I take a right, planning to pull over a block from the station, but there are cars parked all down Main Street. As I drive up to the courthouse lot I hear shouting; the whole place is jam-packed full of protesters. Everyone’s holding signs like the ones tied to the fence—RUTH FRIED: HOMECOMING QUEEN! RIP!—but most read like the Facebook posts: CITIZENS AGAINST COLT WIDDACOMBE and GET HIM OUTTA OUR TOWN! I scan the crowd and spot Libby Quinn leading some kind of chant. Everyone’s screaming in unison, red-faced and sweaty despite the cold weather. A few of the sign holders are lunch ladies from my high school.
Even Ralph is with them—which is nuts, given his general aversion to leaving the house. He’s holding a sign that says JUSTICE. It’s a pretty big deal for him to be here. He probably thought it was a thing all my friends are doing—because no matter how many times I explained it to him, he never really got it through his head that my only friend was Ruth. “But you must be popular, Kippy,” he always said. “You’re the coolest girl I know.” He probably thought he had to make up for not being at the memorial service, and that this was the next best way to be supportive. I’m kind of flattered, in a way.
I roll down my window and call out to him, but he can’t hear me above the chanting: “We! Want! Justice!” Libby spots me and hands off her megaphone to someone else.
“Katie Bushman!” she cries, trotting over. My heart does this embarrassing flip that she got half my name right. “This is so exciting.” She smiles. “I mean, do you see how far I’ve come with the Ruth Fried Foundation Brigade? Wait till I tell everyone you’re here. Did you bring Davey?” She peers into the backseat. “Oh . . . well, that’s okay. Did you bring your own sign? Never mind, don’t worry, you can share one of mine.” She shuffles through her stack of poster boards and offers me one that says IF NOT US, WHO? IF NOT NOW, WHEN?
I squint at it. “What does that even mean, though?”
Libby flips the sign around so she can read it. “I don’t know, actually, I got it online from a union website.” She shrugs, holding it out to me. “You can totally borrow it.” She bats her eyelashes. “Also, I wanted you to know that I’ve forgiven you for standing idly by while I was attacked with a recycling bin. Water under Gah’s bridge.” She shakes the sign at me.
“Thanks, Libby”—I push the sign back toward her—“but the thing is I’m actually here to talk to the sheriff, no offense.”
She frowns. “Ugh. You could at least join us for a second and send your message to the killer. He’s right up there.” She points to a barred window on the second floor of the courthouse. It didn’t occur to me that Colt would be inside, but I guess that makes sense. I stupidly imagined him being carted somewhere überofficial, like Alcatraz or Guantánamo Bay. If they do the trial here, Jim Steele will represent the state—I know because we did a unit at school called The Law, and he came to talk to us about it. And if the trial is here then all these people in the parking lot might be the jurors. Oof.
“Also, I met your neighbor,” Libby says. “What’s with his eyes going different directions”—she lowers her voice—“is he special needs? Also—”
I roll up the window while she’s still talking because I sort of can’t deal with it. “Sorry!” I mouth. I wave goodbye and gently honk my way through the crowd, browsing for a parking spot.
Sheriff Staake’s got on shiny black riding boots, a wide brimmed hat, and these pants that sort of poof out at the hips. It’s not the usual uniform, and part of me wonders whether he’s dressed up hoping the crowd will see him, or that camera crews will suddenly roll in. He’s even got a riding crop.
“Bushman!” he says, smacking the crop in his hand. “You’re late.” He gestures for me to sit down. “You want a Sprecher root beer, or some water from the bubbler?”
“I’m okay, thanks.” Aside from his TV appearances, the last time I saw Sheriff Staake was when he came to my third grade class to speak against the use of inhalants. I remember that on the way out he confiscated all the scented markers from the art nook. “That’s really nice of you though.”
“Of course. Now, you’re the Fried girl’s closest buddy, isn’t that right?” He smiles big, his eyes crinkling into nothing. “Bet that means you’ve got a lot of dirt on Widdacombe.” Outside, they’ve started singing the national anthem.
“Actually”—I pull off my backpack and rustle around inside for the diary—“it’s about Jim Steele. Basically Ruth was doing it with him—you know, Uncle Jimmy? I dog-eared the pages I could find with his name. Sometimes she calls him Big Daddy—it’s a gross code name. Anyway I thought maybe—”
“Whoa there, kiddo.” Staake collapses into his swivel chair. “Slow down. Take it from the top.”
I take a deep breath.. “Jim Steele is a true weirdo, sir. Here are some reasons: One. He was having a sex relationship with my former best friend—and by that I mean Ruth. Two. He said things to her like ‘I want to taxidermy you,’ and then she got viciously murdered. Three. He collects dead animals.” I slide the diary across his desk. “Here, that’s yours now. I know a lot of people around here collect taxidermied animals—dead pets or mounted deer heads or whatever—Dom and I got Mother Peanut Butter mounted after she passed away. And when she’s not situated on her favorite spot on the couch, we even make her the centerpiece at our kitchen table. But Jim Steele does it himself, like a hobby. He’ll pick up dead animals off the road or go out and shoot things just to put them in funny positions. Colt had to go see him to get out of a drinking ticket once and said there were squirrels in can-can dance lines, foxes with their arms around each other, and seagulls slapping each other high fives with their wings. That takes a pretty sick sense of humor if you ask me.”
“I thought I told you to slow down,” Staake grumbles, snatching the diary away. “And what exactly do you mean by sex relationship?”
“You know, sex things. Mrs. Fried gave me the diary in the first place because she wanted me to redact the sexual details—that means cross them out with a Sharpie marker, in case you’re wondering—but there’re so many of them it’s nearly impossible, and also I thought some of them might count as evidence, or whatever, which is why I’m here.”
Staake peers at the diary. “Is this even handwriting? It looks like a dog wrote this.” He sighs and snaps it shut, sliding it back to me. “Anyhow we got enough evidence as it is, we’re chock-full. It’s an open and shut case, not to boast; this boy Widdacombe did your friend, no question.” He lifts both feet onto the desk, crossing his legs at the ankle. “I’m sympathetic with you—you betcha. It must be hard—yes ma’am. I heard Davey Fried got up at the memorial and spilled the beans on the whole shebang—every gritty detail of the corpse and so forth—including those bloody bald patches on Ruth Fried’s skull from where Colt dragged her by her hair.” He shakes his head. “I bet the whole thing is giving you nightmares, no doubt.” He tosses me a Sharpie marker. My hands are so sweaty that it slips out of my fingers like a bar of soap and clatters on the floor.
“I actually didn’t know about the bloody bald patches,” I say.
“Well if you’ve got any more questions about it you just let me know—sometimes the particulars bring closure. I get that, yessir.” He crosses his arms. “For instance, did you know her bra was all askew? She’d obviously been fondled.”