“Yes.”
I looked at the scattered containers resting haphazardly against the wall, at the strata of Rainier beer crates that were stacked in every available space. It was daunting, but he had found a frying pan. “Box.”
“Jesus.” The pork sausage began to sizzle. He approached the boxes and began going through them in a methodical fashion, top row first, left to right. “Walt, we need to go over a few things.” This had an ominous tone to it. “There was a time when this particular lifestyle had its place, the grieving widower valiantly sallying forth through a sea of depression and cardboard. This gave way to the eccentric lawman era, but now, Walt my friend, you are just a slob.”
I hugged my coffee cup a little closer and straightened my robe. “I’m a lovable slob.”
He had made it through the top row and was now working the collapsed fringe toward the backdoor. “At the risk of sending you into a tailspin, Martha has been dead for four years.”
“Three.” He stopped and leaned against the door facing, the other hand at his side.
The sausage popped, sending a small splatter to the plywood floor. I looked at the splatter mark; it was relatively contained, with a few scalloped edges due to the height of trajectory, ray-emitting tendrils reaching for the center of the room. If the object emitting the splatter is in motion, the drops will be oval and have little tails, which will project in the horizontal direction that the drop was moving. As the top of the teardrop lands last, splatters on a wall can tell you if the assailant is left- or right-handed. I knew a lot about splatters. I wondered how Vic was doing. I looked at the unopened manila envelope sitting in my chair, a priority set of pictures illustrating the next-to-final resting place of Cody Pritchard. I had been so tired by the time I had gotten home that I had thrown them on the recliner, too exhausted to concentrate. Ruby’s handwriting looked personal and out of place: Scene Investigation Photographs, 9/29/2:07 A.M.
“Four.” His eyes were level, and his voice carried a tired resignation to the battle joined. “Walt, it is time to get on with your life… I mean college kids live better than this.” I didn’t know what to say; I had had a kid in college and then in law school, and she had lived better than this. “But I have a four-fold plan for your redemption.”
I sipped some more coffee and stared at the floor. “Does this involve getting me a woman?” He pulled the spatula out of the nearest box. I advised him to wash it, which he did after making a face, then set about breaking up the brick of meat in the pan.
“Getting you a woman is the third part.”
“I like this plan, but I think we should move the third part up.”
“We have to get you to the point where you are worthy of a woman.”
“Why do I get the feeling that I’m not going to like the other parts of this plan?”
“Walt, your life is a mess, your house is a mess, and you are a mess. It is about time we did some cleaning up.” He looked around the cabin, I’m sure for dramatic effect. “Let us start with the easy stuff. This was a nice little house when you first got started, but that was five years ago.” I thought it was four. “You have got to get some gutters so the run-off stops cutting a moat around the house. You are going to have to use a bleach solution to cut the gray off the things and then put some UV protection on them. You need a porch, and a deck out back would not be such a horrible thing…”
My head hurt. “I don’t have the time for all that, let alone the energy.”
He found the opener on the counter and began opening a number of small cans. “We are not talking time, energy, or money, which will be your next argument. We are talking inclination. Now, I know these two young men…”
“Oh, no. I’m not going to have a bunch of thieving redskins roaming around my place while I’m not here.”
He choked laughing, his arms spread wide to encompass the entirety of the room. “What would they steal?” He had a point. “These boys just started up their own contracting firm; they are hungry, cheap, and they are good. I can have them over here tomorrow morning at eight.” I looked around the room at the stud walls, exposed wiring, and dirt-encrusted plywood floors.
I sighed. “Okay, what’s part two?”
“We get you in shape.”
I took another sip of coffee; it was getting cold. “Oh, I’m past that shit.”
“I want you to think about part three.” He smiled. “I want you to think about part three while we’re going through parts one and two.” He bumped me in the shoulder, and I spilled a little coffee. More splatters. He turned and dumped a small can of green chilies into the pan.
“I don’t suppose any of this might stem from conversations you may or may not have had with Cady, Ruby, or Vic.”
He was working the meat around, and the smell of the green peppers was intoxicating. “I talk with a lot of people about a lot of things.”
“How come you didn’t talk to me about Cody Pritchard eating his last meal at the Pony?”
He placed the metal stem of the spatula on the edge of the frying pan so that the plastic handle wouldn’t melt and leaned against the counter. I listened to him breathe and realized how much he had aged in the last twenty years, or the last two seconds. After a moment he reached across the counter with a steady hand and poured me another cup. “I did not think it was that important. You ran out of the place Friday night and did not say a word to anybody, and I knew I was going to see you this morning. I guess I thought I had more important things to talk to you about.” He poured himself a cup and placed the pot back on the burner. He looked me in the eye just to clear the air. “Well, officer… It was the night of November second at approximately 6:02 P.M. that the aforementioned, one Pritchard, Cody, entered the establishment known as the Red Pony. Witnesses to this fact are Mssrs. Charlie Small Horse, Clel Phillips, and the attesting Henry Standing Bear. The condition of Mr. Pritchard at that time was one of profound intoxication, whereupon he was refused alcoholic beverage and served one Mexican cheeseburger deluxe, including fries and a Coke. Twenty-five minutes later there was a verbal altercation between Mr. Pritchard and Mr. Small Horse, which resulted in Mr. Pritchard being escorted to the door of the establishment and asked to leave. The last I saw of Cody, he wheeled that piece of shit palomino-primer truck of his around in my parking lot, sprayed gravel, and headed east to a far better place than he had ever been before. So, do you want to book me, or you want to go take a shower?” He sipped his coffee.
“You seem a little defensive.”
“No shit? I just want to keep my proficiency and conduct reports up to snuff.” He smiled a tight little smile. “Anything else?”
“No, you pretty well covered it. I think I’ll go take a shower.” I stood up and walked past him toward the bathroom. I picked up the coffee since it was growing on me. I was hoping he’d say something, anything that would give me the excuse to turn around.
“Do not get me wrong, Walt, I did not like the kid, but then I do not know anybody who did. If you are looking for a suspect, just open the phone book.” He was watching the sausage as it burbled. “Are there any leads?”
I sighed and leaned against the refrigerator. “Toxicology at DCI said a high content of brewed barley malt, cereal grains, hops, and yeast…”
“Known in the trade as Busch Lite.”
“Ground beef, jalapenos, and American cheese.”
“Mexican cheeseburger. Anything else?”
“Nothing from toxicology. Ballistics says no lands or grooves, and the deformity of impact with the sternum makes identification that much more difficult.”
His curiosity sharpened. “Smoothbore?”
I shrugged. “Who knows, but if it is, it narrows the search to ten yards or less.”
“Which means it was somebody the little shit knew.” He smiled the tight smile again. “At least well enough to let them get close with a shotgun.” He pushed down on the frying pan handle, allowing the grease to puddle at the end of the skillet closest to him. “That is pretty close.”