Victims Read Online Free PDF Page B

burning, plus the streetlamp, just at the end of the driveway. Besides—obviously—both of them were known to me.” Impatiently, he shook his head. “No, there’s no question. None at all.”
    As we returned to our chairs I asked, “What happened then?”
    “They disappeared from my view,” he answered. “Then, just a few seconds later, I heard a car start, out on the street. Obviously it was Kramer, escaping with John.”
    “What happened next?”
    “I got my gun, and I went downstairs.”
    “What kind of a gun do you have, Mr. Guest?”
    “It’s a .357 Magnum.”
    “May I see it?”
    “Certainly.” He pushed himself back from the table, opened a drawer and took out a revolver. He handled it carefully and confidently, as if he’d had experience with firearms. I swung out the cylinder and saw five unfired cartridges in the chambers. The hammer had been resting on an empty chamber, standard procedure in law enforcement and the military. I sniffed the barrel, swung the cylinder back into place and handed the gun to Guest. He replaced it in the drawer without comment.
    “You got your gun,” I prompted.
    “Yes. Then I went downstairs—very apprehensively, I don’t mind telling you. And I found Quade lying in the hallway.”
    “Describe how you found him—what you saw.”
    “Well, he was lying in the back hallway, the one that leads from the two bedrooms to the garage.” Guest looked at me. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you?”
    “I’d like to hear your description.”
    A small smile touched the corners of his mouth. It was a humorless smile, a knowing smile. “The policeman at work,” he said.
    I didn’t reply, didn’t return his smile.
    Still amused, his manner became patronizingly supercilious as he said, “I must say, I didn’t expect to be questioned as if I were a suspect. Not in my own bedroom.”
    I’d often been forced to endure the hostility of important, affluent citizens who resented being interrogated. I’d discovered that silence and a steady, noncommittal stare were the only responses that worked. As his sardonic smile faded, we sat silently, our eyes locked. Then, speaking with icy calm, he said, “I found him facedown. It was obvious that he was dead. His gun—a Colt .45 automatic—was lying about four feet from his right hand.”
    “Did you touch him?”
    “No.”
    “Then how’d you know he was dead?”
    “I didn’t know for certain, not then. However, I was in the Marine Corps during the Second World War. I was a platoon leader on Okinawa and Saipan. I know a dead man when I see one. I know how they look, and I know how they smell. And I know a Colt .45 when I see one, too. That’s the sidearm I carried, in the Marines. I could still field strip one. Blindfolded.” With his cold gray eyes still boring hard into mine, he let a moment of uncompromising silence pass. Then, still icy-calm, he said, “I didn’t linger over the body for long. Not initially. I’d noticed that both the door to the garage and the driveway were ajar, and I wanted to reconnoiter. I looked outside—cautiously. I didn’t see anyone. So I went back into the kitchen, and called you—the police. And you know the rest.” He let a subtly sarcastic beat pass, then added, “Hopefully.”
    Ignoring the barb, I asked, “Were the lights on in the hallway when you first arrived on the scene?”
    He shook his head. “No. There were no lights on anywhere. But there was enough light coming from the hallway window to let me see Quade on the floor—enough light for me to recognize him, and to be pretty certain he was dead.”
    “Did you turn the lights on?”
    “Not immediately. First I reconnoitered, as I said. When I was satisfied Kramer was gone—really gone—I turned on the light and examined Quade. Then I went to the phone.”
    “Did you leave the hallway light on?”
    “I’m not sure. After all, I was rattled, to say the least. But I imagine I left it on.”
    I nodded, glancing over my