The Guilty - Jason Pinter [54]
made this country what it is today. Winchester made over
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seven hundred thousand of those darlin's back in the day.
Nowadays, a '73 in working condition goes for upward of six
figures on the open market."
"Bet it goes for even more on the closed market," I said.
The man winked at me, smirked.
"You'd probably be right there."
"Can't imagine the security you must have in place to
keep valuables like that. I mean, there must be a few million
dollars' worth of memorabilia here." The man bristled.
"We take the proper precautions," he said.
"Have you ever had a break-in? A robbery?"
The man took a split second too long to say, "Never."
"That Winchester," I said. "How long have you kept that
particular rifle in this museum?"
He took several seconds to say, "I reckon upward of ten
years."
"And you've never been robbed."
Finally he took a step back, eyed me suspiciously. "Mind
if I ask what you're asking all these questions fer?"
"I'm sorry," I said. I reached into my bag, pulled out the
tape recorder and notepad first, and then my press identification. "Henry Parker. Pleasure to meet you. I'm a reporter
with the New York Gazette. And I don't think that Winchester in your case is authentic. In fact, I'm willing to bet the gun
that's supposed to be in that case is the same one used in three
recent murders in New York this past week."
The blood drained from the man's face, and his jaw
dropped just a bit. "Murders, you're sayin'? I read something
in the papers, that pretty blond girl..."
"Athena Paradis," I said.
"She was killed by a--" he nodded his head toward the
Winchester case "--model '73?"
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Jason Pinter
I said nothing, turned on the tape recorder. "That's a replica
Winchester in your case, isn't it? Where's the original?"
"I'd like you to leave right now."
"If your Winchester was stolen, I need to know now. We
need to alert the authorities in New York. More lives are in
danger. Someone is using your gun and--"
"I don't know anything about that," he said, and picked up
the phone. I had seconds before he called the cops and I was
done. I looked at the nameplate. It read Rex Sheehan.
"Rex," I said. His eyes met mine. "Even if you call the
cops, at the very least they'll want to run tests on the gun. If
you tell me now, at least we can try to keep some people
alive." Rex put down the phone. He bowed his head and
crossed himself.
"I wanted to tell someone," he said solemnly. "But we
don't have the money for security. We're not a governmentfunded museum like that fancy one down at New Mexico
State. We get by on donations. And if you look around, I don't
need to tell you we're not exactly the Met here."
"So somebody broke in and stole the gun," I said. "Did
they steal anything else?"
He shook his head. His lip trembled. I felt sorry for him.
"Please don't tell anyone this," he said. "If people find out
we're displaying a fake they'll just stop coming altogether.
Besides, it doesn't really matter, does it? If people think it's
real, who gets hurt?"
"There are three dead people in New York who can answer
that better than me."
Rex bowed his head.
"But it still doesn't add up," I said. "1873 Winchesters are
a rare model, but not extinct, right?"
"No, there's a few still out there. Collectors, mostly."
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"So why come all the way out to Fort Sumner, New
Mexico? Why would someone rob a museum when there had
to be easier ways?"
Again Rex said nothing.
"Tell me about the gun," I said. "It's not just a model 1873,
is it? There's something else." The man nodded.
"The gun that was stolen," he sobbed, "the one you're
saying was used in those murders, well it belonged to William
H. Bonney. Most people know him as Billy the Kid."
25
Paulina Cole wrote long into the night.
She wrote until the other offices at the Dispatch were dark,
until her colleagues had long ago gone home and surrendered to the comfort of a glass of wine and their inviting beds.
She sewed together the interview like a trained surgeon, connecting arteries,