Santa Fe Dead

“The doorman called from downstairs,” she said. “He said Rod, my ex-husband, had walked right past the desk and taken the elevator up before the doorman could stop him. I went into the bedroom for you, but you were in the shower, so I picked up your gun and went to answer the door. When I opened it, he had a gun in his hand; he raised it, and I shot him.”

“Just sit here quietly and compose yourself,” Eagle said.

“I’m composed. Is he dead?”

“I’m going to go find out right now.” He left her, walked to the door and felt for a pulse in the man’s neck. Nothing. There was a bloody hole just left of the center of his chest. “He’s dead.”

“I thought he might be,” she replied.

Eagle went back into the bedroom, got his address book and phoned the chief of police, who was a pretty good friend of his.

“Chief Sams’s office,” a woman’s voice said.

“This is Ed Eagle. I’m a friend of the chief’s, and I need to speak to him right now.”

“I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting. Can I have him call you?”

“Please write a note saying the following: Ed Eagle is on the phone. He says there’s been a shooting, and a man is dead, and he needs to speak with you immediately. Have you got that?”

“Please hold, Mr. Eagle.”

Eagle sat and waited. And waited.

Finally, she came back on the line. “Mr. Eagle, you’re co

“Joe?”

“Hello, Ed. What’s this about a shooting?”

“I’m at the home of a friend of mine, Susa

“I know who she is.”

“Her ex-husband has just come to her apartment in Century City, armed, and he was shot. He’s dead.”

“Did you call nine-one-one?”

“No, you were my first thought.”

“Call nine-one-one, and let’s get that on the record. They’ll refer the call to a detective in the precinct that covers Century City, and I’ll speak with the watch commander. Don’t touch anything; wait for the detectives.”

“Thank you, Joe. I’ll call nine-one-one right now.” Eagle hung up and called the emergency number.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

“A man has been shot in Century City.”

“Is he still alive?”

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

“He has a hole in his chest, he’s not breathing and he doesn’t have a pulse.”

The dispatcher asked for his name, phone number and address. “Someone will be there shortly.”

Eagle hung up. “What’s the number for the front desk?”

Susa

Eagle phoned it and told the doorman that the police were on the way and to send them upstairs without delay, then he hung up and went to check the body again for signs of life. Still nothing. There was a snub-nosed.38 revolver on the floor beside it. That was good. He went into the bedroom, grabbed some clothes and went back into the living room, dressing as he spoke to Susa

“Tell me what happened when you opened the door.”

“I opened it and stepped back at the same time.”

“The gun was in your hand?”

“Yes, but I held it behind me; I didn’t want to seem to be threatening him.”

“Did you see his gun?”

“Yes.”

“Where was it?”

“His hand was in his pocket. He said, ‘You filthy bitch,’ and he pulled the gun out of his pocket and began to raise it. That’s when I shot him.”

“All right, when the police get here I want you to answer their questions truthfully.”

“All right.”

“Are the messages still on your answering machine?”

“Voice mail. I didn’t erase them.”

“That’s good. Did Rod seem angry?”

“Yes, but it seemed like a cold anger; there was no expression on his face. It felt as though he had already made the decision to kill me.”

The phone rang, and Susa

Since the door was already open, Eagle didn’t have to answer it. Two detectives appeared, their badges displayed. “Are you Ed Eagle?” one of them asked.

“Yes.”

The two men briefly examined the body, then turned back to Eagle.

“I’m Detective Lieutenant Rivera. This is Detective Sergeant Riley.”

“Thank you for coming. This is Susa

“Good. Mr. Eagle, will you go into the bedroom with Sergeant Riley? He will question you there.”

“No. I’ll have to be present while you question Ms. Wilde, so that I’ll know what she says to you.”

“As you wish. When we’re done questioning her, I’ll question you separately. There’ll be a crime scene team here shortly, so let’s get started.” The two detectives took chairs opposite the sofa, and Eagle sat down next to Susa

“Mr. Eagle, do you mind if I record this interview?”

“No,” Eagle replied.

Rivera placed a small recorder on the coffee table and switched it on. “Ms. Wilde, my name is Lieutenant Rivera, and this is Sergeant Riley.” He noted the date and time and read Susa

“Yes.”

“For the record, you are represented by counsel, Mr. Ed Eagle.”

“Yes.”

“Are you acquainted with the decedent? The dead man?”

“Yes, he is my ex-husband. We were divorced about ten months ago.”

“Can you give me his name, age and occupation?”

“His name is Rodney Spearman, he’s…” She thought for a moment. “He’s forty-five, and he’s a film producer at Centurion Studios.”

The questioning continued for ten minutes, until the crime scene team arrived and were briefed, and then it began again. When the detectives had finished questioning Susa

“I don’t need to lie down,” she protested.

“Yes, you do, and the detectives want to question me alone.”

“Oh, all right.” She stretched out on the bed, and Eagle went back into the living room and sat down. The detectives questioned him closely. Shortly, the crime scene investigator walked over.

“Lieutenant, you want my preliminary report?”

“Yes, please.”

“Cause of death, gunshot wound to the heart; time of death, approximately half an hour ago. We have the weapon, a.45-caliber, semiautomatic pistol.” He held up a plastic bag containing Eagle’s gun. “One shot fired, range three to four feet. A.38 revolver was on the floor beside the decedent in a position consistent with it being in his hand when he was shot. I’ll need to examine the woman’s hands for gunshot residue.”

Eagle went into the bedroom and got Susa

Rivera held up the gun. “Mr. Eagle, you said this is yours?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Do you live in this apartment with Ms. Wilde?”

“No.”

“Do you have a license for this weapon in Los Angeles?”

Eagle produced his carry license.

“Where do you reside?”

“In Santa Fe, New Mexico.” Eagle gave them the address.

“How did you obtain this license?”

“I filled out an application and sent it to Chief Sams.”

“I see you’ve had it for some years,” Rivera said, checking the date on the license, then returning it to Eagle. “It’s an interesting gun,” he said. “Tell me about it.”

“It was made by a gunsmith named Terry Tussey, who lives and works in High City, Nevada. One of his specialties is making small, lightweight.45s.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve seen photographs of his work. How much does it weigh?”

“Twenty-one ounces, empty. I would be grateful if you would return it to me as soon as your investigation will allow; it’s an expensive weapon, and I don’t want to lose it.”

“I’ll see that you get it back as soon as it’s released.” Rivera handed the gun to Riley. “All right, Mr. Eagle. Our preliminary investigative conclusion is that this was a legal shooting, so we won’t be arresting Ms. Wilde, unless evidence to the contrary emerges.”