Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

The state cops had gone, left a trail of hamburger wrappers and coffee cups with Boyd promising to keep him updated.

“You reckon I could pick up some extra shifts? I mean, I know I’m doing the days but I wondered if you needed me to hang around later.”

“Everything alright, Leah?”

“You know how it is. Got one heading off to college, and Ricky wants some video game.”

“Sure. I’ll sort something out.” They had a limited budget but he’d make it stretch for her. Ed owned Tallow Construction and she used to work admin there, but then the market turned on them. Still, he wondered if that was all it was. She seemed to be at the station more, at the beach, anywhere but home with her husband.

He had the file open, Star staring back. The reports were in now.

Beside that he had Vincent’s file. He’d spent the previous night looking back thirty years. He read transcripts, the first, looking into the death of Sissy Radley. And then he’d looked at the second, the prison brawl that got out of hand. The dead man’s name was Baxter Logan, and the way Walk read it he was the kind of person the world was well shot of. He was already serving life for the abduction and murder of a young realtor named Annie Clavers. Walk read the interview, Vincent’s voice clear in his mind.

I did it. We got into it, I hit him and he went down and didn’t get up again. I don’t remember much else. I don’t know what more to tell you, Cuddy. You give me something to sign and I’ll sign it.

Three more pages and Cuddy had explained the facts, tried to coax and lead in that subtle way Walk saw so clear. Let us call it self-defense, because everyone knew that’s what it was.

It wasn’t self-defense. Just a fight. Doesn’t matter who started it.

The state went in heavy again, settled on second-degree murder. Vincent settled on twenty years tacked on.

He picked up the phone and called Cuddy, got him after five minutes.

“I’m looking through the Vincent King file.”

Cuddy sniffed like he was fighting a cold. “I thought Boyd was done with that.”

“He is.”

“Right.”

“The report I got, Vincent King and Baxter Logan. There’s not much detail in the autopsy.”

“That’s all we’ve got, I’m afraid. Logan died when he hit the stone floor. Twenty-four years ago, Walk. Reports weren’t as detailed.”

“How is Vincent doing?”

He heard the big man lean back in his chair, the leather stretching. “He doesn’t speak. Not even to me.”

“Did he see himself on the news?” The locals were ramping up the pressure on the D.A. to finally bring the charges.

“He doesn’t have a TV.”

Walk frowned. “But I thought—”

“Oh he could have one. I’ve offered, many times.”

“So what does he do in there?”

Silence, a long time. “Cuddy?”

“He’s got a picture of the girl. Sissy Radley. He’s got it on the wall, and that’s the only thing in that cell.”

Walk closed his eyes as Cuddy told him to stay in touch.

He checked the report. The autopsy was carried about by David Yuto, M.D. It gave an address and phone number. He called it, got an answering machine and left a message. Twenty-four years, he doubted the man was still there. And if he was, Walk wondered what the hell he’d ask him. He was trying to be a cop, to work a case as best he could. Despite Boyd’s warning, he’d push on. He just didn’t know which direction to head in.

Louanne Miller came in, sat down opposite, not talking, just watching the window, like always.

Walk flipped a page and stared at Star, her hair fanned behind, arm bent at an angle like she was reaching out for someone to help her.

“You need to tidy this office.” Louanne looked at the stacked papers, the mess all over.

“I want to talk to Darke myself.”

“Because you’ll do better than the state cops? You’re tough like that?”

“I’ve known Darke since—”

“Nothing, Walk. That’s what that means. Nothing. Look at Vincent King, and I see you looking his way, like you expect him to still be the kid that left here thirty years back. He’s gone, though, whatever you knew about him, it left him the day he stepped into Fairmont.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Serious, Walk. I know you didn’t change. But everyone else did.”

Out the window Walk saw the colors too bright, blues and white, polished glass and bleached flags.

“So what else is there?” she said.

“Burglary. The place was trashed.”

“But nothing missing. More like a fight that got out of hand.”

“Milton’s lying.”

“No good reason for that.”

“Let’s go burglary. Could be Star disturbed them,” he said, again reaching, so far he almost stumbled over his words.

“All of this, what you’re saying, you have to discount the fact that we found a man, sitting in the house, her blood on his shirt, his prints all over everything, possible motive.”

“No way,” he fired back quick.

“And yet here we are. On a hunch.”

“Vincent won’t say a word. He won’t say why, he won’t say how he got in, what time it happened. Shit, he called it in himself. From their phone.”

“He was vicious. Star … how many ribs did he break? You’ve got the photos in front of you.”

He looked at them again, the marks angry across her chest, blue to purple, streaks upon broken bones. There was feeling involved, a kind of hatred so hot Walk could feel it searing.

“And the swelling by her eye.”

“He’s there, however he got in, no sign of a break-in. She invites him in, something happens. He beats her. Shoots her dead. Runs, hides the weapon, returns and sits down in the kitchen, calls it in. And waits for us. The kid, Robin, he’s locked in his bedroom, mercifully, but there’s a chance he heard something.”

Walk stood and opened the window to the call of another perfect morning. An hour or two at his desk, that’s all he could ever take.

“I need to talk to Darke,” he said again. “There’s history with Star. He’s violent.”

“Alibi is tight.”

“That’s why I’ve called her in.”

“Boyd said to leave it alone. Don’t fuck with a state case.”

Walk took a deep breath, everything swimming, nothing clear at all, other than the fact he knew Vincent. No matter what Louanne said. He knew Vincent King. Fuck the thirty years, he knew his friend.

“You need to shave, Walk.”

“So do you.”

She laughed at that. And then Leah called through, and told him Dee Lane was waiting.

He found her at the desk, then led her through to the compact office in the back. A small table, four chairs and a wide vase bursting with Vendela roses. View out over Main, more grandmother’s guesthouse than interrogation room.

Dee looked better than the last time he’d seen her. She wore a simple yellow summer dress and her hair was styled. A little makeup, just enough to push the soft in front of the hard. She carried a paper bag and handed it over to him.

“Peach galettes,” she said by way of greeting. “I know how much you like them.”

“Thank you.”

He had no tape recorder, no pad or pen.

“I already spoke to the officers from state police.”

“I’m just running over things. You want a coffee?”

She dropped her shoulders a little. “Sure, Walk.”

He left her, found Leah and asked her to put a pot on. When he returned Dee was standing by the window.

“It looks different out there,” she said. “Main. The new stores and the new faces. I mean, it was gradual, right. You know about the application for new homes?”

“It won’t pass.”

She turned, sat again and crossed her legs. “You think I’m weak … with Darke.”