“Your theory is that Carding killed himself, right?”
“Right. Probably because he was despondent over the death of his wife.”
“Gun suicides don’t usually shoot themselves in the chest, you know.”
“I know. But it happens once in a while—often enough to take it out of the implausible category.”
Osterman said, “It doesn’t make any sense to me. Why the hell would Talbot shoot off the gun if Carding was already dead? Why would he want to make it look like he’d committed murder?”
“Because he believes he did commit murder,” I said. “And not just one murder—two. Carding’s wife in the accident and now Carding as a result of it.”
“Elaborate on that,” Donleavy said.
“Look at it this way. Talbot’s a man so full of guilt that he can’t live with himself; he wants to be punished for what he did—wants to die but doesn’t quite have the courage or the strength to take his own life. So he decides to confront Carding, either because he hopes to provoke himself into a suicidal state or because he hopes to provoke Carding into carrying out the threat against his life.
“But when he gets here he finds Carding dead in the garage of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. For Talbot it’s a pretty terrible irony: He’s the one who wants to be dead, to kill himself, but it’s turned out the other way around. He’s got a double load of guilt to deal with now and he can’t handle it; he really starts to unravel.
“Then he hears the cab driver hassling me out on the drive and realizes somebody’s about to find him there with the body. In his mind he’s already killed Carding; why not just go ahead and make it look like murder? That way he can be arrested and prosecuted; he won’t be dead, but at least he’ll be punished.
“He picks up the gun, either from the floor or from Carding’s hand, and fires a shot into the roof or one of the walls. And when I come in he blurts out his confession. Simple as that in the factual sense; damned complex in the psychological sense. But I’ll bet that’s the way it happened.”
Osterman was unconvinced. “It still sounds screwy to me,” he said.
“Maybe not,” Donleavy said. He hooked his fingers around his coat lapels and rocked back and forth; when he did that he looked more than ever like Oliver Hardy. The resemblance was uncanny sometimes, even without the little toothbrush mustache, and it made me wonder if at least some of the mannerisms were calculated—an act to keep the people he dealt with off guard. “I’ve done some reading in criminal psychology; you should see a few of those case histories.”
“Well—if you say so.”
“Besides which, there’re two empty chambers in the gun and just a single wound in Carding’s body. And Talbot only fired one shot.”
“Carding could have kept one chamber empty,” Osterman said. “Or he could have fired a round days or weeks ago.”
“Yeah, I know. Still, you’d better have your men comb the garage for a bullet hole and a .38 slug.”
“Whatever you say.”
Osterman gave me a curt nod, as if he were annoyed with me for making waves in what he still considered an open-and-shut case and went on out. When he was gone, Donleavy asked me, “What’s Laura Nichols’ address and telephone number?”
I told him and he wrote the information down in a spiral notebook. “I called her just after I reported the death,” I said. “She wasn’t home.”
“I’ll try her again pretty soon,” he said. “You got a card for yourself ? Home and office numbers?”
“Sure.” I handed him one from my wallet.
He said, “I guess that’s it for now; you might as well go on home. I’ll call you later today or tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
We shook hands, and I went out and down the wind-swept drive to Queen’s Lane. There were still half a dozen citizens hanging around the area; one of them, a kid in his late teens, cut over near me as I turned up toward where I’d left my car.
“What
“Right. Probably because he was despondent over the death of his wife.”
“Gun suicides don’t usually shoot themselves in the chest, you know.”
“I know. But it happens once in a while—often enough to take it out of the implausible category.”
Osterman said, “It doesn’t make any sense to me. Why the hell would Talbot shoot off the gun if Carding was already dead? Why would he want to make it look like he’d committed murder?”
“Because he believes he did commit murder,” I said. “And not just one murder—two. Carding’s wife in the accident and now Carding as a result of it.”
“Elaborate on that,” Donleavy said.
“Look at it this way. Talbot’s a man so full of guilt that he can’t live with himself; he wants to be punished for what he did—wants to die but doesn’t quite have the courage or the strength to take his own life. So he decides to confront Carding, either because he hopes to provoke himself into a suicidal state or because he hopes to provoke Carding into carrying out the threat against his life.
“But when he gets here he finds Carding dead in the garage of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. For Talbot it’s a pretty terrible irony: He’s the one who wants to be dead, to kill himself, but it’s turned out the other way around. He’s got a double load of guilt to deal with now and he can’t handle it; he really starts to unravel.
“Then he hears the cab driver hassling me out on the drive and realizes somebody’s about to find him there with the body. In his mind he’s already killed Carding; why not just go ahead and make it look like murder? That way he can be arrested and prosecuted; he won’t be dead, but at least he’ll be punished.
“He picks up the gun, either from the floor or from Carding’s hand, and fires a shot into the roof or one of the walls. And when I come in he blurts out his confession. Simple as that in the factual sense; damned complex in the psychological sense. But I’ll bet that’s the way it happened.”
Osterman was unconvinced. “It still sounds screwy to me,” he said.
“Maybe not,” Donleavy said. He hooked his fingers around his coat lapels and rocked back and forth; when he did that he looked more than ever like Oliver Hardy. The resemblance was uncanny sometimes, even without the little toothbrush mustache, and it made me wonder if at least some of the mannerisms were calculated—an act to keep the people he dealt with off guard. “I’ve done some reading in criminal psychology; you should see a few of those case histories.”
“Well—if you say so.”
“Besides which, there’re two empty chambers in the gun and just a single wound in Carding’s body. And Talbot only fired one shot.”
“Carding could have kept one chamber empty,” Osterman said. “Or he could have fired a round days or weeks ago.”
“Yeah, I know. Still, you’d better have your men comb the garage for a bullet hole and a .38 slug.”
“Whatever you say.”
Osterman gave me a curt nod, as if he were annoyed with me for making waves in what he still considered an open-and-shut case and went on out. When he was gone, Donleavy asked me, “What’s Laura Nichols’ address and telephone number?”
I told him and he wrote the information down in a spiral notebook. “I called her just after I reported the death,” I said. “She wasn’t home.”
“I’ll try her again pretty soon,” he said. “You got a card for yourself ? Home and office numbers?”
“Sure.” I handed him one from my wallet.
He said, “I guess that’s it for now; you might as well go on home. I’ll call you later today or tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
We shook hands, and I went out and down the wind-swept drive to Queen’s Lane. There were still half a dozen citizens hanging around the area; one of them, a kid in his late teens, cut over near me as I turned up toward where I’d left my car.
“What
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