The Amateur

Early Thursday morning, two uniforms appeared at the door, and took me in to see Murphy.

"I got your email." he said, looking at me like I had some ugly growth on my face. "Good thing for you, it places you at home last night." he continued to study my face.

I paused and studied him in return. "Another one?" I asked.

"Damn right another one! And yes, it was the same goddamn bullet and the same goddamn rifle and no, not a single person heard a goddamn peep!" I stayed quiet. I didn't flinch.

He leaned back in his seat, the back of the chair banged against a filing cabinet, almost toppling a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam.

"You know guns. A real gun nut. You know way too much about this particular gun. Now you've got some angle on the noise issue. Spill it, or so help me I'll have your butt in a cell so fast your feet won't be able to catch up."

He'd used that line before, but he almost botched it. I concluded he was angry. Probably.

"Was there any powder on the bullets?" I asked.

"Powder like what? Teflon, graphite, rat poison?"

"Gunpowder."

"There's always gunpowder on a bullet you idiot!"

He paused, considering his statement. "Charlie, have the lab test the bullets for gunpowder. Don't tell 'em it was my idea."

I told him what I suspected. He thought the idea was crazy.

"Now get out of my office, I have paperwork!" he said.

I went downstairs to the morgue.