The Guilty Part 19

I did a double take.

"Sir?"

"You went there for a reason. I'm hoping you didn't come up empty-handed."

"Well," I said, clearing my throat, "I was able to identify the murder weapon as a Winchester rifle, model 1873. That model is extremely rare, considering Winchester discontinued the gun a hundred years ago. There are barely a few dozen still in working condition."

Hillerman's eyes widened.

"I figured the gun had to have been stolen from either a private collection or a museum. Had a gun with that value been stolen from a collector, they would have filed the requisite insurance claims. There are less than twenty museums in North America with records of a Winchester 1873. Every museum still had the Winchester in their possession, except for one."

"Let me guess. It was in New Mexico," Hillerman said.

"That's right."

"And did you find this museum?"

"Yes, sir, I did. The Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen in Fort Sumner."

"And?" Hillerman said.

186.

"After getting railroaded at first by the manager, he eventually confessed that the model they were currently displaying was a replica, that the real one had been stolen several years back.

They couldn't afford the insurance or security measures and couldn't risk losing tourist dollars by simply closing the exhibit."

"So the weapon this man has been using was stolen from a New Mexico museum and then brought to New York where it's killed four people," Hillerman said. "That's an awful long schlep, just to use a certain gun."

"Not for this killer. He stole that gun for a reason," I said.

"And why is that?"

"Because the gun he stole used to belong to Billy the Kid."

Hillerman sat back in his chair. The cigar was still hanging from his mouth, but he seemed to have forgotten about it.

"What you're saying is, this killer is using Billy the Kid's old gun--as in the the Billy the Kid--shoot-'em-up Billy the Billy the Kid--shoot-'em-up Billy the Kid--to kill people in New York City."

"Not just random people. He's got a motive, a pattern.

The killer has some sort of connection to either the gun itself or the Kid."

Hillerman c.o.c.ked his head and looked at Wallace. The editor-in-chief hadn't said a word in minutes. Wallace was between a rock and a hard place: attempting to keep control of his paper while having to account for his reporter being eviscerated in articles by their biggest compet.i.tor.

"Wallace," Hillerman said. "What do you think?"

Wallace seemed to come to life. "We've already gotten three calls from Louis Carruthers's office about Jack's ballistics article. Apparently they knew about the similarities and were hoping to withhold information until further notice."

"But you're saying Henry beat them to the punch."

"That's right."

187.

"And this new information, the possible link between the killer and the Kid, what have you heard on that?"

"Complete silence from the NYPD," Wallace said. "And they haven't been silent about anything."

"Which likely means they weren't aware of it," Hillerman added.

"That's right."

Hillerman again leaned back in his chair, gnawed on the end of his stogie, then threw the soggy mess into a trash can.

"Here's what we do." His voice was angry, pa.s.sionate. My heart was beating faster, my resolve growing stronger. "We report the living h.e.l.l out of this story. Henry," he said, "I want you to chase this down like a G.o.dd.a.m.n shark smelling blood. I want you to get Lou Carruthers's office on the line and get the NYPD's cooperation. Since you seem to have scooped them on this, they'll give you a big wet one in return for the intel. I want copy for tomorrow's national edition about both the stolen Winchester and link to Billy the Kid. Just imply there might be a relations.h.i.+p, I don't want anyone jumping to conclusions, but we need your museum manager to go on the record. You got me?"

"Absolutely," I said.

"Right. Parker, get yourself home and clean up. You look like you just got mugged in the Gobi desert or something. h.e.l.l of a f.u.c.king job, Henry."

"What about Paulina Cole's story?" I asked.

"f.u.c.k Cole," Hillerman said. "Good, honest, unbiased reporting beats out tabloid bulls.h.i.+t any day of the week. You give our readers something new about this case the Dispatch Dispatch doesn't have, Paulina can pen hatchet jobs until her cooch defrosts, we'll sell more newspapers. Now get to work."

Wallace and I were out the door before he could fish out another cigar.

29.

I got out of the subway and walked toward my apartment.

The last hour had been a whirlwind of debriefing, notes jotted down with the penmans.h.i.+p of someone born without opposable thumbs, and the sketches for what I knew would be a terrific and stunning article.

Jack filled me in on David Loverne's murder, which was nearly unbearable to listen to. I had to distance myself, look at the situation objectively, try not to think that the murdered man we were discussing had once hugged me, shook my hand, even told me he expected great things from me. Had things turned out differently, the man might have been my father-in-law.

I tried not to think about how it would leave Mya without a father.

I tried not to think about Paulina's article, written before Loverne's death. The two had to be related. I was still stunned by the audacity and hatred steaming from Paulina's article, but Wallace a.s.sured me that I would face no repercussions from Gazette management, and if need be they would defend me, management, and if need be they would defend me, publicly. I declined. They'd done enough of that already. After the debriefings, Wallace and I met with the Gazette' Gazette' s legal s legal team to draft a response for any reporters looking for a quote.189.

The letter was brief. It said that Paulina's story was careless and inflammatory, and any more attempts by this allegedly balanced news organization to libel without facts would be met with legal reprimands from the Gazette, Gazette, and moral reprimands from readers who wouldn't tolerate muckraking. and moral reprimands from readers who wouldn't tolerate muckraking.

That part was BS. Readers loved loved muckraking and, as much muckraking and, as much as it pained us, we knew Paulina's article would sell newspapers.

The details of David Loverne's murder were gruesome in both their brutality and efficiency.

After Paulina's story ran in the Dispatch, Dispatch, in which she in which she alleged that Loverne's history of infidelity would soon come to light, the press corps descended on the man's apartment building eager to take photographs of drawn curtains, berate cleaning ladies and doormen, and try to sc.r.a.pe up the sc.r.a.ps Paulina had left under the table. When a person was accused of wrongdoing, people didn't try very hard to photograph their good side.

Around five o'clock, Loverne left to attend a previously scheduled fund-raiser. He was swarmed by dozens of reporters. In what would be viewed as a colossal blunder, Loverne had no private security, and the elderly doorman was easily overmatched. As Loverne attempted to push his way through, a lone rifle shot shattered the commotion, blood splashed against the gla.s.s doors, and David Loverne died.

The photographers spent their entire rolls shooting Loverne's body, the blood pouring from his chest, as well as the rooftop where it seemed the shot had come from. Several photographers even tried to bully their way into that very building to either catch the culprit or take photographs of the crime scene before the police arrived. Thankfully that doorman was a former cop, realized what was going on and locked the doors.

190.

The shooter was long gone. But by the time the police arrived, hundreds of photos of Loverne's body were circulating among newsrooms, tabloids and the Internet.

I called Curt Sheffield to get the lowdown. He told me one of the investigating officers mentioned that another note had been left by the killer, but it was being kept quieter than a mouse fart. He didn't find it amusing when I asked him if he could hold a megaphone to the mouse's a.s.s to hear it better.

"Doesn't matter if I tell you," Curt said. "Guy's as vague as my little sister when I ask her how a date went."

"He didn't leave a note with Jeffrey Lourdes. Now he changes his tune and leaves one with David Loverne. This is my ex's father, father, man, cough it up." man, cough it up."

"Again," Curt said, "you use this before it's made public, I'll string you up to a lamppost. The note was just one line.

It read, 'Because I had the power.' That's it."

"'Because I had the power'? That's pretty vague. What's it mean?"

"You're the reporter," Curt replied. "You ask me, this guy's been watching too much David Lynch."

As soon as I hung up with Curt, I did a search for that quote, only adding "William H. Bonney" to the search field.

What came back was most certainly not vague.

In 1878, corrupt sheriff William Brady arrested Billy the Kid under the auspices of helping the Kid arrest John Tunstall's killers. When a reporter asked the lawman why he would arrest Bonney, a seemingly innocent man, Brady replied simply, "Because I had the power."

The connection was no longer a secret. This killer wanted us to know he had a foot in the past. The notes and public executions were garnering more media attention than anything I'd seen since coming to the city. Only not exactly in the way I expected.

191.

The country was captivated by these murders, and the obsession had grown with every shot. Internet sites receiving millions of hits a day were all but praising the murderer.

Paradis, many said, was single-handedly responsible for the downfall of popular culture, and, many said, morals and ethics, as well. David Loverne had long claimed to uphold traditional family values, only in reality he had more s.e.xual partners than the average Mormon. Mayor Perez--the intended target--another empty suit full of insincere promises. Jeffrey Lourdes, once a respected visionary, had been reduced to common gossip and s.m.u.t peddler.

I couldn't believe these att.i.tudes were so prevalent, that murder was being looked at by some as a reasonable means to an end. But they were. Somehow the man destroying lives was actually endearing endearing himself to the public, by eliminating himself to the public, by eliminating those deemed to be making our society ill. When I read those articles, shook my head at the stories, I knew what the link was. Why the man was killing who he did.

He was an avenger. A Regulator. Killing those who needed to be killed for the greater good.

Could there really be such a large portion of the population convinced that these murders were a good good thing? Was it thing? Was it just cynical ghouls who would never know what it was like to lose a daughter, a father, a husband? That the person committing these crimes was not someone to erect a statue for, but rather a gallows?

I thought about Rex. Something was still troubling me about our conversation, but in my rush to return to New York I hadn't been able to follow up. Before I left, he mentioned a name. Brushy Bill. It sounded familiar for some reason, and I made a mental note to follow up with Rex later on. I had a full night ahead of me. I wondered when Amanda would be 192.

home. I missed talking to her, and hoped to G.o.d that everything Jack told me the other day could be chalked up to the ramblings of an old, lonely man. That just because he was going to die alone didn't mean I would. Amanda had saved my life; was my life. And I wouldn't give that up without one h.e.l.l of a fight.

But then I rounded the corner to my apartment and saw the one thing I never expected to see. I stopped on a dime. Couldn't move. I didn't know what to do or what to say. Whether to go forward and confront it, or to turn and run. The anger inside me rose up, threatened to consume everything, but her tears, the misery etched on her face, they drowned it all out.

So when I saw Mya Loverne standing alone in front of my building, wearing an old sweats.h.i.+rt, her eyes bleary and red from crying, I didn't know whether to scream at her, or to gather her in my arms and tell her everything would be all right. Like I should have done the night she got hurt. Like I hadn't done for her since.

"Henry," she sobbed, taking a tentative step toward me. I couldn't move. All I could do was stare at the woman who'd shared my bed so many nights, whose hand I'd held and caressed, who just the other day had thrown me under a bus driven by Paulina Cole. A girl who had just lost her father to a heartless monster. I didn't know what to say to this girl. But then I found myself taking a step forward.

"Henry," she said again, the sobs now racking her small body. Mya looked like she'd lost at least twenty pounds since I'd last seen her, and she was a slim girl to begin with. She looked malnourished, pale, like she had given up on herself.

"Henry, I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to say all those things, they just happened. Henry, I'm so sorry. Please, my father, I don't know what to do."

193.

My heart broke as I watched this, this sh.e.l.l of my former love. I took another step toward her, and she did the same.

"My dad," she cried, her voice interrupted by staccato sobs, "my dad was killed. killed. Oh G.o.d, Henry, please say something." Oh G.o.d, Henry, please say something."

I took another step. I could feel her breath, caught the faint whiff of perfume sprayed on long ago and never washed off.

Her hair was a ragged mess, her eyes streaked and bloodshot.

"Mya, I'm so sorry for your father...I...he was a good person."

"I know know he was good," she shouted. "So why did he have to he was good," she shouted. "So why did he have to die?" She came toward me, didn't hesitate, and suddenly Mya was leaning against my chest. Not in an embrace, but for support.

There was no strength in her. If I moved she would collapse.

But I didn't move. I couldn't.

"Mya, I'm going to find this guy. I promise. I'm sorry for everything I've done, everything I did."

She looked up at me. Her eyes blinked twice. She sniffed.

"You told me you would always be there for me," she said.

My stomach burned as I drew in a breath. Then her eyes opened, I saw a fire in them, as she pounded her fists against my chest and screamed, "Where were you, Henry? Where were you when I lost everything? When my f.u.c.king father died? Where have you been? Where have you been? " "

She brought her fists down on my chest, punching me with no force behind the blows. Then I took her arms and held them.

"I'm going to help you," I said. "I'm going to help you get your life back together. You've always been one of the strongest people I've ever known, Mya. And you can come back.

You can do great things."

"I have n.o.body," Mya cried softly. "I lost you. I lost my father."

194.

"You didn't lose me," I said gently. "You didn't want me.

We weren't right together. You don't want me. You haven't for a long time. But I can help you. I will will help you." help you."