Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

The butcher.

Milton.

Deschamps narrowed her eyes and straightened up a little.

Martha had Walk detail Milton’s early life, how his father was a butcher in the shop he went on to run. Walk said he was an outcast, the kind of kid that others crossed the street to get away from. Deschamps objected, cited hearsay, but the point was made.

That outcast had turned into a troubled adult. He was lonely, to the point where he often got talking to vacationers and asked them to go hunting with him. Yes, Milton liked to hunt. She detailed the weapons registered to him, the list was long and Walk watched the jurors exchanging glances.

“Would you say you were close to Milton?” Martha stood by the jury box as she spoke.

“I liked him. I felt bad for the guy, he always seemed a little desperate, but I just figured he was shy. He didn’t have friends, no one he could call on.”

“So he called on you?”

“Sometimes. We went hunting together, just the once, I like the eating but not the killing.”

A couple of laughs.

“So he was proficient with these weapons.”

“More than that. I saw him bring down a mule deer from a thousand yards. The man could shoot.” Walk aimed his answer at juror one, who hunted the Mendocino, just like Milton used to.

Martha moved it on, establishing that Milton lived across from Star, how he used to lend her his truck and take out her trash.

“I thought it was decent of him,” Walk said. “She had someone looking out for her.”

“Someone other than you?”

“Yeah.”

Walk met her eye then. She was doing well. He was proud of her.

Martha called their attention to exhibit C.

“Can you tell me what these are, Chief Walker?”

Walk ran them through it, what he’d found in Milton’s bedroom. Some of the jurors shook their heads at them, photos of Star in various states of undress.

“And how many of these were there?”

Walk blew out his cheeks. “A lot. Hundreds. They were catalogued by date, going back far.”

“An obsession.”

Deschamps looked like she wanted to object but held tight.

“It looks that way,” Walk agreed.

“Now you said Milton had a telescope.”

“He said he liked to watch the stars.” Walk said it even and waited for the jurors to catch it.

“But it wasn’t trained on the sky?”

Deschamps stood, said nothing and sat again.

“So what did it aim at?”

“Star Radley’s bedroom.”

“And the cataloguing, how recent did it go?”

“Up to the night Star was murdered.”

“And the photos from that night?”

“Missing. They haven’t been found yet.”

Martha eyed the jurors. “And what did Milton say when you asked him about it?”

“I didn’t get the chance. We pulled his body out of the water last month.”

Gasps then, loud enough for Rhodes to quiet them.

“He drowned,” Walk said. “No sign of foul play.”

“Suicide.” Martha let the word hang there as Deschamps got to her feet and screamed her objection. Martha withdrew it, but not before it had registered with everyone in that courtroom.

Deschamps tried hard at redirect, color in her cheeks as she got Walk to admit they hadn’t found Milton’s prints at the Radley house. He could’ve worn gloves. Walk didn’t need to say it. The guy was a butcher, he wore gloves. There was no stretch required.

The mood was better in the bar that night. Walk ordered them burgers and they ate in contented silence. Martha looked tired, the pressure so great. They talked a little about Vincent, and how he hadn’t reacted to Milton, just sat there like always, eyes down, ignoring the stares.

“It was a good day.”

Martha chewed the straw in her soda. “It’s still too much, Walk.”

He looked up.

“There’s too much to ignore. I don’t want you to get your hopes up. This case was never winnable, but we’ve done all we can. Milton was fortunate, as bad as that sounds. But it’ll take more. The gun, the bullet. The history there. The blood on his hands. Shit, I’d convict him if I didn’t know him.”

“But you do know him, right?”

“The jury don’t.”

He walked her out and stalled by her car. “You want to come back?”

“Closing arguments tomorrow. Early night for me.”

Her watched her leave, then climbed into the cruiser and headed back to the station. It was late, Leah done, the place in darkness but he hadn’t stopped by since the trial began. He found a stack of papers on his desk, hit the lights and slumped back. He fished through the mail, opened a couple before he came to it. Verizon Communications. Darke’s cell phone record. Boyd had come through for him.

There were pages going back a year, numbers so small Walk had to squint. He’d get back on it once the trial was done. He flipped them, eyes blurring as he yawned and stretched. He didn’t expect to get anything.

But then he found the date, December 19th, the day Hal died. It didn’t register at first, his eyes glossing over digits he knew well enough.

He focused again, expected to see something different.

And then he dropped the paper to the desk.

The call to Darke’s cell.

It had come from the Cape Haven Police Department.

She cried. He watched.

They sat in the yard, the Cape slept. She had been awake, the shadow beneath her eyes told him she did not sleep anymore.

She blinked dark tears of mascara.

A full moon above, highlighted the sorrow. Leah Tallow wiped her eyes, sniffed, cried some more. He had walked over to the house in silence, trying to find another answer, desperately searching for it.

“You want to tell me?”

There was no attempt at lying. She stared at the grass, calm set in, like she’d been waiting. “We’ve struggled for a long time.”

He drew a long breath, hoping to stave it off a moment longer, knowing once it came it would change things.

“It’s money, Walk.”

He watched the tortured look.

“Ed. The business, it’s all gone.”

“Gone?”

She looked up.

“Connect the dots for me here, Leah.”

She stared back at the house. “Tallow Construction, it’s been in Ed’s family seventy years. He took it over from his father, who took it on from his grandfather. It used to turn a decent profit. It used to employ half the town. Jesus, Ed still has fifteen men. We pay them out of our savings most months.

“And then Ed’s father died, and he left us the house, on Fortuna, second line. Not much, a lot for us, but not all that much in the real world.”

“You could’ve sold the business, cut the loss.”

“Ed wouldn’t. He loves this town, Walk. Like you do. But we need the change, the new homes, the new money. And you blocked it, you and the others, you voted it down whenever you could.”

“Last I heard it’ll go through regardless.”

“But it’s too late for us now. You buried us, you know that.”

He let that sit a while, wondered at his role, his need to keep Cape Haven from moving on without him, without Vincent and Star and Martha.

“Darke?” he said.

Then she took a breath. “He bought the Fortuna house from us for cheap. In return he had the contracts lined up for Ed to pull it down, and the rest of the street. Construction. Ed would get them, all those homes, condos, it would save us, Walk. And save the Cape, the real Cape, the locals that were born here.”

“But it’s gone now. All of it.”

“Not yet.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The King house. The insurance. Duchess Radley has the tape. If she just gives it back to Darke then the insurance will pay out and we’ll get it back.”

He let that settle, his mind spinning. “How much?”