said, “Bigger entry and exit holes, more tearing and ripping, more extensive powder burns on the hands and temple.”
“So when Harlan fired, he looked something like this?” Oliver made a gun with his fingers, extended his arm from his shoulder, then flexed his wrist so that his fingers were pointing back to his temple. “What’s this, guys? About three feet?”
“Anyone have a measuring tape?” Marge asked.
Decker pulled one from his desk, gave it to Marge.
Marge measured. “Thirty-seven inches. Bend your elbow a little bit, Scotty.”
Oliver complied, his elbow making a hundred-and-fifty-degree angle. “Now I’m pointing over my head.”
“So lower your arm.” Martinez got up, positioned Oliver as if he were a Gumby. “There. About like this. That looks like two and a half feet.”
Marge measured. “Thirty-one inches to be exact.”
Webster said, “Now point to your head.”
Oliver did so, maintained the pose. They stared at him.
Marge said, “Might be me, but I think he looks awkward.”
Martinez said, “He looks ridiculous. You want to pop yourself, you put the gun to your temple. You don’t hold it two feet away.”
Marge said, “You know, I could understand someone holding the gun away from his head if he had doubts or wasn’t used to a firearm. Almost like an avoidance thing.”
“Maybe at a little distance,” Martinez said. “But not in the position Scotty’s in. Unless you like contorting.”
“Maybe he had short arms,” Marge suggested.
“Not that short,” Martinez answered.
“Could it have been a misfire?” Oliver asked.
Martinez made a face. “You mean he was aiming for someone and caught himself in the head?”
“No. I mean the gun just accidentally went off.”
“Catching him square in the temple?” Marge was dubious.
“Excuses, excuses.” Webster shook his head. “Why aren’t we saying what we’re all thinkin’?”
“Two shooters,” Oliver said.
“Just what you said yesterday, Loo,” Marge said.
Oliver said, “You did?”
Decker replied, “I was looking over some of the victims’ autopsy reports. Some of the bullet trajectories were inconsistent with a one-killer theory.”
“And you didn’t like the number of bullets we recovered.”
“A lot for one shooter,” Webster said. “Even for someone using a double automatic. What did we recover? Something like two hundred bullets?”
Martinez said, “Two killers means Estelle’s was planned.”
Oliver said, “What do you mean by planned, Bert?”
“Harlan went into Estelle’s with the intention of killing someone specific. He and his cohort masked it by popping others. Like putting a bomb in an airplane to collect insurance.”
“A hit gone bad,” Marge said. “If so, next step is to figure out who the intended target was.”
Webster said, “So y’all take a look at the victims.”
Decker said, “We need to look at the victims who might have crossed paths with Harlan in other capacities.”
Marge reached into her oversized purse and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Which brings us up to date with my current assignment. Discovering which victims—if any—belonged to Greenvale Country Club.”
“What’s this?” Webster asked.
Decker filled them in on Harlan’s job at the country club, on his conversation with Barry Fine, and on yesterday’s brainstorming with Marge. “Harlan Manz worked at Greenvale about two years ago. You know how snobs can be. Treating the hired help as nonentities. I was trying to determine if Harlan had a long-standing grudge against one of the restaurant’s victims.”
Oliver said, “Deck, if a grudge from Greenvale was the motive behind Estelle’s shooting, why didn’t Harlan shoot up the club?”
“Maybe security was too tight. Look, I don’t know any more than you do. But something’s hinky here.”
Oliver asked, “So you’re thinking that one of Estelle’s victims offended Harlan at the club and at the restaurant. And that’s why he went batshit?”
Decker said, “Just trying to find a connection.”
Marge asked, “Maybe you’d like to hear if there are any connections?”
Decker laughed. “We’re going on with these flights of fancy and we don’t even have facts. What do you have?”
Marge settled herself. “Okay. Table number twenty-two: People there were from Ashman/Reynard. A Realtor named Wendy Culligan was pitching to a bunch of Japanese businessmen. Some of the businessmen were murdered, but she survived … which made my job of asking questions a lot easier. The firm is a corporate member of Greenvale. Has been for the fifteen years since the club opened.”
“Is she a member?” Oliver asked.
“Through her business. Wendy’s been at the club maybe six times … goes there for power lunches. Theoretically, she could have crossed paths with Harlan.”
Oliver said, “But she’s still alive, Margie. She obviously wasn’t the target of a hit.”
Webster said, “Or maybe Harlan missed.”
“So what does Greenvale have to do with a bunch of Japanese businessmen who probably never set foot inside its doors?” Martinez asked.
Marge shrugged. “Well, they were making deals with Ashman/Reynard, Bert. Maybe Harlan was resentful of some of the realtors. So maybe he was trying to screw up the agency or block the deal.”
Decker wrote as he spoke. “What else do we have?”
Marge said, “Then we have Walter Skinner, the actor. He was also a member of Greenvale.”
Martinez said, “Now that was a real shame. I used to love him in High Mountain. Anybody remember that show?”
“Yo,” Oliver said. “Saturday morning, ten o’clock.”
“You coulda set your watch by me, I was that loyal a viewer,” Martinez said. “Remember the stampedes? Each episode had at least one stampede. All that sand and dirt and stomping hooves. Scared the shit outta me when
