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“They hid it in plain sight,” she said. “I guess they figured nobody but Chet would ever know the difference, and that he wasn’t coming home. I only noticed it because it had some talcum powder on it.”
“Maybe it’ll have some fingerprints on it,” Jackson said.
“They haven’t left a print anywhere else; I doubt they’ll start with this.” She handed it to him. “I guess you’d better send it to your client, if you ever hear from him again.”
“You don’t have any further need of it in your investigation?”
“Nope. It’s not material.”
Jackson walked out into the backyard and threw the pistol as far out into the river as he could, then he came back. “That’s the last of that,” he said. “Well, looks like we’ve gotten just about everything unpacked. Ham, you want to go out for some dinner with us?”
“Thanks, Jackson, but I think I’ll pick up some groceries and just be by myself tonight; get used to the place.”
“Okay, Ham,” Holly said, and kissed him on the cheek. “Have a good evening in your new place, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
They got into Jackon’s car and drove away. “I hope he’s going to be okay out here by himself,” she said.
“He looks pretty self-sufficient to me,” Jackson replied.
“Yes, he is that.”
The following morning she sat down in Jane Grey’s office. “Jane, I’ve got some good news for you: Chet had some insurance, and he left half of it to you. It’s fifty thousand dollars.”
Tears welled up in Jane’s eyes, and she seemed unable to speak.
Holly patted her on the shoulder, then went back to her office to collect her thoughts. Ten minutes later she walked into the squad room and yelled for everybody’s attention. The room was packed with officers and clerical workers, and as she began to speak, she saw John Westover walk in.
“I guess you’ve all heard by now that Chief Marley died yesterday,” she said. “I’ve learned that he requested that his body be cremated and his ashes scattered on the river next to his house. That’s being taken care of today. He also had requested that there be no funeral or service, so I guess this meeting will be the closest thing to a memorial service that he’ll have. Anybody have any questions or want to say anything?”
A young officer at the back of the room spoke up. “Did the chief die without ever waking up?”
“He woke up for a short while a couple of weeks ago, then slipped back into the coma. I talked with him briefly, and he wasn’t able to remember anything about the shooting or anything else that would help the investigation.”
A young female officer raised her hand. “I think we ought to have some sort of memorial for the chief around here,” she said.
“Stacy,” Holly replied, “that’s an excellent idea. Why don’t you take charge of that? Ask around and see if anybody has a good idea of what sort of memorial it should be, and then you can take up a collection. I’ll start it with a hundred dollars, and the rest of you can give whatever you feel you can manage.”
John Westover spoke up. “I think I can persuade the council to contribute a thousand dollars to such a memorial.”
“Then we’re off to a good start,” Holly said. “Jimmy,” she called to Weathers, “will you go stand guard at the door while you listen? I don’t want anybody coming in here while I’m talking about this.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m going to bring you all up to date on our investigation so far, because I think that’s the best way to get every man’s and woman’s maximum contribution to solving these two murders. I don’t want you to discuss any of this with anybody who’s not in this room right now—not your wives, girlfriends, or boyfriends, not anybody. Here’s what I’ve surmised from what we’ve learned: it appears the chief met with someone who was supposed to give him some information on an investigation he was conducting himself. We don’t know what the investigation was about. There was a fight, some blows were exchanged, and the chief was shot. He may have tried to draw his weapon, because one of his murderers—we think there were two—threw his pistol over a fence into the brush, where it was recovered the next day.
“The chief was shot with a thirty-two Smith and Wesson that had been stolen from the house of Lieutenant Wallace’s ex-wife some time before and probably sold on the street, maybe more than once. The murderers then took the chief’s notebook and the shotgun from his car, went to Hank Doherty’s house, somehow got his dog, Daisy, locked in the kitchen, then shot Hank with the shotgun. They searched the place, then they went to the chief’s house and searched that.
“The murderer was clearly not the man we first arrested for the crime. He owned a thirty-two of a different make.” She turned to Bob Hurst. “Bob, you have anything to add to that?”
“No, chief,” Hurst said. “That about sums it up.”
“Any questions?”
Jimmy Weathers raised his hand. “What were they searching for at the two houses?”
“I think they believed that the chief had made some notes on the investigation he was conducting. They were looking for the notes, and that’s why they took his notebook. Any other questions?”
Nobody spoke.
