Amy stood up slowly and walked over to the window and looked down on the town of Crystal Falls. She loved and hated the old place. She loved its sense of history and the plainspoken goodness of most of its people. But she hated the whispers and the gossips, the people whose sole pleasure was to rejoice in the pain of others. But every town had people like that. Crystal Falls wasn’t any better or any worse than anyplace else. She let her gaze linger a moment on the city square, the bandstand and the Civil War memorial and the park benches where the old men played checkers eight hours of a sunny day.
“A lot of people are going to jump to a lot of conclusions,” Amy said quietly, not turning around to face Midge.
“Yeah, they are.”
“They’re going to condemn him before they even have any of the facts.”
“That’s why I think you’d better put Don in charge of this one, Amy.”
Amy turned around and faced Midge.
“I want to prove to people I can do my job, Midge. If the evidence warrants—”
She stopped. Took a deep, slow breath,
“If the evidence warrants,” Midge said, “you could charge him with murder?”
“Yes, if I had to.”
“If the evidence warrants, you could see that he was prosecuted to the full extent of the law?”
Amy hesitated at first, then: “I think so.”
“If that’s your best answer, Amy, maybe you’d better talk to Don.”
Grimly, sadly, Amy nodded her head in silent agreement.
4
Sam Bowers knocked twice, got no answer, then knocked twice again.
The only other time he’d ever been out to Richie McGuire’s cottage was when he’d dropped off a sweater that Amy had knitted for her brother. The two men had never gotten along especially well. Richie saw small-town lawmen as fools and Sam saw Richie as a glory-hog who couldn’t admit to himself that his glory was long and forever gone.
Sam knuckled out a third series of knocks. Then he walked over to the window right of the door and peered inside.
The one-room place looked like a college dorm room of the male variety. Dirty socks, shirts, and pants were draped over various pieces of furniture while the surfaces of tables were covered with crusty pizza cardboard boxes, empty beer cans, and a few glistening red packs of Trojans. There were dirty dishes in the sink, dirty dishes on the small kitchen counter, and even dirty dishes stacked on top of the small and ancient refrigerator. Sam was no neat freak himself, but living like this was inexcusable.
A toilet flushed.
Moments later, Richie emerged from the closet-sized bathroom buckling up his trousers. He wore no shirt, no socks. He had a hairy barrel chest and for all his drinking, he looked to be an exceptionally strong and reasonably well kept young man.
He’d obviously heard Sam’s knocks.
He came to the door and opened up.
“Hey, what the hell’s going on up on the hill?” Richie said, sounding almost like an innocently inquisitive kid. But the anxiety in the bright blue eyes belied his tone of innocence. He looked scared.
“Mind if I come in?”
“Not at all,” Richie said, some of the old swagger suddenly in his voice. “As soon as you tell me what the hell’s going on up on the hill.”
“Body was found.”
“Body?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, looking directly at him. “Fifteen-year-old girl named Darcy Fuller. I think you know her.”
“Oh, my God. Darcy? What the hell happened?”
Sam used Richie’s moment of shock — one he might well be faking — to push on inside.
He started scanning the place with his practiced cop’s eyes.
“You just getting up now?”
“Yeah. But I want to know more about Darcy.”
“You remember much about last night?”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Sam nodded to an empty fifth of J&B scotch sitting on the floor next to the rumpled single bed.
“It means it looks like you tied one on last night.”
“You think I had something to do with Darcy dying?”
“I’m not assuming anything, Richie — except that you were probably pretty drunk last night. At least that’s what I hear from the people at Riley’s Pub.”
Sam could see Richie struggling to remember. Sam had only been that drunk once or twice in his whole life. It was a scary feeling, waking up and not being able to remember anything. And then, even when people told you what you’d done, not being quite able to remember even then. The dark terrors. No doubt about it. Especially with a dead girl found not more than fifty yards from your place.
“How’d she die?”
“We’re not sure.”
“Then maybe it wasn’t murder.”
Sam could hear the hopefulness in Richie’s voice. Richie had to know that he was going to be the number one suspect in this thing.
“Maybe not,” Sam said.
“I’m going to make some instant coffee. You want some?”
“No, thanks.”
Sam watched as Richie ran some tap water into a battered little pan and set the pan on his two-surface hot plate.
“I need a caffeine fix,” Richie said, grinning nervously. “I’m a coffee junkie. Mainline the stuff.”
Sam studied him a long moment. For the first time since he’d ever met Richie, he felt a little sympathy for him. The guy had a serious drinking problem and the problem was destroying him. Over seventy percent of America’s prison population was behind bars because of crimes committed while drunk or on drugs.
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Richie.”
“Yeah. I can tell that. You come fucking breaking in here and give me the evil eye and then tell me you’re not accusing me of anything. Well, fuck you is what I say, Sam. You think that badge makes you king shit. But I’ll tell you something, man. I didn’t kill that girl so I don’t have to be afraid of you. I don’t have to be afraid of you at all.”
The Greeks called it catharsis, a cleansing of the soul.
Richie, through his angry speech, had just cleansed part of his soul.
He lifted the pan, said, “Shit!”
He’d burned himself on the handle of the blackened metal pan his hot water was in.
He reached over and grabbed a piece of newspaper and folded it up and used it to insulate his hand from the handle.
He poured steaming water into what appeared to be a dirty cup. His hand was trembling badly.
When the cup was full, he set the pan back on the hot plate, then picked up his drink.
He carried his cup back to his bed and sat on the edge.
Sam nodded his head. “Believe it or not, Richie, I want to help you.”
Richie gave him a twisted smile. “Say, that’s right. I forgot the angel you’re playing here. If you arrest me for murder, my big sister will like you even less than she does now.”
“I need to know your itinerary for the whole evening, Richie.”
Richie sipped his coffee, winced when the scalding liquid burned his lips.
Richie said, “How’d she die?”
“I told you. We don’t know yet.”
“You know when she died?”
“Not yet.”
“You don’t know how and you don’t know when but you’re all ready to throw my ass in jail.”
“Nobody’s getting thrown in jail, Richie. Right now, I just need you to calm down and answer some questions.”
Richie stared at him. “There’s only one question that matters, Sam, and you know it. And you don’t even have to ask it. I’ll answer it right now. I didn’t kill her.” His right hand made a fist. “I didn’t fucking kill her.”