shopkeeper, who’d been shot in the chest. Witnesses say she was pressing her sweater into the wound, to staunch the bleeding.”
“ But it didn’t help.”
“ No,” said Smithy. “The old man died en route to the hospital.”
I said, “She doesn’t sound like much of a killer, if she’s trying to save him.”
“That’s the way I see it, too. Except there’s no reason for her being in there after hours. Gems Unlimited is a gem wholesaler. It’s located on the fifth floor of the Montgomery Building. She had no explanation for why she was there.”
“ He was shot with a pistol?”
“ Yes.”
“ Did she have the gun with her?”
“ Yes.”
“ The same gun that killed the shopkeeper?”
“ Yes.”
“ Was there residue on her fingers?”
“ You’re watching too much CSI , and yes, she had gunpowder residue on her. A lot of it.”
“ So, she fired the gun?”
“ She doesn’t remember. It seems likely.”
“ Her fingerprints on the gun?”
“ Yes.”
“ Did she own a gun?”
“ No. It was registered to someone else, someone who is now deceased.”
“ Deceased how long ago?”
“ Fifteen years ago.”
“ So, the gun has, presumably, traveled from person to person, illegally, for the past 15 years.”
“ A safe presumption,” said Smithy.
“ Does the gunpowder residue match the gun?” I asked.
“ No way to know for sure. There was a high particle count on her hands—which means she had recently fired a gun. But she claims she shoots at a local range, too.”
“ Do they rent guns there?”
“ They do.”
“ How long does gunpowder residue stay on one’s hands?”
“ Longer than you would think. Weeks, sometimes.”
“ And the longer the time frame, the lower the particle count?” I asked.
“ Right.”
“ How does she explain the gun?”
“ She doesn’t know how she got it.”
“ How does she explain being in the gem shop, after hours?”
“ She hasn’t given us a satisfactory answer. Either way, it doesn’t matter. She’s our only suspect. Unless, you’ve seen something different that can change that.”
“ Seen?”
“ Yeah, you know. With your third eye, or whatever the fuck you whackos call it.”
“ Whackos?” I said. “Care to rephrase that?”
“ Sorry. That slipped out. I’m still a dick, remember?”
“ And, I’m still a witch, remember?”
“ Point taken. So, tell me, is the girl guilty or not?”
“ What do you think?” I asked.
“ Hey, I ain’t the psychic one.”
“ No,” I said, “but you have a keen sixth sense. Even I can see that. You trust your gut, which is a form of psychic intuition. So, what does your gut say?”
“ That she did it. But something doesn’t seem right.”
“ And what’s that?”
“ For one...she says she doesn’t remember doing it.”
“ Seems like that might be a common excuse.”
“ Not exactly,” said Smithy. “Most will say they didn’t do it. Not that they didn’t remember doing it. It’s strange as hell.”
“ Does she have a mental disorder?” I asked. “Schizophrenia?”
“ We’re having her examined. So far, there’s nothing conclusive.”
“ But...” I heard his voice trail off, or I sensed there was something more that he wanted to add.
“ She claims she talks to a demon of some sort.”
“ A demon?”
“ Yeah. She says it tells her what to do.”
He looked at me long and hard, and then took in a lot of air. That his mustache rippled like a caterpillar having a seizure should not have made me laugh. But it did.
Dammit.
“ What’s so funny?” he asked.
“ Nothing, sorry. Okay, it’s your mustache.”
“ What about my mustache?”
“ It’s bushy and a little crooked and sort of moves on its own sometimes.”
“ Yeah, so?”
“ Have you considered...never mind.”
“ How about we stay focused on a young girl who may or may not be possessed?”
“ Right, sorry.” I collected myself and said, “I want to talk to her.”
“
“ But it didn’t help.”
“ No,” said Smithy. “The old man died en route to the hospital.”
I said, “She doesn’t sound like much of a killer, if she’s trying to save him.”
“That’s the way I see it, too. Except there’s no reason for her being in there after hours. Gems Unlimited is a gem wholesaler. It’s located on the fifth floor of the Montgomery Building. She had no explanation for why she was there.”
“ He was shot with a pistol?”
“ Yes.”
“ Did she have the gun with her?”
“ Yes.”
“ The same gun that killed the shopkeeper?”
“ Yes.”
“ Was there residue on her fingers?”
“ You’re watching too much CSI , and yes, she had gunpowder residue on her. A lot of it.”
“ So, she fired the gun?”
“ She doesn’t remember. It seems likely.”
“ Her fingerprints on the gun?”
“ Yes.”
“ Did she own a gun?”
“ No. It was registered to someone else, someone who is now deceased.”
“ Deceased how long ago?”
“ Fifteen years ago.”
“ So, the gun has, presumably, traveled from person to person, illegally, for the past 15 years.”
“ A safe presumption,” said Smithy.
“ Does the gunpowder residue match the gun?” I asked.
“ No way to know for sure. There was a high particle count on her hands—which means she had recently fired a gun. But she claims she shoots at a local range, too.”
“ Do they rent guns there?”
“ They do.”
“ How long does gunpowder residue stay on one’s hands?”
“ Longer than you would think. Weeks, sometimes.”
“ And the longer the time frame, the lower the particle count?” I asked.
“ Right.”
“ How does she explain the gun?”
“ She doesn’t know how she got it.”
“ How does she explain being in the gem shop, after hours?”
“ She hasn’t given us a satisfactory answer. Either way, it doesn’t matter. She’s our only suspect. Unless, you’ve seen something different that can change that.”
“ Seen?”
“ Yeah, you know. With your third eye, or whatever the fuck you whackos call it.”
“ Whackos?” I said. “Care to rephrase that?”
“ Sorry. That slipped out. I’m still a dick, remember?”
“ And, I’m still a witch, remember?”
“ Point taken. So, tell me, is the girl guilty or not?”
“ What do you think?” I asked.
“ Hey, I ain’t the psychic one.”
“ No,” I said, “but you have a keen sixth sense. Even I can see that. You trust your gut, which is a form of psychic intuition. So, what does your gut say?”
“ That she did it. But something doesn’t seem right.”
“ And what’s that?”
“ For one...she says she doesn’t remember doing it.”
“ Seems like that might be a common excuse.”
“ Not exactly,” said Smithy. “Most will say they didn’t do it. Not that they didn’t remember doing it. It’s strange as hell.”
“ Does she have a mental disorder?” I asked. “Schizophrenia?”
“ We’re having her examined. So far, there’s nothing conclusive.”
“ But...” I heard his voice trail off, or I sensed there was something more that he wanted to add.
“ She claims she talks to a demon of some sort.”
“ A demon?”
“ Yeah. She says it tells her what to do.”
He looked at me long and hard, and then took in a lot of air. That his mustache rippled like a caterpillar having a seizure should not have made me laugh. But it did.
Dammit.
“ What’s so funny?” he asked.
“ Nothing, sorry. Okay, it’s your mustache.”
“ What about my mustache?”
“ It’s bushy and a little crooked and sort of moves on its own sometimes.”
“ Yeah, so?”
“ Have you considered...never mind.”
“ How about we stay focused on a young girl who may or may not be possessed?”
“ Right, sorry.” I collected myself and said, “I want to talk to her.”
“
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