some things about him. I’m working for his sister.”
“Why would he confess to a murder he didn’t commit?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “You want it now or after you’ve seen the body and talked to Talbot?”
“Make it after.” He clapped me on the arm and waddled off toward the garage.
Another five minutes went away. Then Donleavy returned alone and entered the house. The coroner put in an appearance not long after that, to tell the ambulance attendants that they could have the body. Osterman was with them when they brought it out from the garage; he stood near me, not saying anything, while the attendants loaded the stretcher.
Just as the ambulance started down the drive, the house door opened and everybody inside came out. The local doctor and one of the uniformed cops had Talbot between them, hanging onto his arms; he still moved like a sleepwalker. They put him into the doctor’s Cadillac and wasted no time taking him away in the wake of the ambulance.
Donleavy was still up on the front porch; he gestured to me to join him. I did that, with Osterman behind me, and the three of us filed into the living room.
I asked Donleavy, “Did you talk to Talbot?”
“A little. Doctor wanted to get him to the hospital for observation; he’s in a pretty bad way.”
“He confess to you?”
“Yep, he did.”
“To me, too,” Osterman said. “It’s an open-and-shut case.”
“No,” I said, “it isn’t. He didn’t kill Carding.”
“What?”
Donleavy said, “Go ahead, you can lay it out now.”
“Let me give you the background first.” And I told them about the accident in which Carding’s wife had been killed. About Talbot’s obsessive guilt. About what Laura Nichols had hired me to do. About following Talbot here this afternoon.
“He doesn’t sound like a probable murderer, I’ll admit that,” Donleavy said when I was done. “But he claims he picked up the gun in self-defense, more or less, and it went off by accident. It could have happened that way.”
I shook my head. “There are at least three good reasons why it couldn’t.”
“Which are?”
“One is the time factor,” I said. “I was down at the foot of the drive when he disappeared toward the garage. It was thirty seconds before I started up after him, and another two minutes or so until I heard the shot. Say three minutes, maximum. Talbot would have had to walk to the garage, enter, confront Carding, listen to enough verbal abuse to make him pick up the gun, and then shoot Carding when he lunged forward—all in three minutes or less. If that isn’t impossible, it’s the next thing to it.”
“You sure about the amount of time?”
“Positive.”
“What’s the second reason?”
“Talbot claims Carding shouted at him, shouted accusations. But I didn’t hear any shouting; I didn’t hear anything at all from the garage until the gun went off. A yelling voice would have carried almost as far as the shot, quiet as it is around here. And I heard the shot loud and clear.”
Osterman was frowning. “Maybe Carding didn’t shout after all; maybe he spoke in a normal voice and Talbot, mixed up as he is, remembered him as yelling.”
“Then why would Talbot have picked up the gun in such a hurry? If somebody’s talking to you in a normal or slightly raised voice, even making accusations, you wouldn’t have much cause to fear for your safety. Or to grab a weapon just to shut him up.”
Donleavy said, “Let’s hear the third reason.”
“That’s the clincher. I took a close look at Carding’s body less than five minutes after the shot: the blood around the wound was coagulating. He’d been dead at least fifteen minutes by then, maybe longer.”
“You could be wrong about that,” Osterman said. “You’re not a forensic expert.”
“No, but I’ve seen a lot of blood in my life. Believe me, I can tell the difference between fresh and coagulating.”
Donleavy ruminated for a time. Then he said,
“Why would he confess to a murder he didn’t commit?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “You want it now or after you’ve seen the body and talked to Talbot?”
“Make it after.” He clapped me on the arm and waddled off toward the garage.
Another five minutes went away. Then Donleavy returned alone and entered the house. The coroner put in an appearance not long after that, to tell the ambulance attendants that they could have the body. Osterman was with them when they brought it out from the garage; he stood near me, not saying anything, while the attendants loaded the stretcher.
Just as the ambulance started down the drive, the house door opened and everybody inside came out. The local doctor and one of the uniformed cops had Talbot between them, hanging onto his arms; he still moved like a sleepwalker. They put him into the doctor’s Cadillac and wasted no time taking him away in the wake of the ambulance.
Donleavy was still up on the front porch; he gestured to me to join him. I did that, with Osterman behind me, and the three of us filed into the living room.
I asked Donleavy, “Did you talk to Talbot?”
“A little. Doctor wanted to get him to the hospital for observation; he’s in a pretty bad way.”
“He confess to you?”
“Yep, he did.”
“To me, too,” Osterman said. “It’s an open-and-shut case.”
“No,” I said, “it isn’t. He didn’t kill Carding.”
“What?”
Donleavy said, “Go ahead, you can lay it out now.”
“Let me give you the background first.” And I told them about the accident in which Carding’s wife had been killed. About Talbot’s obsessive guilt. About what Laura Nichols had hired me to do. About following Talbot here this afternoon.
“He doesn’t sound like a probable murderer, I’ll admit that,” Donleavy said when I was done. “But he claims he picked up the gun in self-defense, more or less, and it went off by accident. It could have happened that way.”
I shook my head. “There are at least three good reasons why it couldn’t.”
“Which are?”
“One is the time factor,” I said. “I was down at the foot of the drive when he disappeared toward the garage. It was thirty seconds before I started up after him, and another two minutes or so until I heard the shot. Say three minutes, maximum. Talbot would have had to walk to the garage, enter, confront Carding, listen to enough verbal abuse to make him pick up the gun, and then shoot Carding when he lunged forward—all in three minutes or less. If that isn’t impossible, it’s the next thing to it.”
“You sure about the amount of time?”
“Positive.”
“What’s the second reason?”
“Talbot claims Carding shouted at him, shouted accusations. But I didn’t hear any shouting; I didn’t hear anything at all from the garage until the gun went off. A yelling voice would have carried almost as far as the shot, quiet as it is around here. And I heard the shot loud and clear.”
Osterman was frowning. “Maybe Carding didn’t shout after all; maybe he spoke in a normal voice and Talbot, mixed up as he is, remembered him as yelling.”
“Then why would Talbot have picked up the gun in such a hurry? If somebody’s talking to you in a normal or slightly raised voice, even making accusations, you wouldn’t have much cause to fear for your safety. Or to grab a weapon just to shut him up.”
Donleavy said, “Let’s hear the third reason.”
“That’s the clincher. I took a close look at Carding’s body less than five minutes after the shot: the blood around the wound was coagulating. He’d been dead at least fifteen minutes by then, maybe longer.”
“You could be wrong about that,” Osterman said. “You’re not a forensic expert.”
“No, but I’ve seen a lot of blood in my life. Believe me, I can tell the difference between fresh and coagulating.”
Donleavy ruminated for a time. Then he said,
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