by Tom Saric
"What happened then?"
"He fell to the ground. I felt terrible about what I did and I left."
"Was he injured?"
"He was holding his jaw, yes. But if you're asking if he was still alive, yes, he was."
Debbie wrote down a few notes. "What was your disagreement about?"
"I can't say."
"Can't or won't?"
"It won't be said. For reasons that I can't tell you."
"You know, Dr. Young, you're the last known person to see Mr. Gamble alive. And we all know he was a patient of yours. We found appointment cards in his home. So, by trying to adhere to this pledge of secrecy, you could be incriminating yourself."
"Understood." I nodded.
Debbie rubbed her temple subtly, a sign of annoyance with me. "Where did you go afterward? Can you tell me that much?"
"I went home."
"Straight home?"
I paused. I remembered little of that night after leaving Ned's house. I had trouble remembering getting home. It's as though the time from leaving Ned's house to waking in the morning was plucked from my memory.
"Straight," I doubled down.
"No stopping? For gas, a friend's place?"
"Nope. Not to my recollection."
"Does your memory ever fail you, Doctor?" Debbie was staring directly at me. I thought of how she found me lost on the logging road.
"No, I'm good." There was a long pause. I sensed a pending “gotcha” moment, but it didn't come.
Something struck me then. Why wasn't I under arrest? I had an altercation with Ned, I was being evasive, I was the last person at his house.
"Did you go back to Mr. Gamble's house after that?"
"No, why?"
"Part of our investigation is also confidential."
I realized that something else must have happened after I left.
"Any other questions?"
"No, Doctor. But I need you to stay in the county, in case we have to ask you more questions as the investigation evolves."
"I didn't kill Ned. I think you know that, but I want it on the record."
"It's on the record." She tapped the microphone, then looked at me again. "Actually, just a few last questions. Do you own a rifle that shoots 0.303 cartridges?"
I felt blood drain from my face. Ned was found shot and now she was asking about cartridge size.
"Ned was shot with a 0.303? Isn't that the same as Wanda?"
"Yes, it appears so."
I decided I couldn't tell her that I owned the gun. Now it was a possible weapon in two murders, and both victims were my patients. If I said anything about the Lee-Enfield I would be arrested immediately.
"Same killer." I shook my head. Debbie looked at me with cold eyes. I sensed that she saw me as the killer and was sickened that she had to let me go.
"Possibly," she said. "We'll be in touch with you."
Debbie stayed seated. I rose slowly, unsure of what to do. The chair legs squeaked as I pushed back the chair, and my footsteps echoed as I walked out of the room.
When I got outside, I called Sheila to pick me up.
I could feel the screws tightening. I realized I had to find out who was killing my patients.
17
I sat on the curb in front of the sheriff's detachment underneath Old Glory whipping in the autumn wind. A steady stream of cars passed by, heading to the town's first Walmart that had recently opened. Sheila pulled up in her Malibu just after eleven-thirty, showing me a coffee cup through the window. I got inside and she passed me the coffee.
"I thought you probably hadn't eaten." She passed me a paper bag containing a warm breakfast sandwich with bacon. I was starving. I took a big bite and followed it up with a glug of hot coffee that burned my tongue.
Sheila took a loud sip of her triple triple and put her cup back in the holder, inside an old cup. Sheila was a put-together person, except for her car. Fast food wrappers filled the backseat wells, mud was streaked across the seat, loose keys filled cup holders, old paper cups and plastic bottles were jammed in side door pockets. The inside smelled ripe, like an orange had rolled under the seat and rotted.
"I canceled your day," she said. "Didn't think you'd be up for it. Everyone was okay with that. Except the new guy."
"Doug?"
"Yeah, him. He seemed disappointed."
That wasn't unusual. Doug had just started treatment, and it was common early on for patients to develop a feeling of dependency on their therapist. Missing a session wouldn't necessarily be a setback. It could teach him to tolerate his emotions on his own without a therapist guiding him.
"And Ned was scheduled as well. But."
"You've already heard?"
"Two murders in a week in a town that hasn't had one since Randy killed Jimmy Getson? Yeah, lips are moving around here."
I wondered how much to tell Sheila. She was with me for part of last night, so the sheriff's department would probably interview her to get a sense of my state of mind before I went to Ned's place.
"I'm pretty sure that the sheriff thinks I did it."
Sheila choked on her coffee. After she stopped coughing, she said, "I thought they took you in to ask about him as his psychiatrist."
"I've seen enough of these situations. They're just starting to build their case now."
"Lordie, lordie." I thought Sheila was about to make the sign of the cross, which was odd since she was a self-proclaimed atheist. "I mean, really?"
"I was at Ned's last night. They have video of me leaving his place on surveillance camera."
"Of course Ned would have cameras." She paused. "But if they caught you on camera, wouldn't there be someone else on camera too?"
"That's what I'm wondering. If I was the last one on the camera, and had a motive, they would be arresting me."
"What motive would you have?"
I drank more coffee and decided I would tell Sheila as much as I told Debbie.
"Well, when I went there yesterday, Ned and I had an altercation."
"About what?"
"I'd rather not get into specifics. It's embarrassing. But it got physical."
"And you told them about this?"
"I did."
"Have they questioned anyone else?"
"Not as far as I know. And they didn't arrest me. Something must not be adding up for them yet. But I get the feeling that I'm the one they want."
She huffed. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I just need to hear it from you. Did you?"
"No, Sheila, of course not."
"I just wanted to be clear so that I have no doubts."
I respected that. Sheila trusted me at my word and I trusted hers. If she had doubts, I preferred she ask directly than secretly question my honesty.
"I have to find out who did this. I think it has something to do with me. I mean, both victims were my patients." I left out the part about the missing Lee-Enfield and the 0.303-diameter bullets. I figured there was no good reason to cast doubt on Sheila's trust in me.
"Wanda had a lot of enemies, sweetheart. And Ned too; he was not a nice man."
"You shouldn't speak ill of the dead, Sheila."
"Oh, don't you go getting superstitious with me. Just ’cause someone's dead doesn't make them a saint."
"Sounds like you're the enemy. Maybe I should suspect you," I joked.
"Honey, if I didn't kill my ex-husband, then I don't think I have it in me."
I took another few bites of my breakfast sandwich as we pulled out of the parking lot onto the road. Sheila was biting her thumbnail, and I sensed she was drifting off.
"What's on your mind?" I said.
"I saw Randy yesterday. For coffee."
"Mr. Jesus?"
"You stop that, he's a good boy. But he was different, not so airy-fairy. Like, more real, more like himself."
Keeping up the evangelical preacher act would be exhausting. Eventually, his true self was bound to break through.
"He was telling me that Buddy Getson
had been driving by his place a few times. You know, rolling by, slowing down when he passed the apartment."
"Like he was casing the place?"
"More like intimidating him. At least that's the effect it had on Randy. He was scared."
"I thought they were friends. Forgiven and all that."
"Buddy doesn't forgive," Sheila said. "None of that family ever does. They don't say sorry either."
"What are you saying?"
"Buddy Getson has a lot of reasons to hate the Flynns. Randy killed his father, he was pimping Wanda. And I've no doubt that Buddy has killed before. And Ned…well, Ned could've snooped too much."
I decided not to bring up my debt with Buddy. Would he have stolen my gun just to frame me for these murders over a hundred and thirty thousand dollars in debt? Even for Buddy, that seemed petty.
"Randy thinks this?"
"I believe he thinks Buddy had something to do with Wanda's death, yeah."
"He said this?"
"No," Sheila said. "I just get that feeling."
In one of his rants, I could remember that Ned had talked about seeing Buddy and Barrington outside of Wanda's house. Had he seen too much?
"Sheila, I need you to take me to Buddy's place."
She laughed out loud.
"You don't want nothing to do with that boy. He's badness."
"I don't have a choice. I can handle this."
"You haven't dealt with a guy like this…" She stopped herself. "Well, at least not when you had something at stake."
I'd dealt with psychopaths. Lots of them. I could handle myself around them. But Sheila was wrong; I'd almost lost everything because of a psychopath.
We took Hebb Road, an old, partly paved highway through farmland, to get to Buddy's place. It was once the main road connecting the village of Chelsea with Bridgetown. But since the two-lane expressway was built, it was now used by kids on dirt bikes and farmers driving tractors. Dilapidated barns alternated every acre or so with modern farms with bright red and silver livestock shelters and machine sheds.
We passed a strawberry farm and crested a hill before seeing Buddy's place. It sat across from an old-fashioned gas station with analog pumps. The convenience store advertised ginger ale, night crawlers, and trout worms.
Buddy's house was a single-story ranch, immaculately painted forest green and connected to a small greenhouse on the right side. Surrounding the house were bare blueberry bushes of countless varieties, ranging from tart pie-making berries to the sweetest types in existence. Past the bushes was a fenced-in cemetery with half a dozen headstones.
Buddy ran one of the most well-known organic blueberry U-Picks in Maine and had recently expanded into haskap berries. He was a millennial hipster’s wet dream. Buddy farmed the land, trapped animals, hunted game, and raised pigs and chickens. He even grew and dried his own tobacco. But the guy also ran a criminal syndicate that spanned three counties.
Sheila parked on the shoulder twenty yards from his mailbox. I could tell she didn't want to get too close to his house in case he saw her with me. I got out, making my way down the sloping driveway. To my left side were a hundred yards of concord grape vines. Their sweet smell filled the air. On Sundays in the fall, ladies from the Presbyterian church flocked here to pick the grapes to make jelly.
The barn door was open ahead, so I headed there. As I approached, Buddy's two Chesapeake Bay Retrievers began barking savagely. They were tethered to a cable beside the house and ran back and forth like lunatics. I took a wide birth around them and entered the barn.
One wall was covered with hanging tobacco leaves in various stages of drying. Next to them hung snares, traps, nets, and cages. On the opposite side was a work bench with a table saw and standing drill. In the middle of the barn, a dismantled, teal 1980s Dodge Ram sat on blocks.
Buddy stood beside his work bench, twisting what looked like a car pipe into a vise. He glared at me before returning to his work.
"You here with your money?" He put on safety goggles and grabbed an angle grinder.
"I'm not here for that."
Buddy put on earmuffs and flicked on the grinder. He buzzed the metal piece in the vise, sending sparks spraying. After a minute, he turned off the grinder and blew on the metal, shavings sprinkling onto the floor.
"You still here? Without money, we don't talk."
He kept checking the piece of metal, picking at the edges with his gloved hand.
I needed information from Buddy, so I decided to play ball. I pulled out my wallet and made a production of removing all my cash. I counted it out on the tool bench.
"A hundred eighty-five." I showed him my empty wallet. "You've cleared me out for today."
He took off his gloves and put his goggles on top of his head, then scooped up the money and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.
"It's not the money, you know?" Buddy said, unwinding the vise. "I don't need money. I can live off this land for next to nothin'."
He pointed at the farm. "I get fifteen tons of berries an acre, sell fourteen, keep one for myself for winter. I trap year-round, hunt pheasant and deer in the fall. Got potatoes in the back and the pond behind here is full of rainbow trout. I don't need the money."
"You know how to survive."
"Yes, I do."
"Your old man teach you how to do all that?"
"Pffft. Jimmy was a lazy piece of... Couldn't grow a beanstalk. No, over there." He pointed at the cemetery. "Richard James Getson, my grandpa. He lies there watching me. Taught me how to live independently. He gave me this place."
I tried to understand what it would be like to have your grandfather's tombstone facing you day in, day out.
"Jimmy was nothing but trouble. Probably deserved what he got."
Buddy grabbed the metal pipe, walked over to the Dodge, and lifted the hood.
"But I inherited the farm from Richard and then the business from Jimmy. Gotta take the bad with the good."
Buddy reached into the engine, felt around, and then started twisting something.
"So, I'm in the business. And if I start forgiving debts like yours and word gets out, then what?"
He leaned forward, his whole upper body hovering over the engine. I felt an impulse to slam the hood on him. He looked back at me, and I realized he was waiting for an answer.
"Other people stop paying you too."
He turned around and sat on the bumper, tapping the pipe in his palm.
"I don't give a crap about the money, Gus. I'd give the whole business away. But it ain't like there's shares to sell. If I forgive debts, that shows weakness. I show weakness..." He shrugged.
I never thought of Buddy as anything but a low-life criminal. But he was right; the second he let up, someone else would come knocking. Call it a hostile takeover. But even so, even if he could reasonably justify his crimes as a form of self-preservation, he still trafficked pills, women, cigarettes, and loan sharked.
"Did Wanda owe you money?"
Buddy smiled, his sideburns flaring like a fish's gills.
"What's it like being on the other side of the law?"
Silence. I could hear the wind hiss as it hit the side of the barn.
"C'mon, Doc. Word travels fast around here. I hear your patients are droppin' like flies and the sheriff's snare is tightening around you."
Buddy knew. Of course he did. He probably had an ear in the sheriff's department.
"What do you know, Buddy?"
"Just that two of your patients are dead in two days. And that you were the last one at Ned’s last night. And it don't look good."
"You know what doesn't look good, Buddy?" I stepped forward, towering over him. "The man who killed your dad gets out of prison, then his sister ends up dead. And the man who saw you and Joe Barrington at her place gets killed. And then Randy sees you driving by his place."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Really? Those are facts. And we know you're capable of it."
&nb
sp; Buddy crossed his arms. "No one is happier than me that Jimmy got killed. I'd buy Randy a beer to be honest. He did the world a favor."
"But you have to keep people thinking you're in charge and that no one can screw with Buddy Getson and get away with it."
Buddy pounced forward and shoved me in the chest with both hands. The blow sent me back three steps, but I managed to keep my balance.
"Including you. You addict. I didn't kill anyone. So shut your mouth. Are you sure you didn't do it, Gus?"
I nodded.
"Well, me too."
Buddy stomped over to the vise and squeezed it around the pipe again.
"So don't come back until you have my money."
He put on his goggles and ear protection and flicked on the angle grinder, clearly done talking to me. I stepped backward, out of the barn. As I turned the corner, the grinding stopped.
"You weren't the only person there."
"What did you say?"
"I saw you yesterday, on the road, speeding. I was going to follow you and demand my cash. Then I saw you pull into Night Hawk's place. I didn't follow you in. I knew better than to go into that nut's property."
"You saw Ned?"
"No. I kept driving."
"Who else was there?"
"My money."
I stepped forward and twisted Buddy's collar, but he just grinned. "If someone else was there, then they might have seen something."
"I just saw someone we know by the junkyard."
"Who?"
Buddy grabbed my hand and released my grip on his collar. "Money."
18
Buddy Getson's plan to blackmail me with the information that another person was near Ned's place the night of his murder was almost perfect. However, it had one flaw: Buddy did a poor job disguising the person's identity. Because I knew a person who roamed backcountry roads day in, day out, digging through people's trash.
I decided not to tell Sheila about my new lead. It was something that I needed to pursue on my own. Filling her in would only raise more questions about my gambling debt to Buddy, and I didn't want to tell her about that. Bringing up that part of my past would only sow doubt about my honesty. Even though I'd moved on from my days of high-stakes gambling, and was fairly certain Sheila would understand, I didn't want to risk it. I had her trust, and at this time, I needed someone on my side.