Page 19 of The River We Remember

He popped the trunk of his cruiser, pulled out two pair of leather gloves, and tossed a pair to Graff. They tugged them on as they approached the riverbank.

“What do you want me to shoot?” Wicklow asked.

“Everything,” Brody replied.

Brody and Graff slowly walked the perimeter of the scene, just as they had the day before, trying to get a general sense of things, while Wicklow shot photo after photo. Of the large area of blood-soaked earth with the shotgun dead center. Of the discarded pants and shirt and undershirt and boots and socks. Of the opened tackle box and the rod and reel lying on the ground nearby. Of the Coleman lantern. Of Quinn’s pickup from every angle. Of the seat with the soiled calfskin gloves and the empty pint of Beam lying beside them.

After half an hour, Wicklow said, “I’ve used up two rolls of film, Brody. I can’t see anything I haven’t photographed seven ways from Sunday.”

Brody said, “Just stay over there by my cruiser until I say it’s all right to join Connie and me.”

Brody brought out a number of paper evidence bags and a clean tarp from the trunk of his cruiser. He laid them on the ground and then he and Graff entered the scene.

Brody said, “Let’s start with the shotgun.”

It was a double-barrel, eight-gauge Tolley, a big, expensive piece. Brody cracked the breech and found one spent shell and one unfired. The shotgun still carried the smell of exploded powder.

He said, “Let’s wrap this in the tarp and dust it for prints back at the jailhouse.”

They handed the wrapped firearm to Wicklow with instructions to put it in the trunk of the cruiser and continued their investigation. Brody went through the pockets of the discarded clothing. He pulled out a wallet, checked the driver’s license, confirmed it belonged to James Patrick Quinn. The wallet contained $116, a lot of cash to be carrying around in those days. In the right front pants pocket, Brody found a prescription bottle of Seconal, not a surprise. But from the left pants pocket, he pulled a silver ring set with a gemstone. He held it in the palm of his glove, and he and Graff considered it.

“Looks like sapphire,” Graff said. “Real, you think?”

“I don’t know jewelry,” Brody said.

“Too small and feminine for Jimmy Quinn. Unless he was going to wear it on his little toe.”

Brody bagged the ring, then the discarded clothing and work boots. They examined the opened tackle box and the rod. The end of the fishing line had nothing on it, no leader or lure or hook.

“Think that’s because he wasn’t really intending to fish when he came here?” Graff asked.

“His tackle box is open,” Brody said. “That Coleman lantern would indicate he was probably planning to stay well into the dark. For a man who wasn’t intent on fishing, he came prepared.”

“Maybe got too drunk to fish. But was he fishing and drinking alone?” Graff said.

Brody studied the riverbank, especially the area soaked with blood. “No shoe prints anywhere. No other evidence right now to suggest somebody was here with him. So it’s either suicide or an accident.” He positioned himself on the bank with his back to the river. “If it was suicide, to end up in the Alabaster, he’d have to be standing here, holding the shotgun like this.” He posed in the way he’d described Quinn.

“It would take a long pair of arms to reach that trigger,” Graff said.

“Quinn was a big man,” Brody replied. “Arms like an orangutan.”

“So he pulls the trigger, and the blast sends him reeling back into the river.”

“And at the same moment, he drops the shotgun,” Brody said, completing the scenario.

Graff eyed him. “You buy that?”

“I’m not dismissing anything at the moment. So, what about an accident? How would that have happened?”

“He’s been drinking heavy,” Graff said. “And maybe doping himself with those tranquilizers we found. He’s brought out his Tolley in case he spots a pheasant or a big wild turkey or maybe a prairie chicken.”

“It’s not hunting season for any of those birds, Connie.”

“Since when did a consideration of the law keep Jimmy Quinn from doing what Jimmy Quinn wanted to do?”

Brody accepted that and continued with the speculation Graff had begun. “He sees something that causes him to grab for the shotgun. But the Jim Beam and Seconal make him clumsy. He drops the Tolley, the butt hits the ground, the damn thing discharges. He falls back into the river, and there the shotgun lies.”

Graff thought it over and said quietly, “Bullshit.”