New Tricks (24 page)

“Detective, were there any fingerprints on the gun other than Steven Timmerman’s?”

“There were no fingerprints on the gun at all.”

I do a double take, as if I am surprised. “Not even Steven’s?”

“No,” he says. “The gun was wiped clean.”

“So your view is that he hid the gun in his own loft, in his own furniture, but wiped it clean so that it couldn’t be traced
back to him?”

“I can’t answer that,” he says.

“Can you think of any reason why he would do that?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

I nod agreeably. “Why don’t you spend some time thinking about it now? We’ll wait.”

Hatchet, it turns out, has no desire to wait, and he tells me to move on. So I do. “Detective, did you run a trace on the
gun, in an attempt to find out its history?”

“Yes. It was not in any database.”

“So the gun’s only connection to Steven Timmerman is that it was hidden in his loft?”

“The only connection that we could find,” he says.

“Okay, for Steven to have done this, he would have had to shoot his father in downtown Paterson, drive an hour or so to his
loft, and then hide the gun in the one place it could absolutely be traced back to him.”

“Your Honor, is there a question in there?” Richard asks.

“Would you like to try that as a question, Mr. Carpenter?” Hatchet asks. “That is the general procedure that we like to follow.”

I nod. “Thank you, Your Honor, I will. Detective, if Steven Timmerman was going to wipe the gun clean, and if it couldn’t
otherwise be traced to him, why not just leave it at the scene, or throw it into any garbage can between Paterson and New
York? Or throw it into the Passaic River? Or leave it anywhere except in his own loft?”

“I can’t know what was in his mind.”

“Then can you read the anonymous caller’s mind? Did he say how he knew where the gun was?”

“No.”

“Or why he called now?”

“No.”

“But he knew which piece of furniture it was hidden in?”

“He said the leg on the large table.”

“Does it bother you at all that you found the gun this way?”

To Manning’s credit, he doesn’t duck the question. “It would not be my first choice.”

I nod. “Thank you for that. Would you say that the anonymous caller, whoever he might be, wants Steven Timmerman to be found
guilty in this trial?”

“It would seem so,” Manning says.

“That’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“The person who wants Steven to spend the rest of his life in jail just happens to be the person whom Steven told exactly
where he hid the gun.”

I check my cell phone messages when court adjourns, and there is one from Sam telling me that he has found the DNA expert
to end all DNA experts. He’s a college professor, specializing in genetics. He teaches classes all day and does research at
night, so he’s going to bring him to the house early Monday morning before court, and I should call him if that doesn’t work.
It works fine, so I don’t bother calling.

When I get home, Laurie is on the phone talking and laughing with a friend from back in Findlay. That is happening with increasing
frequency, and I can’t say I’m thrilled with it. Pretty soon she’s going to want to talk and laugh with those creeps face-to-face,
which means she will leave here. That is a day I’m not looking forward to.

We decide to have pizza tonight, and because the smell of pizza always brings Marcus out into the light, I order five large
pies. More accurately, I let Laurie do the ordering, since on her pie she always wants a long list of toppings, all of which
are healthy. On the other side of the scale, Kevin can have no toppings at all, because every one ever invented sets off his
allergies.

I overhear Laurie doing the ordering, and to my horror I actually hear her get artichoke on her pizza. I believe in live and
let live, but there should absolutely be a law against artichoke pizza.

Kevin arrives at the same time as the pizza delivery man, and Marcus shows up thirty seconds later. We decide to postpone
our trial-day rehash until after dinner, and we dig right in on the pizza.

Marcus eating pizza is a sight to behold. He takes three slices at a time and lays one on top of the other, face-to-face,
with the third one in the middle. Then he eats it as a pizza sandwich, in maybe three bites.

Laurie, Kevin, and I don’t eat the crusts; instead we feed them to Tara and Waggy. But of course we wouldn’t dare suggest
that to Marcus. At least I wouldn’t.

After Marcus has had four such sandwiches, he stands up, a strange look on his face, and walks toward the back of the house.
He doesn’t say a word, which is not exactly a news event where Marcus is concerned.

“Where’s he going?” asks Kevin.

“Maybe he’s going hunting for more pizzas,” I say. “They’re in season.”

The three of us continue eating the cheese portion of the pizza and feeding the crusts to Tara and Waggy. Waggy tries to butt
in and get every piece, which clearly annoys Tara, but she’s too lady-like to do anything about it. She leaves it to us to
make sure she gets her fair share.

Marcus comes back holding what appears to be a hamburger in his hand. “Where’d you get that?” Laurie asks.

“I don’t think hamburger hunting season starts until September,” I say to Marcus. “I hope the game warden didn’t see you.”

Marcus puts the hamburger at the edge of the table. “Yard,” he says, which I assume means he found it in the yard. It takes
a moment for the significance of this to hit me, and during that same moment Waggy moves toward the burger.

“NNNNNNOOOOO!” I scream, as loud as I can, and I make a dive toward Waggy and the table. Waggy, forced to decide whether to
keep moving toward the hamburger, or to get out of the way of this screaming, middle-aged lunatic, makes the wise choice.
He backs away, huddled down toward the floor, fearful.

I grab the hamburger and, without thinking, run into the kitchen and throw it into the sink. By this time, everyone has followed
me into the kitchen, no doubt amazed at behavior that is bizarre, even by my standards.

“What is going on?” Laurie asks.

For the first time in my memory, I am more interested in talking to Marcus than Laurie. “That was in the yard?” I ask. “Just
lying there?”

He nods. “Yuh.”

“Did you hear anything? Is that what made you go outside?”

“Yuh,” he repeats. This conversation is moving right along.

“You think somebody threw it there?” Laurie asks, as it starts to dawn on her. “You think it could be poison?”

“You’d be amazed at how few hamburgers are thrown into my yard at night,” I say, which is another way for me to say yes.

“We need to get it tested,” Kevin says.

I call Pete Stanton, tell him that I am reporting a possible crime, and ask him to come out with a forensics team.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Somebody threw a hamburger into my backyard.”

“Those bastards,” he says. “I’m sending out a SWAT team, and I’ll tell them to bring ketchup.”

“I think they were trying to poison Waggy,” I say.

“Who the hell is Waggy?”

“Walter Timmerman’s dog. Trust me on this one, Pete. There are some things I haven’t told you about the Timmerman murder and
Jimmy Childs.”

“Are you going to tell me when I get there?”

“If I have to.”

“If you don’t, I’m not going to get there.”

I agree to tell him the story, and he’s there within twenty minutes with two officers and a forensics expert. Within fifteen
minutes, only Pete remains, and the hamburger has been taken away for a rush test.

“Okay,” Pete says after they’ve left. “Let’s hear it.”

I’m not sure why I haven’t told Pete that Childs had killed the Timmermans and been targeting Waggy; I guess it’s just a habit
for me to err on the side of not sharing information with anyone not on the defense team. But there’s nothing about any of
it that causes any additional jeopardy for Steven, and I’m not breaking a confidence, so I bring Pete up to date.

“Marcus is sure about this?” Pete says, directing the question at me even though Marcus is in the room. Pete has as much trouble
talking to Marcus as I do.

“Marcus is not involved in this in any way,” I say. “The anonymous caller who told me Childs was in the river sounded quite
sure, though.”

“But he didn’t say why Childs killed the Timmermans, or why he wanted to kill their dog?”

I shake my head. “No, he didn’t mention that.”

“Have you used your tremendous investigating skills to uncover the reason?”

“Not quite.”

He pauses a few moments to take this all in. “So your client is on trial for two murders, and not only do you know he’s innocent,
but you know who actually did it.”

“Yes,” I say.

“And you can’t do shit about it.”

“Not yet.”

He shakes his head in amazement at my predicament. “You know, I never thought I’d say this, but I actually feel sorry for
you.”

“That’s a great comfort.”

Laurie, Kevin, Pete, and I kick it around for another half an hour, accomplishing absolutely nothing. Pete’s cell phone rings,
and he answers it. “Stanton.”

He listens for a while, says “thanks,” and disconnects the call.

“Two ounces of pure arsenic. If the dog had eaten that, he’d have been dead inside of a minute.”

“Hatchet better rule in our favor,” I say. “We cannot let this dog leave this house.” I look over at the dog in question,
Waggy, who is chewing on a toy and doesn’t seem distressed by the goings-on.

But I sure as hell am.

I
T DOESN’T TAKE LONG
for my worry to prove justified. Even though it is Saturday, Hatchet issues a ruling on the court Web site directing me to
turn Waggy over to Robinson immediately. Robinson is hereby named Waggy’s custodian, though the ruling is deemed temporary,
and can be revisited at the conclusion of the Timmerman trial. Hatchet does not promise to reconsider his decision in the
event Steven is acquitted; he merely retains the right to do so.

Hatchet also directs that Waggy be housed at Pam Potter’s training facility for the first month, to be evaluated as to his
promise as a show dog. It seems to be a concession to me, but the ruling as a whole is a disaster.

Hatchet’s ruling also makes it clear that an appeal will be of no avail. He will not stay his ruling, which means that Waggy
will be with Robinson while the appeal is considered. This won’t exactly be a high-priority case for an appeals court, and
a decision could take months. With the danger Waggy is in, hours could be too long.

Kevin agrees to take Waggy to Potter’s facility, since I can’t bring myself to do so, and I tell him to ask for a tour when
he gets there, and to remember everything he can about the place.

“Why?” he asks.

“So that I can make sure Waggy’s well taken care of and safe,” I lie.

I go upstairs, where Waggy is hanging out with Tara. “Waggy,” I say, “you’re going somewhere with Kevin, but you won’t be
there long.”

Waggy seems happy enough about the turn of events, smiling all the while. Tara, however, is significantly wiser, and she stares
at me. It is not a trusting look.

“I’m telling you, it won’t be long.” If Tara is mollified, you can’t tell it by her stare. “What, you don’t believe me?”

She walks over and licks Waggy’s head, which I take as her way of telling me that Waggy is her friend, and nobody screws around
with Tara’s friend.

I have known Tara for eight years and have never lied to her, and right now, right this minute, she thinks I’m full of shit.

“Tara, he will be back here tomorrow night.”

“I’
M NOT GOING TO KIDNAP
W
AGGY
,”

I say to Laurie, Kevin, and Marcus.

“You called us here on Sunday morning to tell us that?” Kevin asks.

“Yes, but I would like to discuss, purely on a hypothetical basis, how it could be done if someone wanted to do it.”

“Hypothetically,” Laurie says.

I nod. “Yes. Perhaps we could then take the information and provide it to his new owner as a guide to how he can protect him
better.”