“And when she didn’t, you got angry. You took her in the bedroom. You slit her throat. You laid her on that bed and you watched her die.”
“No, no, no!” Rudy started to cry, the tears flowing down his cheeks. “I couldn’t do that, not to Lucy, not to anybody.” He was crying hard now. The Grunt decided to cut it back a bit. He handed Rudy his handkerchief. Rudy took it and wiped his tears.
Del came in at that moment and whispered something in the Grunt’s ear. Wes seemed a little perturbed.
“I’ll be done by the time she gets someone,” he told his partner. He turned his attention back to Rudy as Del walked out.
“Sorry, Rudy, but I had to do that. I had to test you.” Rudy nodded as if he understood, but he didn’t. Wes waited a few more moments to make sure Rudy had calmed down before he went at him again.
“What did you go over there for, Rudy?”
“Lucy invited me over.”
“At eleven at night?”
“She told me to come over when I got off no matter what time it was.”
“You weren’t going over there to make small talk-did you think you were gonna get you some?” It was an accusation already made but this time Wes smiled as he asked it, as if they were old high school buddies conspiring over a little sex. Rudy again took the bait.
“Yeah, I did.” He had a sheepish, embarrassed smile on his face but he was relaxing again.
“What was she wearing at her house?”
“A little white nighty.”
“See-through?” Wes had his smile on again.
“Pretty much,” Rudy smiled back. He was one of the boys, finally.
Wes took a few moments to write the conversation down. He put a star next to the “little white nighty.” He remembered seeing it at the side of Lucy Ochoa’s bed the night of the murder.
“Were you mad at her, Rudy, when she turned you down?”
“No. I was out of the house before I knew what was going on.”
“Were you frustrated that you didn’t get laid?”
“A little.”
“But not angry?”
“No, sir.”
“What would make you angry-angry enough to kill somebody?”
“Nothing. I don’t think.”
“What if somebody killed your mother?”
Rudy stiffened. “Yes, that would make me angry enough to kill somebody.”
“What if somebody raped your mother?”
“Yes.” Rudy was getting angry just thinking about it.
“Let’s say you were married to Lucy and somebody raped Lucy, your wife.”
“Yeah, I could kill them.” Rudy thought of some of the guys at school who had taunted him. Sometimes, he felt that he could have killed them too. Suddenly it dawned on him that he could kill someone. That’s when the Grunt started building up to his sliest hypothetical.
“Rudy, is it possible that Lucy said or did something to you that night that made you so angry you could have killed her and you just don’t remember?”
“I already told you, I didn’t kill her.” Wes could hear the anger now.
“I know you didn’t kill her but is it possible that she could have said something to you that night that made you so angry you could have killed her?”
Rudy could feel the pressure-it was causing his chest to burn.
“I don’t know what you’re asking me, Mr. Brume. Woulda, coulda, shoulda-I didn’t get angry at Lucy that night.” Rudy was shouting now.
“I know you didn’t, Rudy. And you didn’t kill Lucy either. I know that. But you could get angry enough to kill somebody who killed or raped your mother and you could get angry enough to kill somebody who killed Lucy if she was your wife. What I want to know is, could Lucy or anyone say something that would make you so angry you could kill them?”
Rudy immediately returned in his mind to his classmates taunting him. He closed his eyes thinking back, picturing them. He stayed there for more than a minute.
“I guess so,” he said without opening his eyes. His voice was again calm.
“So Lucy theoretically could have said something that night that could have made you so angry you could have killed her?”
“I guess so.” The eyes were still closed. He was tired now, confused. He just wanted to go home.
“Do you forget things sometimes when you’re angry?”
“I guess so.” The eyes were still closed. Rudy had a headache now. He wanted it to stop.
“If theoretically you got angry at Lucy that night and did something, you might not remember it?”
“I don’t know, I guess so. I don’t even know what you’re talking about anymore.”
The Grunt took a moment to write in his pad. “She might have made him angry enough to kill her. He could have killed her. He doesn’t remember.” It was time to wrap it up.
“All right, Rudy, you can go now. Someone’s going to come in and take some blood from you. It will only take a second. Do you need a ride home?”
“No, I’ll walk.” He needed the fresh air.
Rudy was glad it was over. He had no idea his nightmare was just about to begin.
The Grunt stepped towards the door but then turned back. “One more question, Rudy. Do you own any knives?”
“Sure.”
“How about a serrated knife-do you own a serrated knife?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know, the kind with the little grooves along the blade.”
“I might have one. One of the guests in the hotel gave me an old tackle box once and it had a few knives in it I think one of them had that kind of blade.” The one question had become several.
“Where do you keep that tackle box?”
“In my room, under my bed. Why?”
“No reason.” Wes walked out of the room.
Six
Austin Reaves was a rakish old coot. He was a transplanted Yankee whose parents had moved to Fort Lauderdale many years ago when he was only sixteen, but forty years later he was still considered a Yankee in Bass Creek. Those who knew him well called him something far worse-a carpetbagger. He was an attorney specializing in wills and trusts, hardly a lucrative practice in Cobb County, but the work was fairly easy, it paid the bills, and it left Austin free to pursue his true vocations-fishing and drinking good booze. He was a big, wide man with thick reddish brown hair that didn’t have a hint of gray. No worries, he would reply when people would remark about the robust color of his hair. The rest of him fit well with his age.
Every weekend and every Wednesday, Austin was on his boat out on the lake. Every afternoon promptly at the stroke of three, he could be found placing his generous rump on his favorite barstool at the Bass Creek Hotel. Drinks at the Bass Creek were a little more expensive than at the local dives around town, but Austin wouldn’t go anywhere else. He loved the old bar: the thick Southern atmosphere that hung from the old oak walls like Spanish moss, that called to him and cradled and comforted him in his time of need-which was every day at three. He was not unique in that regard. Many well-to-do inebriates called the Bass Creek home. It was, after all, the best place in town to get a steak after a few highballs.
Austin was in residence at his usual spot, taking a long, satisfactory pull on an authentic Cuban cigar, when the call came in from Elena.
“Now hold on, Elena. Slow down a bit. I can’t understand a word you’re saying, girl. Start slowly and for God’s sake, speak English.” As she often did when she was upset, Elena had slipped into her own brand of Spanglish. She forced herself to calm down.
“It’s Rudy. They have him at the station and they’re questioning him about the murder of that girl in the barrio. I told them to stop but they told me only Rudy or his attorney can stop him from talking. I want you to be his attorney and call them and tell them to stop talking to him. I’ll come and get you and we’ll go to the station together.”
“I’d love to help, Elena, but I don’t know the first thing about that kind of law. I do wills, wills and trusts.”
Elena had no time for niceties. “Austin, I don’t care what you do. I want you to call the police station now and tell them to stop talking to my son. I’ll pick you up in five minutes.” She hung up the receiver before he could lodge any further protest.