ashtray.
He said, “Well, Red, you called this meeting. You’ve got our attention. What’s on your mind?”
The sheriff cleared his throat. “You know, I hired Wayne to serve as a detective for the department.” He said it almost as an apology.
“So?”
“So, he’s been doing some detective work out at your fishing camp, Huff, and there are facts relating to Danny’s suicide that aren’t sitting right with him.”
Huff shifted his gaze to the young deputy. “Like what?”
Wayne Scott scooted forward in his seat until he was practically perched on the edge of it, as though he’d been anxiously awaiting his turn to speak. “The shotgun that killed him—”
“Shotgun?” Sayre exclaimed.
When Beck told her that Danny had died of a gunshot wound to the head, she had assumed it was a handgun. She didn’t have an encyclopedic knowledge of firearms, but she definitely knew the difference between a pistol and a shotgun, as well as the damage each was capable of inflicting.
Depending on the caliber and trajectory, a bullet fired point-blank from a pistol into a person’s head would be lethal and certainly messy. But nothing compared to the damage to a human skull that a shotgun shell would cause.
“Yes, ma’am,” the detective said solemnly. “He didn’t stand a chance of surviving.”
Beck said tersely, “Maybe you should get to the point.”
“Well, Mr. Merchant, my point is this. The victim still had his shoes on.”
For several moments they all continued to stare at him with misapprehension. Huff reacted first. “I don’t know what the hell you’re up to, but—”
“Hold on.” Beck raised his hand to silence Huff, but he was looking at Scott. “I think I understand Deputy Scott’s confusion.”
Chris, tugging on his lower lip, nodded. “He’s wondering how Danny pulled the trigger.”
Scott vigorously bobbed his head. “That’s correct. I investigated a suicide by shotgun one time over in Carthage. East Texas? Anyhow, the man pulled the trigger with his big toe.” He glanced contritely at Sayre. “Forgive me, Ms. Hoyle, for talking so straightforward about—”
“I’m not going to faint. And by the way, my name is Lynch.”
“Oh, sorry. I thought—”
“That’s all right. Please go on.”
His eyes darted around the circle of faces watching him. “Well, I was about to say that everything with Mr. Hoyle’s apparent suicide is consistent with that other case. Except it keeps nagging at me how he managed to pull the trigger.
“It’d be a real trick to do, considering the length of the barrels and—Oh, that’s another thing that’s got me stumped. This weapon was a side-by-side double-barrel, and both barrels were loaded. Now, if you’re planning to shoot yourself in the head with a shotgun, why would you bother to load both barrels? You’d hardly need that second shell.”
No one ventured a comment or an answer. Red Harper cleared his throat again. “Do you recall the last time you saw that particular shotgun, Huff? I don’t see an empty space in your gun cabinet there.”
He nodded toward the corner cabinet with the glass doors. Huff owned an array of firearms, including several handguns, deer rifles, and a shotgun used for bird hunting. All were on display.
“That was an old gun. None of us liked it. We retired it, so to speak. Kept it out at the fishing camp for emergencies. I don’t know when it was last fired.”
“I do.”
Everyone’s attention shifted to Chris. Judging by his characteristic insouciance, they could have been discussing anything—a missing glove, or the weather. Nothing as significant as the weapon that had killed his brother.
“One weekend—it was about three months ago, wasn’t it, Beck?” Beck nodded. “The two of us spent the night out there. Late that night, Frito started going crazy. We went outside to see what had stirred him up and spotted a bobcat. Beck fired the shotgun into the air twice just to scare it off.
He said, “Well, Red, you called this meeting. You’ve got our attention. What’s on your mind?”
The sheriff cleared his throat. “You know, I hired Wayne to serve as a detective for the department.” He said it almost as an apology.
“So?”
“So, he’s been doing some detective work out at your fishing camp, Huff, and there are facts relating to Danny’s suicide that aren’t sitting right with him.”
Huff shifted his gaze to the young deputy. “Like what?”
Wayne Scott scooted forward in his seat until he was practically perched on the edge of it, as though he’d been anxiously awaiting his turn to speak. “The shotgun that killed him—”
“Shotgun?” Sayre exclaimed.
When Beck told her that Danny had died of a gunshot wound to the head, she had assumed it was a handgun. She didn’t have an encyclopedic knowledge of firearms, but she definitely knew the difference between a pistol and a shotgun, as well as the damage each was capable of inflicting.
Depending on the caliber and trajectory, a bullet fired point-blank from a pistol into a person’s head would be lethal and certainly messy. But nothing compared to the damage to a human skull that a shotgun shell would cause.
“Yes, ma’am,” the detective said solemnly. “He didn’t stand a chance of surviving.”
Beck said tersely, “Maybe you should get to the point.”
“Well, Mr. Merchant, my point is this. The victim still had his shoes on.”
For several moments they all continued to stare at him with misapprehension. Huff reacted first. “I don’t know what the hell you’re up to, but—”
“Hold on.” Beck raised his hand to silence Huff, but he was looking at Scott. “I think I understand Deputy Scott’s confusion.”
Chris, tugging on his lower lip, nodded. “He’s wondering how Danny pulled the trigger.”
Scott vigorously bobbed his head. “That’s correct. I investigated a suicide by shotgun one time over in Carthage. East Texas? Anyhow, the man pulled the trigger with his big toe.” He glanced contritely at Sayre. “Forgive me, Ms. Hoyle, for talking so straightforward about—”
“I’m not going to faint. And by the way, my name is Lynch.”
“Oh, sorry. I thought—”
“That’s all right. Please go on.”
His eyes darted around the circle of faces watching him. “Well, I was about to say that everything with Mr. Hoyle’s apparent suicide is consistent with that other case. Except it keeps nagging at me how he managed to pull the trigger.
“It’d be a real trick to do, considering the length of the barrels and—Oh, that’s another thing that’s got me stumped. This weapon was a side-by-side double-barrel, and both barrels were loaded. Now, if you’re planning to shoot yourself in the head with a shotgun, why would you bother to load both barrels? You’d hardly need that second shell.”
No one ventured a comment or an answer. Red Harper cleared his throat again. “Do you recall the last time you saw that particular shotgun, Huff? I don’t see an empty space in your gun cabinet there.”
He nodded toward the corner cabinet with the glass doors. Huff owned an array of firearms, including several handguns, deer rifles, and a shotgun used for bird hunting. All were on display.
“That was an old gun. None of us liked it. We retired it, so to speak. Kept it out at the fishing camp for emergencies. I don’t know when it was last fired.”
“I do.”
Everyone’s attention shifted to Chris. Judging by his characteristic insouciance, they could have been discussing anything—a missing glove, or the weather. Nothing as significant as the weapon that had killed his brother.
“One weekend—it was about three months ago, wasn’t it, Beck?” Beck nodded. “The two of us spent the night out there. Late that night, Frito started going crazy. We went outside to see what had stirred him up and spotted a bobcat. Beck fired the shotgun into the air twice just to scare it off.
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