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do you keep the shotgun?”
    “In my pickup.”
    “And you didn’t notice it was gone?”
    “I wasn’t in the pickup. I drove with a friend. We switch off like that—it saves gas.”
    “A car pool.”
    “Yeah.”
    “And it was his turn last night—or this morning, I mean?”
    “Yeah. I haven’t touched that pickup since yesterday, or the shotgun.”
    “You didn’t cut the barrel down?”
    His tone picked up a little heat. “Shit no. That thing was like a collector’s piece. It was my father’s, a real nice gun. I wouldn’t fuck it up like that.”
    I nodded and sat opposite him. “No. That makes sense. So you figure someone stole the gun, maybe last night after you’d gone to work, sawed it off, did his number on our patrolman, and then planted both the gun and the car at your house after you’d gone to sleep. Is that it?”
    “I guess so.”
    “How close is the next house? Can you see it from your place?”
    He shook his head. “It’s not far, but there’s trees in the way.” He suddenly leaned forward, pleading again. “I swear to God I didn’t do any of this.”
    I held up my hand. “Hey, I’m a believer. I don’t think you did either. We’re going to have to check it out some more, but I think you’re telling the truth. Like you said, you’re not stupid, right?”
    He nodded hopefully. “Right. I mean this is all too crazy.”
    “Right,” I agreed. I pretended the sheet of paper I had in my hand related to his case. “Wodiska… That really rings a bell.”
    “I never done anything.”
    “No, no. I don’t mean that. It’s something else. It’s like I read your name in the paper or something. Did you win a trophy or something a few years back?”
    He sat back in his chair, the anxiety cleared from his face. “The only time I been in the paper was for that trial.”
    “What trial?”
    “The one with the nigger. You know, the murder case. Real steamy stuff. I got interviewed ’cause I was on the jury.”
    I slapped my forehead. A little hammy there. “Right, that’s it. The Harris case.”
    He grinned. “Yeah, that’s it.”
    “Sure. I remember now. You guys didn’t waste any time there, did you?”
    His voice became slightly defensive. “He was guilty, wasn’t he?”
    I spread my hands. “Hey, we thought so. In fact, I remember a few of the guys complaining you took as much time as you did.” I got up and put some money in the soda machine. “You want something? I’m buying.”
    Whatever apprehension he had left disappeared. “Sure. Pepsi?”
    I pushed the button and passed the can to him.
    “We took so long ’cause of that little fruitcake with the puppy pictures. He made a big deal about making up his mind, but he didn’t fight for long. No one else believed him. Real pain in the butt.”
    “Did you ever keep in touch with any of the jury members after the trial?”
    “No. There was one good-looking girl, but I never did anything about it.”
    “Hey. You shouldn’t waste your opportunities.”
    He grinned—an amazingly unappealing hunk of humanity. “Yeah, well…”
    I got up and hesitated. “You never got hassled after that trial, did you? I heard one of the jurors got some crank calls.”
    “Crank calls?”
    “Yes, like from people who were mad you convicted Davis.”
    “Mad? Hell, nobody was mad. They were mad at him—a nigger flatlander up here, pretending it was New York or something. He got what he should of got. Everybody knows that.”
    I shrugged and half-turned to leave. “Right… By the way, I have a feeling somebody from the press is likely to ask you about all this. We’ve been made to look pretty silly, and the news guys always love that. Come to think of it, whoever did this made you look pretty stupid too. Good headline stuff—give people a laugh.”
    “Yeah. Well, the press can go fuck itself. I’m gonna give them squat.”
    Music to my ears.

4
    MARTHA MURPHY OPENED THE DOOR and looked at me from top to bottom, shaking her