“Not necessarily. She turned to face him, then saw what was happening and started to run.”
“And then he shot her right in the back of the head.”
“That’s right.”
“In other words,” I said, “he misses her slick and clean when she’s down on her knees and he’s standing right close behind her, but when she jumps up and starts to run, he makes a perfect bull’s-eye.”
Sellers scratched his head and said, “Well, hell, I don’t know what happened, but that’s an explanation.”
“It’s an explanation that doesn’t explain,” I said. “I’ll tell you what happened: There were three shots fired in that room. The other person who was in there knew he had to account for three shots. He wasn’t in a position to account for them, so he picked up the gun and the suitcase. He carried both of them off, far enough away so the report wouldn’t be heard. Then he fired a bullet into the suitcase. Then he brought the suitcase back to the cabin, left the suitcase, planted the gun in Dover Fulton’s hand, locked the door from the inside and climbed out of the window.”
“I don’t get you,” Sellers said. “Why did he go to all that trouble? Why did he do all that?”
“Because he had to account for the third bullet. He had to put it in the suitcase.”
“But that makes four bullets, the way you’re talking now,” Sellers said.
“Exactly.”