“That’s a long shot that doesn’t prove anything either way. What about the lock?”
I gave him the theory: “Somebody is with Sean. Somehow he gets Sean’s gun. Maybe he comes with his own gun and disarms Sean. He also tells him to hand over his gloves. Sean does. The guy puts the gloves on and then kills Sean with his own gun. He then jumps over the seat into the back where he hides down on the floor. He waits until Pena comes and goes, then he leans back over the seat, writes the note on the windshield and puts the gloves back on Sean’s hands—now you’ve got the GSR on Sean. Then the doer gets out the back door, locks it and splits into the cover of the trees. No footprints, ’cause the lot’s been plowed. He’s gone by the time Pena comes back out to watch the car like he’s told to do by his supervisor.”
Wexler was silent a long time while catching up.
“Okay, it’s a theory,” he finally said. “Now prove it.”
“You know my brother. You worked with him. What was the routine with the security lock? Always keep it on. Right? That way no mistakes with prisoners. No slip-ups. If you take a nonprisoner you can always disengage it for them. Like you did on the night you came for me. When I got sick, the lock was on. Remember? You had to switch it off so I could open the door to puke.”
Wexler said nothing but in his face I saw that I’d struck home. If the security lock was off in the Caprice it wouldn’t be rock-solid proof of anything. But he would know in the way he knew my brother that Sean hadn’t been alone in the car.
He finally said, “You can’t tell by looking at it. It’s just a button. Somebody will have to get in the back and see if they can get out.”
“Open it. I’ll get in.”
Wexler unlocked the door, flipped the electric locks and I opened the rear passenger side door. The sickly sweet smell of dried blood hit me. I stepped into the car and closed the door.
For a long moment I didn’t move. I had seen the photos but they didn’t prepare me for being in the car. The sickly smell, the dried blood sprayed over the window, the roof and the driver’s headrest. My brother’s blood. I felt the cloying grip of nausea in my throat. I quickly looked over the seat to the dashboard and the heater control panel. Then, through the right window, I looked out at Wexler. For a moment our eyes met and I wondered if I really wanted the security lock to be off. The thought occurred to me that it might be easier to just let it go, but I quickly ran it from my mind. I knew if I let this go I would be haunted for the rest of my life.
I reached over and hit the passenger lock switch for my door. I pulled the door handle and the door swung open. I stepped out and looked at Wexler. Snow was starting to stick to his hair and shoulders.
“And the heater’s off. It couldn’t have fogged the windows. I think Sean had somebody in the car with him. They were talking, Then whoever the bastard was killed him.”
Wexler looked as if he had seen a ghost. It was all clicking in his mind. It was more than just a theory now and he knew it. It looked as though he might start to cry.
“Goddamnit,” he said.
“Look, we all missed it.”
“No, it’s different. A cop never lets his partner down like that. What good are we if we can’t watch out for our own? A fucking reporter. . .”
He didn’t finish but I think I knew what he was feeling. He felt as though he had somehow betrayed Sean. I knew that was how he felt because it was the same for me.
“It’s not done with yet,” I said. “We can still make up for believing the wrong thing.”
He still looked forlorn. I wasn’t the one who could comfort him. That would have to come from within.
“All that’s lost is a little time, Wex,” I said anyway. “Let’s go back inside. It’s getting cold out here.”
My brother’s house was dark when I went there to tell Riley. I paused before knocking, wondering at how absurd it was that I believed the news I was bringing might in some way cheer her. Good news, Riley, Sean didn’t kill himself like we all thought, he was murdered by some nut who has probably done it before and probably will again.
I knocked anyway. It wasn’t late. I imagined that she was sitting in there in the dark, or maybe in one of the back bedrooms which emitted no light. The lantern light came on above me and she opened up before I had to knock a second time.
“Jack.”
“Riley. I was wondering if I could come in and talk to you.”
I knew she didn’t know yet. I had made a deal with Wexler. I would tell her in person. He didn’t care. He was too busy reopening the investigation, drawing up lists of likely suspects, getting Sean’s car inspected again for prints and other evidence. I hadn’t told him anything about Chicago. I’d kept that to myself and I wasn’t sure why. Was it the story? Did I want the story just for myself? That was the easy answer and I used it to soothe my uneasiness at not telling him everything. But in the deeper folds of my mind I believed it was something else. Something maybe I didn’t want to bring out into the light to view.
“Come in,” Riley said. “Is something wrong?”
“Not really.”
I walked in behind her and she led the way to the kitchen, where she turned on the light over the table. She was wearing blue jeans, heavy wool socks and a Colorado Buffaloes sweatshirt.
“There’s just been some new developments about Sean and I wanted to tell you. You know, instead of on the phone.”
We both took chairs at the table. The circles under her eyes hadn’t disappeared and she had done nothing with makeup to hide them. I felt her gloom descending on me and I looked away from her face. I thought I had escaped but it was impossible here. Her pain invaded every space in the house and was contagious.
“Were you asleep?”
“No, I was reading. What is it, Jack?”
I told her. But unlike Wexler, I told her everything. About Chicago, about the poems, about what I wanted to do now. She nodded occasionally during the story but showed nothing else. No tears, no questions. All of that would come when I was done.
“So that’s the story,” I said. “I came to tell you. I’m going to Chicago as soon as I can.”
After a long silence she spoke.
“It’s funny, I feel so guilty.”
I could see tears in her eyes but they didn’t fall. She probably didn’t have enough left for that.
“Guilty? About what?”
“All of this time. I’ve been so angry at him. You know, for what he’d done. Like he had done it to me, not himself. I started hating him, hating his memory. Now, you. . . now this.”
“We were all like that. It was the only way to live with it.”
“Have you told Millie and Tom?”
My parents. She never felt comfortable addressing them any other way.
“Not yet. I will, though.”
“Why didn’t you tell Wexler about Chicago?”
“I don’t know. I wanted a head start, I guess. They’ll find out about it tomorrow.”
“Jack, if what you’re saying is true, they should know everything. I don’t want whoever did this to get away just so you can pursue a story.”
“Look, Riley,” I said, trying to keep calm, “whoever did this had already gotten away until I came along. I just want to get to the cops in Chicago before Wexler. One day.”