Philipp Meyer - American Rust

He tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing but then Billy Poe was on his mind again, and what this would do to Grace. He vaguely remembered the man Ho said was the owner of the dead dog, he'd just moved to town from West Virginia, typical toothless speed freak, had relatives here. He wondered if the man deserved a special visit. But probably watching his dog get machine- gunned was enough.

After an hour more of catching up on paperwork, he decided he couldn't stand it. He went and got Billy Poe from the cell. Billy looked depressed. That was a good sign.

“Let's talk in the office,” said Harris.

Billy Poe followed him into the office and stood politely until Harris motioned him to a chair. It occurred to him that the kid had been through this plenty of times before, called to the principal's office and lectured. Called to this very office and lectured. He tried to recollect what he'd said last time. He hoped he didn't repeat himself — they all remembered.

“I watched you play ball,” he said.

Billy Poe didn't say anything. He was looking at the floor.

“You should have gone to college with it.”

“I was sick of school.”

“Won't tell you that's smart. I know other people did, or just didn't say anything. But I won't. That was one of the dumbest moves you ever made.”

Poe shook his head. “You ought to be able to grow up in a place and not have to get the hell out of it when you turn eighteen.”

Harris was slightly taken aback. “I might agree with you and I might not,” he said, “but either way it doesn't change a goddamn thing.”

“I'm gonna call up the coach at Colgate.”

Ho knocked and Harris told him to come in. He was carrying a box from Dairy Queen and Harris went through it and set a hamburger and French fries and a milkshake in front of Poe. They could all see the steam coming off the food.

“Vanilla shake?” said Harris.

“No, thank you.”

“Go on and eat.”

“I can't,” said Poe. “That stuff gives me problems with my stomach.”

Harris and Ho looked at each other, then at Billy Poe.

“He didn't eat what I brought him last night, either,” said Ho.

“It's the chemicals,” Poe said. “That stuff isn't fresh.”

“What do you think prison food is gonna be like?” said Ho. “You think they offer organic?”

Harris grinned but waved him out of the room, and then faced Billy Poe across the desk again. He decided to push the boy a little. “No job,” he said. “No skills to speak of, no car, if you're counting ones that actually run. Mostly likely headed to get some girl in trouble, if you haven't already. And now you're a cunt hair away from a murder conviction and I do mean a cunt hair, too.” Harris held up his fingers. “So whether some college football coach remembers you or not, that's pretty much the least of your worries.”

Poe didn't say anything. He began to pick at the fries.

“Tell me about this man,” said Harris.

“Don't know anything about it.”

“I saw you there, William. Returning to the scene of the crime to …” He nearly mentioned the jacket but stopped himself. “The only reason I didn't take you in right then was because of your mother. Plenty of kids like you get out but the ones that stay, I've seen what becomes of them.”

“You're here, if it's so good to leave.”

“I'm an old man. I've got a boat and slip and a cabin on top of a mountain.”

“Big deal.”

Harris rummaged in the broad oak desk and came out with a manila folder, from which he took several printouts of digital photos. He passed them to Poe. From the way Poe dropped the papers, he recognized the scene pictured.

“Otto Carson, if you want to know the guy's name. The DA over in Uniontown is a brand- new guy as you may or may not know, he's got a dead woman in a dumpster with no clues and here you are dropping this in his lap. The staties want me to confiscate your goddamn shoes.”

Poe looked at his sneakers.

“Thing is, Billy, the now- deceased Mr. Carson was a piece of shit. Been locked up for all kinds of crap, some stays in mental wards, two outstanding warrants for assault, one from Baltimore and the other from Philadelphia. Sooner or later he was going to kill somebody. Most likely he already had.”

“What's your point,” Poe said.

“If it were up to me, if you'd come to me right away, this would have been an easy self- defense plea. Or it might have just gone away on its own. But that's not what you did. You ran. Now you got a guy who was there with you in that machine shop claiming you killed his buddy.”

Harris leaned back in his chair, into the sunlight. Usually he liked to watch people in these situations, every tic on their guilty faces. But he did not want to look at Billy Poe. “You need any coffee?” he said.

Poe shook his head.

He waited for Poe to comment, or make a gesture, but he didn't. Harris got up and walked to the window and looked out over the Valley. “I'm guessing there were five of you in the machine shop. You, someone else who was probably Isaac English, Mr. Carson, and two of his friends—”

“Then why haven't you picked up Isaac?”

“Isaac English is not a suspect,” Harris said, “because the DA doesn't know who he is, and the more the DA knows, the worse off you are going to be.”

“Like I said,” Poe told him, “I don't know anything about it.”

Harris nodded. He decided to try nice cop. “You did the right thing, Billy. You need to tell me what happened, and who else was in that plant with you, so we can make sure this goes to trial as self-defense. Because if all the jury sees is that you killed a man and fled the scene, even a bunch of good ole boys are gonna vote to hang you.”

“His buddy had a knife to my neck and the dead guy was coming at me to finish the job,” said Poe.

“Good.”

Poe looked at him.

“Don't stop now.”

“It was dark,” Poe said. “I couldn't see the rest of their faces.”

“No.”

“I didn't kill him.”

“Billy, I goddamn caught you going back to the crime scene.” Again he resisted mentioning the jacket he'd found. “I got your footprints everywhere. Size fourteen Adidas — know how many people wear those?” He looked under the desk at Poe's feet. “Most likely blue in color, right?”

Poe shrugged.

“If you're lucky this is going to put you in jail until you're fifty. If you catch a bad break it'll send you to the injection booth.”

“Whatever.”

“Billy you and I know that the truth, the one that matters, is that this man was killed by his own choices in life. That for all practical purposes, you had such a small part of it as to mean nothing. But you need to help me now.”

“I couldn't see their faces.”

Harris shook his head. He motioned Poe to stand up.

“Am I gonna be booked now?”

“For your mother's sake I'm letting you go home tonight to get yourself in order. Tomorrow I'm going to come by your house and pick you up before the staties do. Make sure those shoes don't exist anymore, and if you still got the box, or any kind of receipts, burn them, too. And don't get any ideas in you. They'll send you up for sure if you run.”

“Fine,” said Poe. “I'll be there.”

“This witness,” said Harris. “Claims he saw the whole thing. Tell me about him.”

“I need to go home,” said Poe. “Give me a day to think about it.”

“You gonna run if I let you go?”

“I ain't goin anywhere.”

What does it matter, he thought. Then he thought: don't be stupid about this. But they had nothing to hold Billy Poe on anyway. Or at least nothing the DA knew about.

“I'm guessing you got a day, maybe two, before they put a warrant out for you, so I'm gonna come by your mother's house tomorrow morning. Make sure you're there.”