O Is for Outlaw

I was suffering a temporary hearing loss. I held a hand up. "Hang on. I'm sorry, but I can't seem to comprehend."
    "There's no hurry. Take your time," Aldo said.
    I took a couple of deep breaths. "This is weird. Where is he?"
    "UCLA. He's currently in ICU, but he may be transferred to County, depending on his condition."
    "He always had good insurance coverage, if it's a question of funds." The notion of Mickey at County didn't sit well with me. I was taking deep breaths, risking hyperventilation in my attempt to compose myself. "Can I see him?"
    There was a momentary pause, and then Claas said, "Not just yet, but we can probably work something out." He seemed singularly unenthusiastic, and I didn't press the point.
    Aldo watched me with concern. "Are you okay?"
    "I'm fine. I'm just surprised," I said. "I don't know what I thought you were doing here, but it wasn't this. I can't believe anything bad could ever happen to him. He was always a brawler, but he seemed invincible, at least to me. What happened?"
    "That's what we're trying to piece together," Claas 1said. "He'd been shot twice, once in the head and once in the chest. A patrolman spotted him lying on the sidewalk little after three A.m. The weapon, a semi-automatic, was found in the gutter about ten feet away. This was a commercial district, a lot of bars in the area, so it's possible Mr. Magruder got into a dispute. We have a couple of guys out now canvassing the neighborhood. So far no witnesses. For now, we're working backward, trying to get a line on his activities prior to the shooting."
    "When was this?"
    "Early morning hours of May fourteenth. Wednesday of last week."
    Claas said, "Do you mind if we ask you a couple of questions? "
    "Not at all. Please do."
    I expected one of them to take out a notebook, but none emerged. I glanced at the briefcase and wondered if I was being recorded. Meanwhile, Claas was talking on. "We're in the process of eliminating some possibilities. This is mostly filling in the blanks, if you can help us out."
    "Sure, I'll try. I'm not sure how, but fire away," I said. Inwardly, I flinched at my choice of words.
    Claas cleared his throat. His voice was lighter, reedier. "When you last spoke to your ex-husband, did he mention any problems? Threats, disputes, anything like that?"
    I leaned forward, relieved. "I haven't spoken to Mickey in fourteen years."
    Something flickered between them, one of those wordless conversations married couples learn to conduct with their eyes. Detective Aldo took over. "You're the owner of a nine-millimeter Smith and Wesson?"
    "I was at one time." I was on the verge of saying more but decided to rein myself in until I figured out where they were going. The empty box that had originally housed the gun was still sitting in the carton beside my desk, less than six feet away.
    Claas said, "Can you tell us when you purchased it? "
    "I didn't. Mickey bought that gun and gave it to me as a wedding gift. That was August of 1971."
    "Strange wedding present," Aldo remarked.
    "He's a strange guy," I said.
    "Where's the gun at this time?"
    "Beats me. I haven't laid eyes on it for years. I assumed Mickey took it with him when he moved to L.A."
    "So you haven't seen the gun since approximately..."
    I looked from Claas to Aldo as the obvious implications began to sink in. I'd been slow on the uptake. "Wait a minute. That was the gun used?"
    "Let's put it this way: Yours was the gun that was found at the scene. We're still waiting for ballistics."
    "You can't think I had anything to do with it."
    "Your name popped up in the computer as the registered owner. We're looking for a starting point, and this made sense. If Mr. Magruder carried the gun, it's possible someone took it away from him and shot him with it."
    "That puts me in the clear," I said facetiously. I felt 1like biting my tongue. Sarcasm is the wrong tack to take with cops. Better to play humble and cooperative.
    A silence settled between the two. They'd seemed friendly and confiding, but I knew from experience there'd be a sizable gap between the version they'd given me and the one they'd withheld. Aldo took a stick of gum from his coat pocket and tore it in half. He tucked half in his pocket and slipped the paper wrapper and the foil from the other half. He slid the chewing gum into his mouth. He seemed disinterested for the moment, but I knew they'd spend the return trip comparing notes, matching their reactions and intuitions against the