Allison Brennan - See No Evil

Connor drove out to the south end of the city, close to the Tijuana border, to talk to Billy at the auto repair shop where he worked. Connor knew Billy well from the youth center. The last thing Billy needed was the cops all over him. The kid was clean, but he didn’t like authority, and after what happened with Judson, Connor couldn’t blame him. Still, Connor had no doubt that Billy had written the message about “Jackass Judson.” It sounded just like him.

Six feet five inches of lean black muscle, Billy Thompson looked older than a nineteen-year-old almost-basketball player. His head was shaved and his hands were huge. Connor waited while Billy finished with a customer before walking over to him.

“Hey, Billy.” He stuck out his hand and Billy slapped it front, back, and then slammed his knuckles.

“What’s up, Kincaid?” Billy asked. “Problem with your truck?”

“No, I just need to talk to you about something.”

Billy narrowed his eyes. “You sound like a cop again.”

“You can take the cop out of the precinct, but…” Connor smiled. Billy didn’t. He crossed his arms.

“What do you want me for?”

Connor wasn’t going to bullshit Billy. He’d been through enough crap in his life. “It’s about Judson.”

Billy’s face froze, and his body seemed to double in size.

“I have nothing to say.”

“I know. But this is important. Someone else is being railroaded for a murder they didn’t commit, and I think there might be a connection.”

That was enough to at least get Billy to relax a bit.

“Why should I?”

“Because you want to.”

Billy blew out a long breath and led Connor into the back where he had a small office. A basketball rested on top of a filing cabinet, sandwiched between two trophies; a framed picture of Billy with his mom on the desk; and his high school diploma, honors certificates, and newspaper articles with photographs of Billy playing high school basketball were displayed on the walls.

Billy sat behind the desk, the chair pushed back to accommodate his long legs. “What?”

“How’s school?”

“Fine.”

“What happened with Texas?” Last Connor had heard, one of the top college basketball scouts was looking at Billy.

“Don’t know anything yet. I’m not getting my hopes up. Can the small talk and spill it.”

“You might have some information we could use to help us in a murder investigation.”

“I didn’t know you’re a cop again.”

“Nope, still a private investigator. But a friend of mine is in trouble and I want to help her.”

“So what do you think I know?”

“It’s about Judson’s murder.”

“You know I had nothing to do with that.”

Billy sounded hurt that Connor might think bad of him, so Connor put his hands up. “I know. Judson screwed you big-time. This isn’t about you.”

“We all look the same to white folks. There were twenty-three brothers over six foot four in that school, but Judson was certain it was me.”

It was well known on the force that witnesses whose race differed from the suspect were less than reliable in identification. Connor could easily see that happening with a vice principal in a school with over two thousand students. Judson, an older white man versus a school filled with boys and girls across all races.

Connor had gotten some of that himself. He looked far more like his mother’s Cuban family than his father’s Irish family. When he was in high school virtually every teacher made a comment about his last name. If he had a dime for every time someone said to him you don’t look Irish …on occasion he’d wanted to deck someone.

One he had. He hadn’t started it. He’d been thirteen and Brian Forster said, “Kincaid? What kind of spic name is that? Must be adopted, you don’t look Irish.”

“Funny, you don’t look stupid.”

He hadn’t swung first, but he won the fight and as a result, he’d been suspended for a week. Still, it had been worth it to see the blood spurt from that asshole’s nose. For about ten minutes. Then his father lectured him and his mother cried and that was the last time Connor hit someone out of anger.

He cleared his mind, focused on the task at hand, renewed empathy with the kid in front of him. Connor had been working with underprivileged youth since long before he left the force. When he had resigned, he spent even more time at the youth centers around town. Some kids were bad news. Others were trapped and ended up making the wrong choices. And others, like Billy, really tried to change their lot in life and sometimes got shit on by those who claimed to want to help.

“Billy, you know I understand where you’re coming from. Don’t give me shit.”

Billy said nothing, but his physical demeanor relaxed. He shrugged, leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms. “What about Judson? Everyone thinks I killed him, you know.”

“But you didn’t. You have the truth on your side,” Connor said softly.

“What do you want to know?”

“Have you heard of a group called ‘Wishlist’?” Connor asked.

Billy straightened. “How do you know about that?”

Connor slid over the message he’d taken from Patrick’s file.

“Do you recognize this?”

Billy didn’t touch the paper, but he read it.

“Yeah. I wrote it. What’s it to you?”

“What is ‘Wishlist’?” Connor asked.

“Hell if I know. Just a bunch of whiny pricks. Life sucks, you know? Shit happens. But these people just whine and complain ’bout every fucking thing that happens to them.”

“You were in the group and you don’t know what it is?”

“It’s just an online message group. You know, sign up and get e-mails from everyone in the group. It was supposed to be anger management or something-talk about your problems and they’ll disappear, shit like that. But it wasn’t for me, you know? I quit after a couple months.”

“How did you get hooked up with them in the first place?”

“After Judson expelled me I was stupid, okay? I took a bat to his car. I had to pay for the damage and take this anger management class. So I did. The shrink told me about the group, said it was for people like me who just wanted to talk. Do I look like someone who needs to talk about my shit? But I did it because I thought I’d get points and get out of the stupid class. I dumped it as soon as my probation was up. Kept my nose clean since. You know that, Kincaid, don’t you?”

“You have the cleanest nose down at the gym.”

A half-smile turned Billy’s lips up. “Damn straight.”

“Did you save any of the e-mails?”

“Naw, and I never had a computer either. I used the computer at the library at school. Haven’t been online since I graduated last June.”

So “Wishlist” was an online anger-management community, apparently aimed toward teenagers, considering that both Billy and Emily had been members. Billy’s psychiatrist recommended it, and Connor wondered if the same had happened with Emily.

He was about to ask when Billy tapped the message and said, “Damn, I sounded like a lunatic when I wrote that. But it’s easy to rant when it’s anonymous. Now, I don’t care. I’ve got a chance to go to Texas in the fall and the only thing I want to do is play basketball and take care of my ma. I’m not going to blow it.” He looked at Connor, fidgeted. “Um, thanks for the recommendation letter. Appreciate it.”

Connor nodded, stood. “By the way,” he asked, “who was your shrink?”

“Dr. Bowen. Some rich-ass shrink. Nice enough guy, I guess, but he never understood. Though, to tell you the truth, talking about my frustration did help. Maybe not then, but now…well, I don’t let things get me riled like they used to, if you know what I mean.”