“So you went to Rebecca’s house not knowing what to expect.”
“Right. When I got there, the front door was unlocked and I walked in. I could tell something wasn’t right, though. The living room was a mess, but that wasn’t unusual. Becca never did get the hang of house-cleaning. But I kept calling her name and she didn’t answer. I walked back through the hallway and her bedroom door was cracked open. Only the light was turned off. I pushed the door open and there was something against it. It wouldn’t move. I pushed harder and whatever it was, it kept … kept …” His voice weakened.
“C’mon, Slim,” I said. “We’re running out of time here.”
I heard him take a deep breath and hold it for a moment. Then he let it loose.
“I finally laid a shoulder into the door and pushed it open about a foot, then wedged my way in. I stepped in something slippery, and my boot slid until it hit something that felt like a bag of dough or something. I looked down. There was a little bit of light from the hallway shining in now, and I saw the floor was all dark and wet. I fumbled for the switch.”
He paused again. I let him take another breath. “That’s when I saw her, man. She looked like she’d been run through a threshing machine. I never seen nothing like it in my life. I yelled something-don’t remember what-then leaned down over her. There was broken glass and blood and pieces of, pieces of, Jesus, Harry, pieces of meat. Part of her face was ripped open and you could see her skull.”
Ray moaned and shook his head.
“I leaned down and put my fingers to the side of her throat that wasn’t cut. Nothing. She was still warm, but she was gone, Harry. I picked up this piece of broken glass that was laying next to her and got blood all over myself. I got real sick at my stomach and thought I was going to heave. Then all I remember was thinking I had to get the hell out of there. I jumped up and backed out of the room real slow. Then I started running. Just running, man. I got back to my car, jumped in, and hauled ass.”
I rubbed my eyes wearily. This was incredibly bad. Goddamn it, boy, I wanted to ask him, didn’t you ever watch Perry Mason? In my humble layman’s opinion, Slim was looking at about twenty to life right now.
“Did you see anybody else there?” I asked. “Any sign of anybody or anything?”
“Nothing, Harry. But it was late. Until I found Becca, I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. After that, I don’t know. It’s all a blur.”
“Now this is real important,” I said. “When-”
The computerized voice of the jailhouse phone interrupted me: “This call will end in ten seconds.”
“When did you get there?” I demanded. “Exactly what time was it?”
C’mon, blast you, I thought, answer me.
“I don’t know, Harry. Maybe four-thirty in the morning. A few minutes before? Hell, I just don’t know.…”
“You sure, Slim? You damn sure about that?”
“As sure as I can be. I mean it was late and all-”
Then the computer cut us off.
Ray and I sat there staring at each other until another computer voice came on: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again. If you need help, hang up and dial your operator.”
“Ray,” I said. “We’re going to need a hell of a lot more help than any operator can give us.”
We sat there for a moment or two, struck dumber than bricks.
“Did you know any of this?” I asked. I don’t think I meant to sound pissed off, but that’s the way it came out.
Ray silently feigned innocence, and very badly, I might add.
“C’mon, Ray,” I said, “don’t give me that who, me? shit.”
Then he sighed and his shoulders relaxed. “He came pounding on my back door just before five o’clock. Woke my ass up out of a coma. He still had blood on his shirt where he’d wiped his hands.”
I felt my jaw slacken. “Goddamn it, Ray, this could make you an accessory after the fact.”
“Hey, I’m the one told him to turn hisself in.”
“Yeah, twenty-four hours later. After he’d had time to hide his shirt and boots.”
Ray shook his head. “I know. I can’t believe he did that.”
“Me, either. What an effective way to make yourself look guilty as sin.”
“Hell,” he said, almost as an afterthought, “I told him to burn ’em.”
I slapped my forehead. “Thank you, Ray. Now that I know that, I’m an accessory after the fact. Thanks for sharing that with me.”
“You’re not no damn access after the-whatever the hell you said.”
“Maybe not. I just happen to be aware of a failed attempt to suppress evidence in a murder case, that’s all. You know something, Ray? Slim may not be guilty, but you two bozos are sure conspiring to make him look that way.”
Ray looked up at me, a pained look in his eyes.
“There’s no need to start name-calling here.”
I jumped out of my seat and took a step toward him. He tensed. I must have looked as mad as I felt.
“Now, listen, bud, we’re establishing some new rules around here, understand? If I’m supposed to help you, then you have to tell me everything. All of it. No more obfuscation.”
“No more what?” he asked.
“No more bullshit!” I yelled, then placed my hands palm down on the desk in front of him. “If you agree to my terms, I’ll go down to my office and get a notebook. I’ll bring that notebook back here and start making notes, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll figure out a way to keep Slim’s permanent address from being in care of the Tennessee Department of Corrections. If you don’t agree to my terms, then I’m not coming back.”
Ray gazed at me like he’d never seen me before.
“Deal?”
He nodded.
“Okay,” I said. “Try to get that feeble brain of yours in gear. We’ll never be able to prove Slim didn’t do it; you guys have already taken care of that. The only way we’ll get Slim off is to figure out who the hell did kill Rebecca Gibson and why.”
“Okay,” Ray agreed, his voice real low.
I walked over to the door and opened it, then paused. “There’s only one thing I can see that’s obvious here,” I said.
Ray stood up. “What?”
“Whoever killed Rebecca,” I said, “was probably going out the back door at the same time Slim was coming in the front.”
I was talking to myself more than to Ray by then. I started down the hall, trying to figure out how the timing could have been as precise as it appeared. There couldn’t have been more than a few moments’ overlap. The neighbors heard two sets of noises: screams and fighting, then the squeal of tires burning rubber out of the parking lot. Slim caused the latter; he claims he had nothing to do with the former.
I heard a muffled phone ring somewhere ahead of me, but didn’t realize it was mine until I was halfway down the hall and heard the relays in my answering machine clicking. I had the volume turned down low on the machine, so couldn’t hear whose voice was leaving the message. I fumbled with the keys, then got the door open just in time to hear the machine cut off and begin recycling itself.
“Damn it,” I muttered. I waited for the machine to reset, then turned the volume up.
“Hello,” the familiar computerized voice said, “you have one message.”
There were more clicks and the crackling of static as the heads in the machine hit the worn tape. The voice that came through was high-pitched male, deeply country, and mad as helclass="underline"
“Hey, you son of a bitch! I’m gonna git you, you got that, son? Yer ass is mine, and I mean it! You have a nice day, ’cause you ain’t got many left!”
Click. Dial tone.
I sank slowly into my chair. What the hell? If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a threat.
I hit the button and played the message back. The accent was twangy and nasally, relatively common in these parts among the didn’t-finish-high-school-and-pumping-gas-at-the-filling-station crowd. I tried to place it. East Tennessee, perhaps? I didn’t think so. More like rural Mississippi or Alabama, maybe west Tennessee. There was no way to pinpoint it. The only thing I knew for sure was that there’s only one region in the country where the phrase son of a bitch is reduced to a pair of slurred syllables.