Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [82]
‘‘Think they had enough weapons?’’ I asked, as much to myself as her.
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘You know,’’ I said, ‘‘if I were living on the extreme right, I’d be considered a patriot by my associates, right?’’
‘‘Sure.’’
‘‘Yet I buy mostly foreign weapons? Mostly Communist-manufactured military rifles?’’
‘‘Cheap.’’
‘‘Sure. Well, except for that Dragunov. But wouldn’t you wonder why the Communist countries were dumping assault rifles on the U.S. market, at one-tenth the price of U.S. rifles?’’
‘‘Well, yeah. I would.’’
‘‘So,’’ I asked, ‘‘why don’t they?’’
She thought a second. ‘‘Dumb?’’
Maybe, maybe not. Dumb would be a comfort. But I thought I had a kernel of an approach to William Stritch. If I could only talk to him. In the meantime, we had other things to do. Or, at least, wonder about.
The first thing was why they’d shot poor Rumsford in the first place. We sure as hell didn’t know, so we decided we’d better talk to Nancy Mitchell again. We got her that afternoon at 1325. She came to the office. I was kind of glad to see her, because I’d been feeling very bad about Rumsford. Irrational, I know, but it was almost like I’d sent him to his death.
We started out by explaining to her that, if we could figure out why he’d been shot, we might be able to get a handle on who had done it. She was very helpful, considering.
‘‘I don’t have any idea why,’’ she said. ‘‘I’d love to help, but I just don’t know. God knows I’ve thought about it.’’ She glanced out the window, toward the media people who were gathered in the lot, and who were resenting her having access to us at this juncture. ‘‘How’s the rest of it coming?’’
Now, with a media type, you just don’t know how to answer that. After all, she did represent a newspaper. But then, she’d had her partner killed in front of her eyes, and with our encouragement, more or less.
‘‘You’re gonna hate this,’’ I said. ‘‘But it’s really too early to tell. Honest.’’
‘‘Okay.’’ She absently rubbed the knees of her beige slacks. ‘‘I’ve done the story about Phil, you know.’’
‘‘Sure,’’ said Hester. ‘‘That was part of the deal, I guess.’’
‘‘I was careful not to give up anything I felt that you’d need.’’ Nancy looked around the office. ‘‘But I did say that they ‘appear to be right-wing extremists.’ I hope that was all right.’’
‘‘Hard to escape,’’ I said.
‘‘You know,’’ she said, ‘‘I’ve always wanted to do a bit on them. Just never got around to it.’’
Hester sat back in her chair, clasping her hands behind her head. ‘‘All I want to know,’’ she said, very slowly, ‘‘is why in hell somebody would shoot the person they requested. The very one who was to be their public voice.’’ She looked at both of us. ‘‘Why would somebody do that?’’
‘‘They probably wouldn’t,’’ said Nancy.
‘‘Either of you see anything that would have indicated to anybody in the house that he was a cop?’’ I asked.
They both shook their heads.
‘‘If I remember correctly,’’ said Hester, ‘‘Mrs. Stritch was having some sort of a conversation with somebody in the house . . .’’
‘‘Yes,’’ said Nancy. ‘‘She was talking to them just as Phil was talking to her.’’
‘‘No,’’ I said. ‘‘Not really a conversation. At least not to me. More like they told her something.’’
‘‘Right,’’ said Hester. She put her foot back down and leaned forward. ‘‘And then she disappeared inside the house.’’
‘‘And then they shot Phil,’’ said Nancy.
‘‘So,’’ I asked nobody in particular, ‘‘is it safe to assume that they said either ‘Get out of the way’ or ‘We got him now’?’’
‘‘Something like that,’’ said Hester.
‘‘So the question is,’’ I said, ‘‘whether it was an announcement to her of something she hadn’t been aware of, or whether it was a confirmation of intentions known to her prior to the shooting.’’
Hester gave me that sort of squinty look. ‘‘You like to simplify that?’’
‘‘Yeah. Did she know in advance?’’
‘‘I don’t think so,’’ said Nancy.
‘‘Why,’’ said Hester.
‘‘I don’t know. Wait till I get my pictures