EQMM, Sep-Oct 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Right, Ray. What did you hear?"

  "Heard the shots, man. Two of ‘em, real loud."

  "You didn't have a look?"

  He shrugged. “I'm taking a leak, man. Anyway, I thought it was firecrackers."

  Everybody always thought gunshots were firecrackers, Ennis thought. And vice versa. Funny how that worked.

  "Anything else?"

  "Just people talking. Somebody laughed. Then, pop, pop."

  "Jackman was talking to someone? Man or woman?"

  He shrugged. “I don't know. Coulda been a woman. Didn't sound like anybody was mad or scared or anything. Like I said, he laughed. That's why I thought it was firecrackers."

  "What were they saying?"

  Ray thought about it, shook his head. “I dunno. Just voices."

  "What about after? See a car leave?"

  Ray studied the ground, perhaps now regretting coming forward.

  "No, no car. I woulda seen that."

  * * * *

  The undersheriff from Libby was a guy Ennis knew only from anecdotes: Brian Hallstrom, who would also be acting as coroner tonight. He'd only been with the department a couple of months. Word was, he had been a hotshot homicide detective in San Diego. Then, like so many of Montana's newer residents, he had sold his overpriced bungalow in California and used the proceeds to buy a twenty-acre ranchette here in Big Sky country, five-bedroom log home, outbuildings, and everything. Now he was living the dream, hunting and fly-fishing, and occasionally showing up for work at the Kootenai County Sheriff's Department. His pay would be a quarter of what he'd made in San Diego, Ennis guessed, but then the same thing could be said of the job stress.

  Hallstrom strode in, followed by two deputies whose eyes widened when they beheld the dead man on the floor. Both in their twenties; they could well be encountering their first homicide. Hallstrom was arrayed in fringed buckskin jacket, big tan Stetson tilted back on his head, long blond hair flowing back past the collar of a sky-blue snap-button shirt. Ennis stared: The look was one part Ralph Lauren, two parts George Armstrong Custer—it was probably just an oversight that Hallstrom did not have a pearl-handled revolver strapped to each hip. He also sported a little gold neck chain and deep, even tan. Ennis knew of only one way to stay that brown this late in October, and it wasn't through honest toil on a riverside ranchette.

  "Nice job securing the crime scene here, deputy,” Hallstrom said. He was chewing gum, surveying the room without appearing to move his head. “What, you sell tickets or something? Half the town out there, every one of ‘em probably got blood on their goddamned shoes. Jesus."

  "Karaoke night,” Ennis said. “Everybody was here when it happened, and I'm only one guy."

  Hallstrom shook his head.

  "Bunch of hayseeds."

  Ennis opened his mouth, closed it, suppressed an urge to shoot the guy. Instead he reached out to touch the fringe of Hallstrom's jacket. “Is that real leather?"

  * * * *

  Ennis was out by the Escalade, getting useless statements from a few more of the dwindling crowd of karaoke patrons, when his radio crackled again. “Man with a gun at Last Chance Bar. Subject is very 10-51, threatening to kill somebody. Bartender requests an officer."

  It was turning into quite the festive evening. One of the Libby uniforms, Janet Salisbury, was listening. “Gun? You want me to go with you?"

  Hallstrom had emerged from the bar and was talking to Wick and his friends. The other deputy had been following him around with a Nikon digital camera and was still taking pictures of everything in sight, now including a couple of laughing girls who pantomimed lifting up their tops.

  Salisbury spoke with Hallstrom, who waved her off. “Go on, I'll finish up here. If we ever get a goddamned ambulance here, I'm gonna call it a night."

  * * * *

  The Last Chance Bar was seven miles north, right up against the border station. There were only two vehicles in the parking lot when Ennis and Salisbury drove up. Their headlights illuminated a short, stocky woman leaning against a battered Toyota pickup, smoking a cigarette. She lifted a hand in greeting.

  "He still here?” Ennis said.

  She shrugged. “Yeah, but I haven't heard anything for a while. Surprised you guys showed up, tell you the truth. Couple weeks ago I had this Canuck, went crazy and started punching the keno machines. Just beating the hell out of them. I called and couldn't get nobody out here then."

  Janell Rector was a little shy of five feet, had short brown hair and biceps that would shame a good share of the mill workers in town. If she was nervous about the guy inside with the gun, she didn't look it. Ennis knew she had once flattened a logger twice her size with an aluminum softball bat she kept behind the bar. He hadn't heard about the crazy Canadian, but he felt a flash of sympathy for the guy.

  He nodded at the door. “So who is it?"

  "The gunslinger? One of the Winnett brothers. Roy."

  Ennis blinked. “Married to Alana?"

  Janell gave him a thin smile. “You heard, too, huh? Don't know how much longer that's gonna last, though. Doesn't sound like reconciliation is in the cards. He said something about shooting her."

  "When did he get here?"

  She didn't have to think about it. “Right at ten.” She looked at her watch. “He's been here an hour, but didn't haul out his pistol until just a little bit ago. Knew I should have cut him off of that whiskey."

  Ennis rubbed his chin. He'd gotten the call to Westy's at ten-thirty, which couldn't have been more than five minutes after the shooting. “He came in at ten? You sure? Had to have been a little later."

  She shook her head. “Nope. I watch Law & Order and it comes on at ten. It was just starting when Roy came in. It was one I hadn't seen, too."

  "Janell, I think Roy shot a guy at Westy's, couldn't have been earlier than ten-fifteen. So you've gotta be wrong."

  Her eyes widened. “Shot a guy? Who? Don't tell me..."

  He nodded. “Dean Jackman. I got the call right after...."

  Her brow furrowed as she took a drag on the cigarette. “Ten-fifteen? Couldn't have been Roy, then. I told you: He was here before that and he's been here since. Or, those numb-nuts at Westy's took their time making the call."

  The folks at Westy's had conflicted about a lot of things, but all agreed that the bartender had called 911 right after the shooting, and Ennis was in no doubt about when he'd heard from dispatch.

  "Anyway,” Janell said, “you gonna go in and get him, or should I just call it a shift?"

  Ennis surveyed the bar. Approaching drunken men with guns was one of his least favorite parts of the job, particularly if they'd already shot someone. Janet Salisbury cleared her throat, hitching up her gunbelt.

  "We could call for backup."

  "We could,” he said. He pictured Hallstrom out here in his cowboy suit, the other green deputy with his camera. “Let's see what the situation is."

  Ennis walked back out to the rear of the parking lot and around its perimeter, trying to get a look inside the tavern from a safe distance. He stopped and waved Salisbury over.

  Janell had been good enough to prop the bar door open. From here, Ennis could see the guy slumped on his stool, head on the bar. Roy Winnett was a small man, balding, his worn plaid shirt untucked. He wore faded jeans and what appeared to be a pair of buckskin slippers, the kind you'd slip on to get the newspaper. On the bar next to him: a handgun the size of a leaf-blower and a half-full bottle of Bushmill's, both within easy reach.

  "Well, let's gauge his mood,” Ennis said at last. “Get over behind the cruiser.” When Salisbury was in place, he yelled.

  "Hey, Roy! Roy Winnett!"

  The figure on the barstool didn't stir.

  "Roy, you awake?"

  Nothing. Ennis worried briefly that the man had killed himself, but Janell would have heard the shot. He unholstered his Glock and carefully approached the open door. He positioned himself to one side and leaned over for a look. Like every bar in Montana
, this one was half filled with electronic keno and poker machines, relentlessly replaying their calliope fanfares to the empty bar. Ennis understood why the Canadian might have wanted to punch them.

  "Hey, Roy,” he called softly. “You doing okay, partner?"

  Still no sign of movement. The pistol on the bar was a real cannon; from here, Ennis was pretty sure it was a Desert Eagle with a ten-inch barrel. Probably either .357 or .44 magnum, in either case perfectly capable of penetrating any exterior wall of this cheaply built tavern—not to mention the driver's door of a Cadillac Escalade. He signaled Salisbury to come up, then took a deep breath and stepped forward as quickly and quietly as he could. He reached the gun and slid it down the bar. When it was safely out of reach he bent to smell the muzzle: nothing but Hoppes gun oil. It didn't have the acrid aroma of having been fired recently—but that was no proof it hadn't been. He released the magazine: eight fat .44-magnum bullets, full capacity for this weapon.

  He touched Winnett on the shoulder and was rewarded with a loud groan.

  Salisbury was at the door, looking as relieved as Ennis felt.

  "Passed out, huh?"

  "We timed that right,” Ennis said. “Help me get him to the car."

  * * * *

  "Well, that didn't take long,” Hallstrom was saying. He had his hands on his hips again, regarding the insensate Roy Winnett, who was sprawled across the bunk in the first of the Worland Police Department's two holding cells. “About what I figured: This Jackman guy is porking his wife, so old Roy here does a Raccoon Racoon on his rival."

  Ennis winced at this not-quite-apt reference to the Beatles tune.

  Hallstrom winked, jingling his car keys. “Gotta love a small town. Get those statements typed up and fax ‘em to me tomorrow. We'll take the pistolero here back to Libby with us, get him arraigned when he's sobered up. I'm heading home."

  "Couple problems,” Ennis said.

  "What?"

  "Barmaid says Roy showed up at the Last Chance a few minutes before Jackman got shot at Westy's. She's quite sure of the time. And that Desert Eagle: I don't think it's been fired tonight. We should probably check it out.” He nodded at Winnett. “Him, too."

  Hallstrom gave him a wintry smile. “That right? You got any other clues?"

  Ennis shrugged. “Just saying: Sober witness puts him someplace else when Jackman was getting shot. Also, no brass at the scene, on him, or in his truck; if he got rid of it that's pretty careful behavior for an intoxicated man."

  "Uh, Deputy,” Hallstrom's eyes shifted to read the nameplate. “Ennis? You watch a lot of Matlock or something? Work as many of these pissant bar shootings as I have and you'll realize there's not a lot of mystery to puzzle out. Everything else adds up, so your barmaid is full of shit. Hell, if I had a dime for every witness got the time wrong."

  Hallstrom jerked his thumb toward the cell. “This asshole had a great reason to kill the guy. He was drunk enough to do it, he was carrying a gun big enough to do it, and he was in the vicinity to do it. Finally, our victim is sporting a .44 wound if ever I've seen one. And I have. We match the slug, that'll cinch it. So, I think I'll go ahead and pursue this avenue of investigation. That work for you?"

  Ennis smiled.

  "Your call. But if the barmaid is right about the time, Roy here couldn't have killed Jackman. No mystery about that, either."

  Hallstrom shook his head, looked at his watch. “Yeah, well, thanks for the tip, Sherlock. I'm taking off. Winnett's our guy. Maybe you ought to get out to this Jackman's place, let his wife know her husband's dead."

  * * * *

  Ennis had delivered such news before, and he supposed Mary Ann Jackman took it as well as could be expected. Now she was hunched forward on the sofa, her velour bathrobe clutched around her, turning her wedding ring on her hand and staring at what appeared to be a very expensive Navajo rug. She said nothing as Ennis recounted the basic details of the shooting. He stood hat in hand, regarding the spacious interior of the Jackman living room.

  Dean Jackman might have been unlucky in love at the end, but he had done pretty well in real estate. His sprawling log home occupied a twenty-acre hillside east of town, accessible from the gravel county road by a newly paved driveway about a quarter-mile long. The home itself must have been 6,000 square feet. It still smelled new. Inside, it was all adobe and knotty pine; every painting on the wall had an elk or an Indian in it. No doubt the undersheriff, Hallstrom, would be right at home here. Flanking a big Frederick Remington print over the stone fireplace was a crossed pair of branding irons on one side and an antique gun belt with what looked to be a pair of Colt Peacemakers occupying the holsters—he hoped they were nonfunctioning replicas. There was even an old saddle on a stand in the corner. Right next to the enormous plasma TV.

  Mary Ann Jackman cleared her throat. Ennis saw her jaw muscles working. Still no tears. “At this bar,” she said. “Was he alone? Was he ... with anybody?"

  She was the same age as her husband, Ennis guessed; he knew they had moved here maybe a dozen years ago from Chicago, where Dean had been an accountant of some sort. They'd been pretty well-off then and were really well-off now. Dean had opened his Shining Mountains brokerage just in time to catch a decade-long boom in Montana real estate: retirees and telecommuters and third-tier celebrities seeking a respite from urban cares, the sort of people who could remain aloof from the vagaries of a logging-based economy and didn't mind paying top dollar for the space and the scenery.

  There were some old photos on a table behind the leather sofa. One of them showed Dean and Mary Ann in formal regalia, each wearing a ridiculous crown: prom royalty, he supposed. They'd changed some since then. Mary Ann was blond now, and both had put on some weight.

  "I don't know,” he said. “There were no witnesses to the actual shooting. We did make an arrest, but we can't be sure...."

  "Who?"

  "Did your husband know Roy Winnett? Any reason he'd have a grudge against Dean?"

  Ennis knew the answer to this, but he thought it might be good to get her reaction. Her voice was flat. “His wife. Alana. She just started working at Dean's brokerage."

  She closed her eyes, then abruptly rose and began to walk around the room, her right fist clenched. “Okay, yes, I've heard things. Small-town gossip ... people love to talk, there's nothing else for them to do. But I told Dean, I told him: You make damned sure there's nothing to this. Goddamned sure, or I'll..."

  She stopped by the pair of antique six-shooters; Ennis had an alarming vision of her grabbing one and emptying it into him before turning it on herself.

  "Her and her bubba husband: stupid white trash, the worst kind, this town is full of them. She's a checkout girl and he doesn't even have a job. Now look at what's happened. My husband, he was trying to make something of this town, trying to help people. Now he's dead. That bitch. This is her fault."

  Ennis noticed another photo as he was turning to go: Mary Ann in hunter's orange, gripping the antlers of a dead buck. It was a winter day, and her cheeks were flushed with the thrill of the hunt. A rifle was slung on her back. It seemed Mary Ann had fully embraced the Montana lifestyle. The deer's tongue lolled out as though it never knew what hit it.

  * * * *

  The Winnetts’ estate was a little less imposing than the Jackmans': a doublewide and a carport at the end of a steep gravel driveway about a mile on the other side of town—and the other side of the tracks. An older Ford Taurus occupied the rutted driveway. A little girl's bike, pink with streamers from the handlebars, leaned against the unfinished deck. Alana Winnett appeared in the doorway when he drove up. She was holding a cigarette and a glass of white wine, and the way she leaned against the doorjamb suggested it was not her first drink of the evening.

  "Oh Lord, the law,” she said. “It's Roy, isn't it? Tell me he didn't do something stupid."

  Ennis knew her from when she worked the checkout at Ace Hardware. She had a sleepy smile and her husky voice carried the trace of a Sout
hern accent. Someone said she had moved here from South Carolina as a teenager. Probably quite pretty then and not exactly plain-looking now, even without the benefit of makeup. Her dark brown hair, bound tightly in a ponytail, betrayed a wisp or two of gray. Some lines were visible at the corners of her large brown eyes, and others had begun to radiate faintly around her lips—he could imagine her looking at those lines each morning and calculating the cost of Botox against a single income. She was dressed for comfort much as her husband had been: the same plaid flannel shirt and faded jeans, even down to the leather slippers. He wondered if those slippers had been gifts to each other, his and hers, exchanged with a kiss on some Christmas morning before all the reasons for being married had begun to drain out of their lives.

  "I had to arrest him tonight."

  She closed her eyes and sighed. “Oh God, that idiot. I was afraid of that. We had a fight; he left here like a bat out of hell. He didn't hurt anybody, right? He's okay?"

  "He's okay,” Ennis said.

  "And he didn't hurt anybody?"

  "There was a shooting, a homicide. Do you know Dean Jackman?"

  Her mouth opened, but she didn't say anything. Just nodded, staring. Finally she asked, “Is Dean all right?"

  "Dean's dead. We picked up Roy not too long after. He had a gun."

  Alana Winnett turned away. Her hand brushed the door; the wineglass slipped from her hand and shattered on the threshold. She put her hands to her face. Ennis stepped around the glass and followed her into the cluttered living room. It smelled of dust and cigarettes. She looked around, as if finding herself surrounded by the worn furniture and dingy tan carpet for the first time. The little TV was going, The Daily Show. Jon Stewart was in good form tonight, and the audience laughter went on and on.

  "You mind if I turn this off?” Without waiting for an answer, Ennis did so. He looked at her and waited.

  Alana's hands trembled as she shook a cigarette from the pack of Virginia Slims on the coffee table and lit one. When she spoke, it was with difficulty. “What happened?"

  He gave her the short version. At the mention of Westy's Tavern, she shook her head.