Ed Gorman - Voodoo Moon

"God, I'm sorry."

"Maybe it was good for me."

She was about to go on but the waitress came. She ordered a salad and coffee. When the waitress left, she said, "I used to be a real bitch. My father was a judge and we came from a lot of inherited money. And I was always the best-looking girl in the room. I was very arrogant. My scar changed all that. People focus on the scar now, not my looks. And it's taught me humility. I see what a lot of people-people with limps and lisps and lost limbs and things like that-go through. Now when people stare at me it isn't because I'm such a babe. It's the scar." She smiled. "They're always curious how I got it, of course. I'm the same way with other people who have facial scars. I've been thinking about printing up little fliers that give the whole story. Then I could just hand them out and they could read them. I went from a princess to a whole different perspective. So I guess I should thank him for that. I'm a real person now. When I think back to what a spoiled, selfish bitch I was, I shudder. Literally."

"So how did you become a cop?"

"Well, during the trial and everything-my boyfriend came from a wealthy family too, so the trial went on for more than a month-I started getting interested in police work and things like that. I finished up college and went to the police academy in Des Moines. Then I came back here and started out in a patrol car."

"You must like it."

"Love it."

While we ate, we talked mostly about the disadvantages of small-town life. I told her about my place outside Cedar Rapids, and how the loneliness was good sometimes, and not so good at other times. I told her about my wife.

"You still love her," she said.

"I suppose I do."

"I can hear it in your voice."

"You don't ever forget somebody like her."

"I envy both of you. A relationship like that."

"You're not married?"

"Came close once a few years ago. But it went south, as the saying goes." She paused. "He was a lawyer and he got involved with a woman whose divorce he was handling. A lot of lawsuits and litigation. The woman sued him and so did her husband. I figured if he couldn't be faithful while we were engaged, he'd never make it while we were married. Even when I was a spoiled bitch, I was faithful. Adultery is something I can't abide. My aunt was unfaithful to my uncle, and it destroyed him. I was very young when it happened. It made a terrible impression on me. I never forget it."

"You don't sound like any chief of police I've ever talked to."

She grinned. "More like Oprah, huh?"

"A little. But I like it."

While chewing the last of a forkful of celery, she said, "He's guilty."

"Rick?"

She nodded.

"Not according to Dr. Williams."

"Dr. Williams can't afford to believe he's guilty."

"Why not?"

"All the publicity he got for 'curing' Rick. No drugs. Quits stalking his girlfriend. Becomes the same good little boy he used to be. And then he suddenly starts taking meth again and stalking her and ultimately killing her. Dr. Williams was hoping to get a big book contract. One of his nurses even told me he was speculating who'd play him in the TV movie."

"Wow. A modest man."

"But if Rick's found guilty, all that's gone."

"I take it Dr. Williams isn't your favorite guy."

"I don't have much faith in psychiatry. And I feel the same way about the hired guns who work for the state. They mostly play word games and puff themselves up. My understanding is that most of Freud has been discredited anyway."

"So I hear."

She shrugged. "To be fair, we've all got our angles. I was the one who arrested Rick, so I want to see him convicted. So does Sandy's dad, because he knows all the terrible things Rick did to his daughter-even before he killed her. Dr. Williams and Rick's folks don't want to see him convicted because they've convinced themselves he's innocent, and because it will reflect badly on them if he's found guilty. They saw the wild kid he became but they couldn't do anything about it. A lot of people in a town like this always blame the parents."

"You don't see any possibility that it's somebody else?"

"Not really."

"And being a dutiful chief of police, you've considered other possibilities?"

"I know the rap."

"The rap?"

"That we make up our minds who did it and then never investigate anybody else."

"It happens."

"Did Dr. Williams tell you Rick was seen leaving the boathouse where the body was found?"

"No."

"Did he tell you that DNA tests showed Rick had her blood all over his hands?"

"No."

"Did he tell you that her bra-with her blood on it-was found in Rick's car?"

"Wow."

"Wow is right. How'd you like to be the attorney who has to argue against that kind of evidence?"

"Who is his attorney, by the way?"

"Woman named Iris Rutledge. Two blocks down and around the corner. Upstairs. She's young and smart and good. But she's not going to win this one."

"More coffee?" the waitress asked. We both said yes, please. She filled our cups.

She said, "Do you bowl?"

I smiled. "Not so's you'd notice."

"Good. How about going bowling with me tonight?"

"Really?

"I usually go with a friend but she's got a cold. I need somebody to bowl with."

"Boy," I said. "Bowling."

"And afterward we can walk down to the DQ."

"Dairy Queen?"

"Right."

"Life in the fast lane."

"You know you want to go, Payne. You're just trying to be this big-city sophisticate."

"How do you know I want to go?"

"The way you're looking at me."

"Maybe I'm looking at your scar."

"Huh-uh. You're past that point. Now, you're looking at me. And I appreciate it. I guess I've still got some vanity left after all. Pathetic as it is." For the first time, I sensed her self-consciousness about the scar. And maybe a little bit of the pain.

I laughed. "My pleasure. You're still a good-looking woman. So do I pick you up or what?"

"I'll just meet you there. It's on the east edge of town. Night Owl Lanes."

"I don't have a bowling shirt."

"They'll probably let you in anyway."

She stood up. Picked up both checks.

"Hey."

"I'm also on the chamber of commerce board, Payne. I'm supposed to pick up checks like this." Then, "See you about eight o'clock."

Iris Rutledge's office was on the top floor of what had once been a grocery store. In the first-floor windows, you could still see some of the produce stalls and two of the aisles. Dust to dust. Rats roamed the place now. They left their little turds everywhere. Another era come and gone. It was sad somehow, and scary. Someday my era would come and go, too, my whole generation vanished utterly.

I walked up the outside steps to the second floor. They creaked and wobbled. I wondered if she did personal injury law. The stairs seemed on the verge of collapse. She might end up defending her-self someday.

There was a sign that read COURTHOUSE. BACK AT 3.

I went back down the stairs, and that was when I saw him. He hadn't been there before. Heavyset balding guy in a nondescript, forest-green, Ford four-door sedan. Illinois plates. White button-down shirt. Dark glasses. Motor running. He was intently writing something in a small black notebook. Then he abruptly pulled away. The bands in the automatic transmission sounded a little loose for such a new car. Down to the end of the block. Turned right. Gone.

I was just walking back to my own car when a girl pulled up on her racing bicycle. She wore black leather riding gloves, black latex racing shorts, and a white T-shirt inside of which bobbed merry little braless breasts. She was somewhere around eighteen, pretty in a freckled, prairie way. "You Mr. Woodson?"