Flesh And Blood. Caroline Burnes

      Chapter Three

      If Nathan’s unexpected theory gave me a rope to cling to in the free-fall of my life, then the morning ride we shared gave me the energy to pursue his idea. The buckskin mare, Lucinda, was as good and solid as any horse could be. My rusty horsemanship improved after a few miles, and when we returned to Ravenwood, I actually felt as if I wanted to live.

      Nathan left on Frisco, with Lucinda following behind. Duty called, and his reenactment forces were awaiting his command. My own duties called me, and I took a cross-stitch hoop to Mary Quinn’s bedroom to see if she might honor me with a visit.

      The cross-stitch was an attempt to learn patience, never a strong suit in my character. In one of her often-repeated lectures my mother warned that if I went to hell I’d harangue Satan to light the fires faster. There was some truth to what she said. After the first three minutes I’d pricked my finger twice. Blood had gotten on the pristine whiteness of the cloth and I was ready to pitch the entire thing out the window. So much for demurely conjuring up Mary Quinn. What I did accomplish was a lot of thinking. And I made a decision. Jackson was only an hour away, at the most. I’d drive over there and look at the police reports.

      By one o’clock, I was standing at Sergeant Benjamin Vesley’s desk. Once again my brother the lawyer had pulled some strings for me. Sergeant Vesley hadn’t handled the original case, but he said he’d look up the reports for me and go over them. He talked about unsolved crimes and the shame of it and how the human race was going to hell. He was a man who would have made a wonderful grandfather, but constant exposure to the worst of human nature had made him tired and weary. He was not hopeful that the police report would yield anything.

      He left me alone at his desk with the papers. I think he sensed the difficulty I was experiencing. I read the statements of the officers, the evidence of the fingerprints, the procedural reports. The words “died instantly” had once brought me some comfort. Now they were cold and meant only a permanent separation.

      The statements of the two investigating officers were exactly as I’d expected. The woman Frank had tried to assist was incoherent. She didn’t see or remember anything except that the robbers were hurting her and a man had tried to help and they had killed him.

      There were photos of the store that showed the outline of Frank’s body. The blood had not been removed. The eyewitness account of the other customer in the store was also filled with shock and horror and no specifics.

      Robert Mason’s report was the longest. I saved it for last. I had been in the liquor store once since the shooting. I’d gone to show Robert I didn’t blame him. We had both stood there and cried like babies in front of several customers. Emotionally, it was too hard on us both, so I stopped going there.

      Robert’s report was clear and detailed. He described the men. He heard the one in the leather jacket referred to as Diamond. I found a scratch pad on Sergeant Vesley’s desk and began to make notes. Diamond had dark hair pulled back at the nape of his neck in a ponytail. Though he wore a ski mask, his eyes were visible. They were an intense blue. The other robber was younger, with a smaller frame. Diamond had shot Frank. It was Robert’s feeling that they might have been under the influence of some type of drug.

      After he covered the details of what was said and done, Robert made a special point about the gun. It was a .357 revolver. I had to read this part of the report twice because I didn’t fully understand. “No robber in his right mind comes in with a piece like that. It was an antique. These guys acted like professionals, but the killer had this cowboy six-shooter.”

      Robert had been in the army and knew a lot about guns. He’d tried to get me to take shooting lessons and buy one for protection in the house. Since the information about the gun was the only thing I’d learned new, I wrote it all down verbatim. The ballistics report was beyond my comprehension, and I didn’t need to read the autopsy to determine the cause of death. I stacked up the reports and went to thank Sergeant Vesley. He was waiting for me with a cup of coffee and a kindly smile.

      “It’s been two years,” he said. “Why now?”

      “I don’t know.” I couldn’t tell him I was being haunted. “Maybe it’s the last step in putting it all behind me.”

      “I hope so, Mrs. Devlin. I’d hate to see you turn into one of those people who avoid life by burying themselves in the details of death.”

      “Thank you, Sergeant.”

      Since I was downtown, I decided to stop by the liquor store and talk with Robert. The store had changed. Burglar bars had been installed over the windows and doors, and there was a buzzer system to announce the arrival of customers. Even through the bars and glass I could see that Robert had changed as much as I. Threads of gray ran through his hair. He was older, more cautious. He buzzed me in with a wary look.

      “Emma!”

      Before I knew what had happened, I was engulfed in a bear hug. “I’ve been thinking about you for the past month. I’d just wake up in the middle of the night with this uneasy feeling. Martha said I should call and check on you, but I didn’t want to resurrect any bad memories.”

      “You wouldn’t have, Robert. I’ve been thinking about you, too. I wanted to talk to you.”

      He went to the front door, locked it, flipped the sign to Closed and pulled the shade. “What can I do for you?” He signaled me into the storage room where he kept a small office complete with an extra chair.

      “I just read the police report on Frank’s death. You were adamant about the type of gun the killer used.”

      Robert’s dark gaze locked with mine. He twisted the right side of his mustache. “What are you up to, Emma?”

      “There are things about Frank’s death that trouble me. I wanted to check them out, to draw my own conclusions. Then, maybe…”

      “You can get on with your life.” He nodded. “There are things that trouble me, too.”

      “What was it about the gun?”

      “Wait a minute and I’ll show you.” He left the room and returned in a moment with a pistol. He snapped a piece from the handle and held it out. “This is a clip. Automatic. Shoots very fast. The night Frank was killed, the killer had a revolver. You know, the gun with a round cylinder that rotates to put the bullet in the chamber. Reloading with a revolver is much harder than with an automatic. In an automatic, the bullet is already in position and it moves up through spring action. Most criminals just carry pre-loaded clips. When one is empty, they pop it out and put in another clip.”

      What he said made sense, to an extent. “Maybe that was the only gun he had.”

      “I just don’t understand it. It was a really fine gun. A Smith & Wesson, blue steel, hand-carved grip. An antique. Killers like those punks wouldn’t carry a piece because of its aesthetic value or the history of it. He could have sold that piece and made enough to buy several automatics. Most times killers drop the piece anyway. They want something cheap.”

      He had a point. “Was there anything else? What about the man with the gun? Did he