That’s when I knew—you and me—we had to talk. My wife said she didn’t like living alone without me. She couldn’t handle the kids alone. She apologized for putting me through this turmoil. She said she didn’t know what had gotten into her. She blamed it all on menopause. I don’t deserve her.

  I don’t know why you’re telling me this. I think you should tell the cops.

  I wanted you to just shoot me. But instead, you called the police. Like a coward! Are you sure that was the right thing to do? That gun…your wife was killed with it. They’ll see it was your gun. They’ll figure that out, in their investigation.

  He stared at me and smiled.

  You’re a detective. I can see you have a gun on you, too. Why don’t you use it? What’s the point, if you don’t use it? Instead, you just sit there like a fucking coward! What kind of man are you, detective, that doesn’t take his revenge? You could shoot me, but you don’t! You call the police instead! Sure, let them do your dirty work! Fine. Here, I’ll do it for you.

  He moved swiftly and grabbed the Glock. He pointed it directly at me. I didn’t flinch.

  Go ahead, just shoot me.

  He turned the gun on himself and put the barrel in his mouth. Then he pointed up towards the back of his head and fired. POP.

  There was a flash of red. His body flopped forward on top of the table. There was a thud as if a heavy weight had fallen and then his arm dropped. The gun escaped his hand and hit the cement with a clatter. There was his eye staring straight at me just below the hole in his head that was suddenly leaking blood. I looked at that eye, and it saw me until it stopped seeing me.

  I expected people to come running, but they didn’t.

  As I waited, my mouth grew dry. I reached for his glass of water; it hadn’t toppled over, and I drank it. I set the empty glass on the table and looked up in the trees. A little bit of light was reflecting off the bark. That’s what I noticed how even black bark could reflect light if the angle was just right. I saw the dark branches filled with sparrows. They had been startled by the gunshot from the pavement to the safety of the trees. In the shade underneath the awning of the coffee shop were a handful of pigeons pecking around at a crust of bread. One of the sparrows left its branch in the tree and flew to where the pigeons were in the shade of the awning. I expected people to come out of the coffee shop because of the gunshot, but no one seemed to notice what just happened. Only the sparrows seemed to notice. Another sparrow followed back to the pavement, and then another, and after a moment all the sparrows had flown to where the pigeons were, and there was a tussle for a few pieces of crust that were too big for any of the birds to fly away with.
The bread looked to be the crust of a baguette. I preferred Wonder Bread for the birds because it had a softer, more malleable crumb. Nevertheless the pigeons and the sparrows would figure out how to break the crust, and if they couldn’t break it apart one of the squirrels emerging from the garbage can would figure out how to break it apart and then the pigeons and sparrows would figure out how to rob the squirrel and get their morsel of bread anyway.

  I watched the birds carefully. I don’t care what anyone says of pigeons or sparrows or crows or grackles. I see a friend in these birds.

  Then I looked up into the higher blue of the sky and all I saw were shadows circling around.

  •

  When the police came, they asked me to step aside. “Get outside the perimeter.” One of the police actually pushed me so I almost stumbled backwards. “Step outside the perimeter.” He was wearing blue surgical gloves. Another officer showed up by ATV vehicle. He wore a white motorcycle helmet. His radio receiver was firmly attached to a strap on his torso, and he spoke into it: Victim. Male. 48-55 years. Gunshot through mouth to top of head.

  Then he turned to me and said:

  Who was the dead body?

  I told him it was the man who had killed my wife.

  I pointed to the gun and I told him that I thought that was the gun he used to kill her. It was also the gun he used to kill himself. The Glock 26. Another officer snapped a picture of where the gun lay, then gathered it in a bag for evidence.

  Did you know the dead body?

  No.

  Did you touch or disturb the dead body when the dead body fell?

  No.

  Did anyone touch or disturb the dead body when the dead body fell?

  No.

  As far as you know, did anyone else touch or observe the dead body when the dead body fell?

  No.

  Was the dead body dead when the dead body fell?

  Yes.

  And on the questions went. There was a pause and we went to the police station and then they asked the same questions again. And when they had taken down all the information they needed, I was released. Then nightfall came and I found myself out of doors and alone and wandering in the night.

  ¤

  Adeleine, I still don't know why you came by my office that night.

  I came to see you, Art. I came to surprise you. I wore my favorite dress, the black one that you like. I thought we might go out to eat. I thought for once you and I would spend a Tuesday night downtown by ourselves at any restaurant you wanted to go to.

  Or she might have said: I came to find out what you do all day. I still don’t know what it is you do all day, because I can see by the money that you bring home that clearly you are not doing enough to cover your costs. When are you going to give up on this detective business and try something that rises to the occasion of your talent?

  That was the exact word she might have used. Talent. Your talent, Art! You have so much talent to give. When are you going to let go of this business for which you were not made, and finally express the God-given talent you were born with?

  Or she might have said: I’ve heard so much about Wanda, I stopped by to check on you. I have no idea what it is the two of you do all day locked up in this office that I pay for, but she does seem too pretty by half.

  Or she might have said: Art, I love you more than words can say.

  I love you too, honey, thanks for visiting. Only I’m sorry what happened.

  Yes. I’m sorry too. I’m so sorry.

  •

  I want to forget having to tell my daughter that her mother’s killer had been found.

  The look on her face when she asked: Is he alive?

  No.

  How did he die?

  He killed himself. He shot himself with his gun.

  Do they know why he killed mom?

  He only said that she got scared and he didn’t know how to control her so he shot her. He also said he wanted me to understand…

  Understand what?

  Understand his pain…

  He didn’t have to shoot mom, dad. No one needed to shoot mom. Did you know the man? Was he related to your business?

  I knew the man. I had interviewed him for a routine divorce case and something about that interview made him snap. I am so sorry, honey. I am so sorry that this happened.

  She was crying now and charged me and she pushed me away.

  This is all your fault, Dad.

  She started pounding on my chest and shrieked at me in grief. Then she pushed me away again and coiled in a corner as far from me as she could get, sobbing.

  Leave me alone, Dad. As long as I live I ask only that you leave me alone. That is the only forgiveness that you’re ever going to get from me.

  I sincerely want to forget the sound of the door slamming as she left me alone in the room.

  The sound of the door, bang. And she was gone.

  She moved in with her friend to finish senior year, and then she went to Tulane, and I never heard from her or saw her again, though on each anniversary of her mother’s death I call and leave a message, hoping she’ll pick up.

  •

  Cal steps back into the lane with his Uzi and lets it rip on full auto, shredding the paper target until it dances and then falls off the clips. It’s a joy to watch him handle such a gun. His body vibrates to the action. The whites of his eyes are not so white. He keeps shooting a moment after the target falls. Little dark crescents form in the fold of flesh just beneath his eyes. He takes a breath, steps back and reloads.

  I ask him: Cal…

  Yes, my friend…

  When are you going to pretend that I’m the target?

  Say again?

  He sticks a magazine clip like a shiv into the bottom of the gun and loads a round into the chamber.

  When are you going to pretend that I’m the target? Just shoot me. Take me out of my misery.

  He laughs.

  Take me out of my misery. Like Tony Spilotro in that Indiana cornfield.

  Like who?

  Like Tony Spilotro.

  He laughs again.

  You laugh again.

  You joke again.

  I don’t joke. Why don’t we find a place? You pretend I’m the target. You could take me out. It would be painless. Drop me where I stand. Do it clean.

  What’s gotten into you, Art?

  Nothing’s gotten into me. Please. I want done with it. I’ll even help dig the hole.

  I don’t have a shovel.

  I'll buy you a goddamned shovel.

  Not me, Cal says.

  A friend would do this for me, Cal. Please. We’ll find a place out in a remote field. I will stand as steady as you need me to stand, then you can unload on me. No hard feelings. You’re the only one I can count on to put me out of my misery.

  Art...

  He shakes his head and steps back into the lane and he starts shooting semi auto, taking careful aim at the target, hunched over. BLURT! BLURT! BLURT! There’s a mean and sleepless look in his eyes.

  Cal, you need sleep, I shout.

  You’re telling me! He fires away in rapid succession: BLUUURT! BLUUURT! BLUUUUURT! I haven’t slept in two nights!

  I haven’t either.

  What’s keeping you up, Art?

  He switches back to full auto and leans forward. Then he squeezes the trigger, bullets flying all over the place. BLUUUUUUUUUUURT! It’s a deadly weapon until it isn’t. Then it’s just a toy, and he loves shooting his toy at the paper target.

  Seriously, he says, shooting and shouting at the same time. What keeps you up at night, Art?

  I need you to understand me, Cal. My wife has been dead for five years and I gave it the scout’s try. Honest!

  It’s time to move on, buddy. BLUUUURT!

  OK. I’m moving on.

  BLURT BLUT BLURT. Asshole, he says under his breath, then he starts again with the Uzi. He shoots for another ten or fifteen seconds until there’s nothing left of the target and wh
en he’s done he lowers his gun and pauses a moment trying to regain the reality of not shooting a machine gun. His eyes are still vibrating. After he adjusts, he smiles.

  Then he says, hold on, Art, I wanna give you something. He leaves the gun range for a second and goes back to his car. When he returns he has a gun in a holster. It’s a Glock 26. It looks familiar.

  Take a break from your pussy gun, Arthur, and try this on for size.

  Haven’t we had this conversation already?

  We have.

  Then why are we having it again?

  It’s a cure. Hair of the dog that bit you, Art. Why don’t you give it a try?

  I stare at it again. Is it the same gun? It looks like the same gun. Can it be the same gun? The cops had taken it and put it in evidence. I’d never told them I’d had it. It seemed like it would be more trouble than it was worth to sort it all out, with me having been under investigation and all. But there was a serial number. Had they called the gun show people? Had they tracked down Cal? What had they told him? What had he told them—that it was stolen? I stare at it again…

  I’m tired of seeing you shoot that Ruger. Why not give it a try? It’s only a gun. And a nice one at that.

  He holds it in his outstretched hands for me to take.

  I can’t do it, Cal. Sorry.

  Go on. Give it a try. Think of it as medicine. I promise it will help.

  Adeleine.

  She’s gone, Art. Let her go. It’s time for you to live on your own two legs. Besides, just so you know…because you’re a friend, I customized it for you. For instance, I put on this Pearce extension grip for those big hands of yours. I also put tritium sights on, which was a bitch, but it’ll be great at low light levels. It’s got the seventeen-round magazine clip too. Go ahead, give it a try. I want you to have it, to honor all the years of our friendship. Really, there’s no reason not to. Give it a try. You’ll see. No need to be a big baby about it. Besides, I remember how you loved this gun. How well you shot with it.

  He makes a little bow and holds the gun out in both hands and waits for me.

  OK, Cal. If you put it that way, what am I gonna do?