about them, or think that they exist. I’d rather believe you
wore a chastity belt your first twenty-five years, and the only
guys you liked were flamingly gay men who wore big bushy
mustaches and called you ‘girlfriend’ in an ironic manner.”
She laughed. “Now who’s kidding who? Just think,
though, if you can react like that to me just insinuating I’ve
liked other guys, imagine how I feel that a girl you actually
had a relationship with is begging for your jock at 3:00 a.m.”
“She’s not… Okay, you have a point.”
“I usually do.”
“Okay, I promise to talk to Mya. Now I have to get to work,
time’s wasting. I need to find out where this gun came from.
First I need to talk to Jack.”
I opened the phone, dialed O’Donnell’s direct line. He
picked up on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Jack, it’s Henry. You busy?”
“I was going to have my shoes shined, and hope a stray
bullet didn’t find my old ass.”
“Listen, can you meet me at O’Grady’s restaurant in
twenty minutes?”
“You want me to leave the office to meet you somewhere,
you’d better give me a reason, and it better not be that you’re
in the mood for an undercooked hamburger.”
“No, but I might have a hell of a scoop on the Paradis
murders, and I need some help.”
“Are you stupid, kid? Half the Gazette goes to O’Grady’s
for lunch. Meet me at McPhee’s pub in twenty, at least we
can talk in private. Besides, it’s the only bar in a ten-block
radius that charges less than five bucks a beer. What’s the
occasion for this midday imbibing?”
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“I need you to use the archives and run a search for me,
then bring whatever you can find.”
“A search for what?”
“Guns,” I said. “I need to know what museums and collections carry authentic Winchester rifles, model 1873.”
“The gun that won the West,” Jack said, a sense of romance
in his voice. “John Wayne would be proud. What does this
have to do with the murders?”
“I’ll tell you then,” I said. “But I think this killer is more
than just a fan of history—I think he’s trying to re-create the
bloodiest parts.”
21
I walked into McPhee’s pub. And immediately decided that
I never wanted to go back again. McPhee’s was the kind of
dive bar you were happy to get into in college despite your
crummy fake ID, where the bouncer weighed upward of six
hundred pounds and was covered in tattoos that looked like
they’d been painted on by an epileptic spider monkey. Where
the bartender served beer whose advertisements settled for
round men in green hats because they couldn’t afford buxom
women in bikinis. Where the decibel level never rose above
“angry grumble.”
Yep, this was Jack O’Donnell’s kind of bar.
I walked past several booths that contained paper menus
stuck under dirty glass. The walls were lined with flickering
neon beer signs, the owners apparently making a statement
(that statement being “we don’t pay our electric bill”).
I found Jack O’Donnell in the very back of the bar, sitting
alone in a dimly lit booth. He was sipping a brown liquid
which, by the fill line, had been an inch higher before I arrived.
“Having a midday nip?” I asked.
“It’s eleven in the morning. Either you don’t get much
sleep or you have no concept of what midday means.”
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“Actually I was just trying to make a bad joke.”
“Bad jokes don’t get funny just because you admit they’re
bad.” Jack took another sip. A waitress came by, her hair
done up in one of those fishing nets that all the classy ladies
were wearing. She was also chewing gum. I could have sworn
chewing gum while serving food had been outlawed alongside smoking and trans fat, but I stayed silent.
“Can I getcha?”
“Coors,” I said.
“Bottle or draft?”
I looked at Jack’s drink. Noticed an unidentifiable speck
on the rim.
“Definitely a bottle.” She smacked her gum and left.
“Probably the safe choice,” Jack said.
“I’ve been known to make a few.”
Jack took another long sip. His cheeks were red; I could
even sense it under his beard. No doubt he’d had a nip or two
before I got to the bar, but I wondered if Jack’s drinking
calendar had been more busy than usual.
“I have a few leads on the Paradis murders,” I said.
Jack said, “I thought you asked me here on a date.” I
scowled at him. “So what have you come up with, boy
wonder?”
The waitress came back with my beer. I felt relieved as she
popped the bottle cap in front of me. Somehow I wouldn’t put
it past this place to refill empty bottles from the tap.
“It was confirmed that Athena Paradis and Joe Mauser
were killed by the same caliber bullet. And it’s only a matter
of time before the cops release a statement confirming the
same bullet and weapon was used to kill Jeffrey Lourdes.”
Jack mimicked jerking off, yawning while he did so.
Nobody ever said he wasn’t a classy guy. “That’s been run-138
Jason Pinter
ning all morning, first or second lead in every major newspaper. It won’t make Wallace bat an eye. What else you got,
Nancy Drew?”
“You’re an asshole, you know?”
“I know. So spill it.”
“The actual bullet used was a magnum .44-40. Very uncommon usage due to its high recoil and over-the-top
stopping power.”
“That’s true. Cops don’t need to go around blowing
suspects in half,” Jack said.
“Exactly. So it seemed odd to me that a murderer who obviously went to great lengths to take down Athena and Mayor
Perez, not to mention Jeffrey Lourdes, in such a public
manner would use such an unusual bullet to do the job.”
“You’re thinking…”
“The killer chose the caliber of the bullets on purpose.”
“Keep talking.”
I smiled, took a gulp of my beer. Jack was interested. His
shoulders were hunched forward. He hadn’t touched his drink
in several minutes.
“Figure if he’s using a rifle, he’s also gotta be carrying
around something to transport it in,” I said. “Suitcase, knapsack. And he’s likely staying near transportation, a subway
stop or bus terminal.”
“You’re not the only one who’s thought of that. Rather
than have cops sit in the subway and wait for guys in turbans
carrying ticking packages to walk by, the NYPD has started
searching bags over a certain length and width that are
brought into the subway. They’re searching hotels within
walking distance of the stops, as well,” Jack replied.
“That’s a start, but we can’t just follow the cops and report
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139
on Carruthers’s statement
s. I want to go ahead and follow up
on the gun. Amanda was able to hook me up with one of her
old professors who’s a hair away from certifiable. I gave her
a description of the bullet and rifle, and we think the killer is
using an 1873 Winchester. Like you said, the Winchester
1873 model is known as ‘The Gun that Won the West.’ It was
by far the most popular model of that era, was used by every
famous lawman and lawbreaker whose ass got sore from
horseback riding.”
“This sounds awful thin,” Jack said. My heart sank. “But
it also sounds awfully intriguing. And nobody’s covered this
angle yet?”
“Not that I know of. But take that gun and the quote from
Billy the Kid, and I’d say this killer has a serious obsession
with the Old West. Somehow Athena Paradis, Mayor Perez
and Jeffrey Lourdes are connected in this guy’s mind. The
other day you talked about Billy the Kid being some sort of
Robin Hood.” I stopped, looked at Jack. “What if this guy
really thinks he was right in killing those people? You know
Wallace won’t let me run with the story as is.”
“Not with your primary source being a college history
professor, he won’t. Even with the gun and ballistics it’s too
tenuous.”
“Were you able to get those papers?” I asked.
Jack reached into his briefcase, pulled out a leather folder.
From the folder he retrieved several pages of printouts.
“Every museum in the fifty that has a registered Winchester ’73,” he said.
“Oh man, this is beautiful. Thanks a ton.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
“Can’t imagine Wallace will green-light any expenses for
this, either.”
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Jason Pinter
“Doubtful. That assistant who witnessed Lourdes’s murder,” Jack said.
“Betty Grable.”
“She had to be transferred to Bellevue. Seeing her boss
killed like that, something snapped. Hate to say it, but it’s a
good thing you got a minute of her time.”
“That’s terrible,” I said.
“Ripples, Henry. Not just the dead are affected by death.”
“Guess not.”
“That quote,” Jack said. “Billy the Kid. You got something,
but it’s not nearly concrete enough for Wallace to let you print
it.”
“I’ll find more,” I said. “But I need time, resources.”
Jack looked at me, seemed to be weighing something.
Then he took a pen and pad from the briefcase. He opened
the pad, scribbled something on it, then ripped off a piece
of paper and handed it to me. It was a check for two thousand dollars.
“Jack, I can’t possibly…”
“Take it,” he said. “This will buy you some resources. And
if it leads to anything, I expect to be reimbursed.”
“And if it doesn’t lead to anything?”
Jack smiled. “Then I expect one hell of a birthday present.”
I had nothing to say, but, “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it again,” Jack said. He finished his drink,
set it down. The waitress came over and he nodded for one more.
He saw my eyes following his. “Trust me, kid, once you get to
my age you can’t underestimate the importance of a good drink.”
“I’ll remember that, but I have a few years.”
“Yeah, you do, but they go by quick. Wasn’t long ago I was
meeting my boss for drinks. Now,” Jack said. “That girl you’re
with. Amanda’s her name, right?”
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“That’s right.” In the year and a half since I’d known
Jack, we’d never discussed Amanda other than platitudes and
pleasantries.
“And you two met during the Fredrickson fiasco.”
“They say the best relationships are born out of extreme
circumstances.”
Jack’s eyes had a flicker of recognition. “I think I heard
that in a movie once.”
“Probably.”
“How are things going between you two?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Good, I guess. We’re living
together. Soon, I know, after everything that happened, but it
feels good.”
“That’s nice,” Jack said wistfully. “Another thing you can
never underestimate is companionship.” Jack, I knew, had
been married, and divorced, three times. “So I guess you’d
say it’s serious.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I think so. Besides, if Amanda ever
knew I said no to that question I’d wake up the next morning
with no teeth.”
“Feisty, is she?”
“She’d kick feisty’s ass down the block.”
“That’s good,” Jack said, smiling. “You know I look at you
across this table, you look at me the same way I used to look
at Petey Vincent.”
“The name rings a bell,” I said.
“Petey Vincent was my idol growing up. Those days,
newsmen were the toast of the city. You reported the hot
stories, had more groupies than ballplayers, spent the evenings
at your Park Avenue homes and ate caviar. Nowadays the
only way a reporter eats caviar is if an I-banker sends it to them
at Christmas. It’s a thankless job, so you gotta really love it.”
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Jason Pinter
“I do,” I said.
“What I’m saying is,” Jack continued, “if you want to be
a great reporter, you need to keep Amanda this far from you.”
He held out his arm, as though holding up a wall.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“I’m not going to ask if you love her,” Jack said. “Love is
easier to find than you think. But nobody remembers great
love. People remember great men and women for who they
are, not who they love. At some point in every relationship,
you have to make a choice as to what your priorities are. At
some point this job will demand more of your time than your
loved ones are willing to give up. And when that happens, you
can either be prepared for it or you get overwhelmed. You’ll
end up a half-assed reporter and a half-assed husband. And
then you’ll have nothing.”
The waitress came back with a refill of Jack’s drink. She
noticed that neither of us were speaking. “Getcha another?”
she said, nodding at my half-finished beer.
“No, thanks.” She clicked her gum and walked away.
“I don’t think I could ever give her up,” I said. Jack sighed,
looked down.
“Then you’ll make a fine beat journalist. Live with exposed
brick and take the subway because you can’t afford taxis.”
“That’s not why I do this job.”
“Of course it’s not,” Jack said. “But in any industry, the
money level rises as the talent itself does. The better you are,
the more you’re needed. And when the money comes, so does
love. It might not be the forever kind of love people with shitty
mortgages have, it might not last until you die, but it’s good
enough to make you smile every once in a while. And that’s what
life is about, in the end. When you stare into the abyss, you
want
a smile to come back at you. Even if it’s just sometimes.”
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“I have that,” I said. I felt a pressure on my chest. I took a
sip of beer and swallowed it down.
“You try to make everyone happy, you wind up making
nobody happy. Anyway,” Jack said, raising his glass, “here’s
to the story. Let’s find out more about this asshole, and hopefully put an end to it. Keep digging, Henry. Just don’t stand
too close to the hole.”
22
I needed to find out who might have gotten hold of an authentic 1873 Winchester, and how. Thankfully Jack had managed to pull together a file of many major gun collectors and
museums. It was a haystack, to be sure, but one of these haystacks either sold their needle, or had it stolen. Jack had given
me another thread, and now I needed to pull.
I went to the office, turned on my computer and ran a
search for “Winchester 1873” and “stolen.”
Only 149 hits came back. I searched through every entry,
looking for anything that could be a piece of thread. Most of
the articles were police and newspaper reports of replica Winchesters stolen from gun shows. No help there. I wasn’t
looking for a replica. Whoever was using that gun was using
the real deal. None of the 149 hits went anywhere that looked
promising.
I ran a new search, this time for “Winchester 1873” and
“museum.” Over four hundred responses came back. I refined
my search by adding the words “authentic” and “working.”
Now we were down to thirty-two hits.
I sifted through each entry, arriving at the estimation of
fifteen museums in the United States that listed authentic
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Winchester 1873 rifles among their collections, along with
some sort of reference to the gun being in working condition.
My first call was to the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and
Museum, located in Waco. I got an automated system, pressed
zero for the operator. A nice woman with a wonderful Southern drawl picked up the phone.
“Ranger Museum, how may I help ya?”
“Hi, do you still have an exhibit featuring the Winchester
1873 rifle?”
“Gun that won the West, we surely do. It’s open from nine
ayem to six pee-yem. Day passes are a dollar fifty, yearround pass is twelve dollars. That’s the better deal, y’ask
me.”
“How long have you had that rifle?”
“Oh, heck, I’ve been here three years and it’s been here
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