Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

“He’d seen the house on the other side of the lagoon with the dock and rowboat, easy to get to because there was no fenced yard. So he concocted his no-car alibi and lifted the coveralls from the dealership. Once he got to Alameda, he parked in the cul-de-sac, put on the coveralls, and rowed across the lagoon. He went in the side door and surprised Claude and Martha. He hit them both over the head, then shot them. That’s why the ME found a bruise on Martha’s head.”

“How did Eric know about the Slayer Statute?”

“His sister had mentioned it in conjunction with a case at the law firm where she works. That got him thinking about how he could arrange to inherit everything. He’d written a note, purportedly from Martha, claiming that she’d killed Claude because she discovered he was going to divorce her. But the housecleaner arrived early that day. Eric heard her come in the front door, so he bailed out the patio door. He dropped the gun at the foot of the plant and didn’t have time to take the note out of his pocket. Once he rowed back across the lagoon, he stripped off the bloody coveralls and disposed of them in a trash can. Then he walked out to the cul-de-sac where the witness saw him get into the loaner from the dealership.”

“Good work.” Wilcoxin closed the Terrell file, picked up the envelope containing my check, and handed it across his desk. “You’ve earned this.”

Silent Partner by Scott Mackay

Scott Mackay’s new Barry Gilbert story will see print at the same time as his new Gilbert novel, which is scheduled for 9/03 (St. Martin’s). Old Scores is the third book in the Arthur Ellis Award-winning series. Mr. Mackay also writes science fiction novels. (See The Disintegrating Man; Roc.) He is currently nominated for the Arthur Ellis for his 1/02 EQMM story “The Christmas-Tree Farm.”

* * *

Detective Barry Gilbert knelt over the body of Jason Morrell. Morrell was a black man in his early forties. The victim lay on his back, four bullet holes in his chest, his white dress shirt soaked with blood, his striped tie tossed by the wind over his left shoulder. His jacket — a bomber with the emblem of Morris T. Hewitt Collegiate Institute on the left breast — was open. His gray flannels, speckled now with blood, rode low on his hips, revealing the waistband of his blue boxers. He held a gold chain in his hand. A small goat’s head amulet dangled from the chain.

Gilbert rose, his arthritic knees pinching him, and looked around Regent Park, a government-subsidized housing project not far from the Don River. Low-rises stretched identically along the walkway: red-brick dwellings, three stories high, with twelve apartments apiece. Local residents, mainly black and East Indian, gazed out apartment windows at the police activity. Uniformed police officers secured the crime scene with yellow police tape. The coroner’s van, a black Plymouth Voyager as gleaming as a piece of polished obsidian, drove up onto the grass.

Gilbert waited for his young partner, Joe Lombardo, to come back from a first quick search for witnesses. While he waited, he looked around for shells. Four gunshots, but where were the shells? Powder burns on Morrell’s white shirt indicated close-range discharges. That meant the shells had to be around here somewhere. But where? He concluded the killer had been smart. The killer had picked up after himself.

Lombardo, wearing a dashing gray suit and a long leather coat, came back a few minutes later with Morrell’s wallet in a plastic Ziploc evidence bag. He walked along the crumbling sidewalk with a young black man. The two stopped at the garbage Dumpster and talked. Then Lombardo directed the man to the nearest uniformed police officer and came over to Gilbert.

“Who’s the guy?” asked Gilbert.

Lombardo grinned, proud of himself. “A witness,” he said.

Gilbert raised his eyebrows. “Does he know the shooter?” he asked.

Lombardo’s grin faded. “He saw the whole thing from that door over there. So he was a good ways off. It was dark at the time. But at least we have something. He says it happened around five A.M.”

“Did he get a description?” asked Gilbert.

“A black male, six feet, two hundred and fifty pounds.” Lombardo gestured toward the parking lot. “He fled the scene in a late-model white or beige four-door sedan.” Lombardo lifted Morrell’s wallet. “I phoned the victim’s home,” he said.

“And?” said Gilbert.

“He’s married,” said Lombardo. “His wife’s name is Lorna. He has two kids. They live out on Morningview. The East End. Way out.”

“So you spoke to his wife,” said Gilbert.

“Just to inform her,” said Lombardo. “I wrecked her day.”