The gun show was at the Chilhowee Park & Exposition Center off Magnolia Avenue in East Knoxville. I showed up at eleven in the morning and just sat in the parking lot and watched for a while. It was a decent morning, sunny but chilly with a light breeze. I was surprised at how many people were there. From what I’d read on the Internet, it cost ten bucks just to get in, and most of the guns they sold were more expensive than if you went to a local gun shop. But the Second Amendment supporters were out in force. I was also surprised that there were no police vehicles, at least none that were identifiable. As I sat in my car for about thirty minutes, watching, I saw at least two hundred people walk up to the Jacob Center and go inside. Finally, I’d seen enough to identify at least two people who were dealing out of their vehicles.
About fifty feet to my right was a green Honda CR-V. I’d noticed the occupant get out of his vehicle a couple of times and have conversations with people. He opened his trunk once and retrieved a box, and then he and the man he was talking with got into his car. The man got out of the passenger side a few minutes later carrying the box. I suspected he wasn’t doing anything illegal—he was simply selling a gun or two out of his private collection. I walked up in front of his vehicle and gave him a small wave. He rolled his window down.
“Looking for anything in particular?” he said in a thick Southern drawl. He looked around forty, had bright-green eyes, was wearing a University of Tennessee baseball cap, and had a perfectly waxed, brown handlebar mustache.
“Handgun. Probably a twenty-two, and I’d like a silencer if you have one.”
“Got a Walther P22 and a Gemtech Seahunter,” he said. “Last year’s model but there ain’t been a round through either one of them. They’re still in the box.”
I assumed the Walther was a pistol. I had no idea what a Gemtech Seahunter was. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Come on around and hop in.”
I walked around to the passenger side, and he went to the back of the CR-V as the rear hatch opened. He reached inside and pulled out a couple of boxes, then walked back around and got in on the driver’s side.
“Nice little combo,” he said as he took the pistol out of the box. “Do you know a lot about this particular gun?”
“Probably not as much as I should,” I said.
“Well, as you can see, this is a semiautomatic. The pistol has a prethreaded barrel for the suppressor mount. The magazine holds ten rounds. You use this little wrench, insert it right here near the end of the barrel, and remove the thread protector. Then you put the suppressor mount on that, and then click the suppressor into place.”
“How loud is it with the suppressor?”
“Like a whisper,” he said. “It’s extremely quiet.”
“How much?” I said.
“Cash, correct?”
“Of course.”
“Three hundred for the Walther and seventy-five for the suppressor.”
I figured he was gouging me a little, but under the circumstances, I was willing to pay it. There was no way this gun could ever be traced to me unless I was stupid enough to leave it at a crime scene with my fingerprints all over it.
“I’ll take it,” I said as I reached into my pocket and pulled out some cash.
“Just as a formality, I have to ask. You’re not planning to use this pistol for any illegal purpose, are you?”
“No, sir. I’m just taking it up as a hobby. Bored with the wife.”
“And you’re not a convicted felon?”
“Never been convicted of a thing.”
He smiled, took the money I handed him, counted it, boxed everything back up, and handed the boxes to me.
“Good luck to you, friend,” he said. “Don’t shoot yourself in the foot.”
I got out and walked back to my car with a little smile on my face. I’d just bought a pistol and a silencer without even having to tell the guy my name. What a damned country.
CHAPTER 30
Will Grimes picked up the phone. Sammy Raft was calling, and Grimes hoped he might have some information that would help. The double-murder case in Cowen had stalled, and Grimes needed a break.
“I been thinking about what you said,” Raft said.
“And?” Grimes hadn’t heard anything from Raft and wondered why he was getting this call out of the blue. Had Raft grown a conscience?
“I might want to take one more look at those pictures you showed me. I’m thinking that might be the same man that was in the bar that night.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can’t say for positive, I really can’t,” Raft said.
“Then you’re no good to me,” Grimes said. “I need a positive identification, not some wishy-washy ‘maybe.’”
“It was him,” Raft said.
“You’re sure,” Grimes said.
“I’m sure.”
“You’re positive.”
“I’m positive.”
“You’d take an oath in court and swear to it in front of a jury?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?” Grimes asked.
“I’m at work. At the bar.”
“I’ll be there in two hours.”
Grimes showed up right when he said he would, almost two hours on the nose after he and Sammy Raft had hung up the phone. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and the bar was empty.
Grimes walked in wearing the forest-green uniform of the West Virginia State Police. A “Smoky the Bear”—or campaign—hat sat atop his head. He’d worn the uniform because he thought it might both impress and intimidate Raft. As he looked into the mirror behind the bar, he concluded that he’d made the right choice. Grimes was six feet tall and lean, with a square jaw, dimpled cheeks, and intelligent brown eyes. The uniform made him look bigger, and it was definitely intimidating. Grimes removed his hat and sat down on a bar stool.
“You look scared,” Grimes said.
“You look different.”
“It’s the uniform. Makes me look taller than I am. Where are your customers? How do you keep the place open?”
“I made them leave because you were coming,” Raft said. “It’s no big deal. The building was paid for a long time ago. I don’t make a lot, but it pays the bills and gives me something to do. Business has been a whole lot better since those two boys got shot in here. I thought people would stay away, but just the opposite happened. People are strange. They’re curious about it. Ask me all sorts of questions.”
“Speaking of questions,” Grimes said. “Let’s start all over. Why don’t you come around and we’ll sit in a booth.”
Sammy walked around and sat down in the first booth across from Grimes while Grimes pulled out a pad.
“This is a form we use for witness statements,” Grimes said. “You talk, I’ll write. When we’re finished, you can go back over everything and then sign it. Fair enough?”
Sammy nodded.
“You said a man came into your bar the afternoon of the murders and ordered takeout, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“What did he order?”
“Just a cheeseburger and a can of Pepsi.”
“Did you talk to him at all?”
“Not other than to take his order.”
“Was there anyone else in the bar at the time?”
“Nope. Just me.”
“Okay, so this man came in around two in the afternoon, is that what you told me?” Grimes asked.
“Right. Around two.”
“And then he left and came back later.”
“That’s right. He walked in right around eight o’clock that Friday evening. Sat down on the first bar stool, right there. Donnie and Tommy were in the booth right . . . well, you saw them. You know where they were.”