We Begin at the End

by Chris Whitaker

  Clerks, bailiffs, the artist, the reporters. A small collection to watch a man’s fate decided.

  Despite the grand theories, the expert way Deschamps lulled the jury, the facts presented were hard and incontestable. She brought in the pathologist from the state crime lab, who reeled off qualifications so towering Martha moved to call yeah, he could be considered expert. Deschamps barked, Judge Rhodes handled things well enough. Walk smiled as Martha held her ground. He saw Vincent do the same.

  The pathologist took them on the kind of journey that saw photos dealt, jurors shake heads, one cried. He detailed blows, hard enough to break three of her ribs. He tracked the path of the bullet, the kill shot, into the chest, likely she was dead before she hit the ground. Charts on easels, anatomy spelled.

  A fingerprint guy took them through prints lifted from the Radley house. Vincent King had been in the kitchen, hallway, living room. They lifted one from the front door. After an hour the jury tired. That Vincent King was at the scene was never in question.

  Another expert, ballistics, a hired gun to talk guns. And then of the gun itself, though it could not be found the bullet pulled from Star Radley’s body was a .357 Magnum.

  And then Deschamps ran, like they knew she would. She pulled out paper and waved it round like it was lit. Vincent King’s father had a gun registered in his name, a Ruger Blackhawk. She asked the jury to guess the caliber, the type of bullet it fired. Walk watched them close and saw each of them follow the ball way out of the park.

  On the cross Martha tried to score minor points by getting the guy to admit the .357 Magnum, though a little less common, could still be purchased widely. The damage was done.

  Deschamps went on to detail Star’s life, difficult childhood, her younger sister’s tragic death and then her mother’s own death. She recounted the events. Vincent King sat there impassive, only closing his eyes when she talked of the strip of woodland where they found that little girl’s body. Left to die, cold and alone. And then on to the suicide of Star’s mother, how Star had found her, how that might have felt. And, finally, brighter promise, troubled though she was, she doted on her children, Duchess and Robin, now settled into a group home in a town they did not know, at a school where they had to start over, a thousand miles from home. Another photo, the three together on the beach, Walk had taken it himself on a rare day of calm.

  Walk was called as a state witness, along with a handful of first responders. First on the scene he took his seat in the hallowed hall, cleared his throat and told the truth in all its ugly. Blood on Vincent, calm in his voice. He did not slant detail, just laid it out and glanced at his friend now and then. Vincent offered him a slight smile, it’s alright, you do your job, Walk.

  After eight days the state rested, Walk and Martha went to the bar across from the courtroom, where they took a booth in the back and picked at fried shrimp fresh from the freeze.

  “How’s Vincent doing?”

  “Oh he’s just swell,” Martha said. “I’ve got half a mind to put him on the stand, let the jury see how calm he is, we call insanity, padded cell for the rest of his life. Beats the needle, right?”

  Walk picked up a shrimp, studied it, placed it back on the greased paper. “How long will you take?”

  “A couple of days. I’ll say my piece, call my people, and then they’ll get the case and they’ll put him to death.” She stared into her soda.

  “You’re doing good, Martha. Really, you look good up there.”

  “Try not to look at my ass so much. It’s predatory.”

  “It’s the shoes that get me. Your commitment to Chuck Taylor.”

  She reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of hot sauce.

  “You’re kidding me with this. You actually carry it with you.”

  “Doubles up as mace.” She poured liberally. “You notice I’m wearing a cross.” She pointed to her necklace. “Jurors three, nine and ten, they’re active churchgoers.” She had done the consulting herself, sat through two days of torturous selection, struck a couple that’d likely volunteer to execute the man themselves, moved for liberals only to see Deschamps repay the courtesy.

  “That gun.” She sighed. “The bullet. Like it wasn’t bad enough.”

  Walk took a steadying breath. “I have faith in you.”

  “You’re just trying to get in my pants.”

  Walk noticed she seemed anxious the next morning. They stood when Rhodes came in, took his seat on the grand chair, between the flags.

  Vincent sat up front in a cheap suit that Walk had picked out, no tie, he flat refused.

  Martha called her own doctor first, Mr. Cohen. She’d helped his daughter out of a bind once, another sorry story of a deadbeat asshole with quick fists, but Cohen was grateful enough to repay his little girl’s savior.

  They went through photos of Star Radley’s injuries, both noted the severity. And then, the photographs of Vincent King’s hands. Slight swelling on the right, but likely old, and likely from an altercation Vincent had gotten into a few days prior.

  On the cross Deschamps got Cohen to admit he could not say for sure when the swelling occurred, and that a man of Vincent’s size could inflict injury just as easily with an open hand.

  Martha moved on to the issue of gunshot residue, brought in her expert, a forensic scientist hired on Walk’s dime, his dwindling savings amassed from a staid life. She was young but confident, held the room as she spoke. She ran them through the science, elemental composition, the chain reaction, the plume expelled during gunshot. No residue was found on Vincent King.

  Martha looked on during the cross, watched her expert admit the residue could have been washed off, the faucet was running after all, sweated off, not been there in the first place if Vincent King had left the room right after firing.

  Walk took to the stand once again. This time he smiled, admitted he was Vincent’s childhood friend but that was a long time ago. He was actually the one who turned him in all those years back. His duty was to uphold the law, and he wouldn’t let anything get in the way of that.

  And then Martha stepped to the front, took a breath and fired her own kill shot.

  The butcher.

  Milton.

  Deschamps narrowed her eyes and straightened up a little.

  Martha had Walk detail Milton’s early life, how his father was a butcher in the shop he went on to run. Walk said he was an outcast, the kind of kid that others crossed the street to get away from. Deschamps objected, cited hearsay, but the point was made.

  That outcast had turned into a troubled adult. He was lonely, to the point where he often got talking to vacationers and asked them to go hunting with him. Yes, Milton liked to hunt. She detailed the weapons registered to him, the list was long and Walk watched the jurors exchanging glances.

  “Would you say you were close to Milton?” Martha stood by the jury box as she spoke.

  “I liked him. I felt bad for the guy, he always seemed a little desperate, but I just figured he was shy. He didn’t have friends, no one he could call on.”

  “So he called on you?”

  “Sometimes. We went hunting together, just the once, I like the eating but not the killing.”

  A couple of laughs.

  “So he was proficient with these weapons.”

  “More than that. I saw him bring down a mule deer from a thousand yards. The man could shoot.” Walk aimed his answer at juror one, who hunted the Mendocino, just like Milton used to.

  Martha moved it on, establishing that Milton lived across from Star, how he used to lend her his truck and take out her trash.

  “I thought it was decent of him,” Walk said. “She had someone looking out for her.”

  “Someone other than you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Walk met her eye then. She was doing well. He was proud of her.

  Martha called their attention to exhibit C.

  “Can you tell me what these are, Chief Walker?”

  Walk r
an them through it, what he’d found in Milton’s bedroom. Some of the jurors shook their heads at them, photos of Star in various states of undress.

  “And how many of these were there?”

  Walk blew out his cheeks. “A lot. Hundreds. They were catalogued by date, going back far.”

  “An obsession.”

  Deschamps looked like she wanted to object but held tight.

  “It looks that way,” Walk agreed.

  “Now you said Milton had a telescope.”

  “He said he liked to watch the stars.” Walk said it even and waited for the jurors to catch it.

  “But it wasn’t trained on the sky?”

  Deschamps stood, said nothing and sat again.

  “So what did it aim at?”

  “Star Radley’s bedroom.”

  “And the cataloguing, how recent did it go?”

  “Up to the night Star was murdered.”

  “And the photos from that night?”

  “Missing. They haven’t been found yet.”

  Martha eyed the jurors. “And what did Milton say when you asked him about it?”

  “I didn’t get the chance. We pulled his body out of the water last month.”

  Gasps then, loud enough for Rhodes to quiet them.

  “He drowned,” Walk said. “No sign of foul play.”

  “Suicide.” Martha let the word hang there as Deschamps got to her feet and screamed her objection. Martha withdrew it, but not before it had registered with everyone in that courtroom.

  Deschamps tried hard at redirect, color in her cheeks as she got Walk to admit they hadn’t found Milton’s prints at the Radley house. He could’ve worn gloves. Walk didn’t need to say it. The guy was a butcher, he wore gloves. There was no stretch required.

  The mood was better in the bar that night. Walk ordered them burgers and they ate in contented silence. Martha looked tired, the pressure so great. They talked a little about Vincent, and how he hadn’t reacted to Milton, just sat there like always, eyes down, ignoring the stares.

  “It was a good day.”

  Martha chewed the straw in her soda. “It’s still too much, Walk.”

  He looked up.

  “There’s too much to ignore. I don’t want you to get your hopes up. This case was never winnable, but we’ve done all we can. Milton was fortunate, as bad as that sounds. But it’ll take more. The gun, the bullet. The history there. The blood on his hands. Shit, I’d convict him if I didn’t know him.”

  “But you do know him, right?”

  “The jury don’t.”

  He walked her out and stalled by her car. “You want to come back?”

  “Closing arguments tomorrow. Early night for me.”

  Her watched her leave, then climbed into the cruiser and headed back to the station. It was late, Leah done, the place in darkness but he hadn’t stopped by since the trial began. He found a stack of papers on his desk, hit the lights and slumped back. He fished through the mail, opened a couple before he came to it. Verizon Communications. Darke’s cell phone record. Boyd had come through for him.

  There were pages going back a year, numbers so small Walk had to squint. He’d get back on it once the trial was done. He flipped them, eyes blurring as he yawned and stretched. He didn’t expect to get anything.

  But then he found the date, December 19th, the day Hal died. It didn’t register at first, his eyes glossing over digits he knew well enough.

  He focused again, expected to see something different.

  And then he dropped the paper to the desk.

  The call to Darke’s cell.

  It had come from the Cape Haven Police Department.

  She cried. He watched.

  They sat in the yard, the Cape slept. She had been awake, the shadow beneath her eyes told him she did not sleep anymore.

  She blinked dark tears of mascara.

  A full moon above, highlighted the sorrow. Leah Tallow wiped her eyes, sniffed, cried some more. He had walked over to the house in silence, trying to find another answer, desperately searching for it.

  “You want to tell me?”

  There was no attempt at lying. She stared at the grass, calm set in, like she’d been waiting. “We’ve struggled for a long time.”

  He drew a long breath, hoping to stave it off a moment longer, knowing once it came it would change things.

  “It’s money, Walk.”

  He watched the tortured look.

  “Ed. The business, it’s all gone.”

  “Gone?”

  She looked up.

  “Connect the dots for me here, Leah.”

  She stared back at the house. “Tallow Construction, it’s been in Ed’s family seventy years. He took it over from his father, who took it on from his grandfather. It used to turn a decent profit. It used to employ half the town. Jesus, Ed still has fifteen men. We pay them out of our savings most months.

  “And then Ed’s father died, and he left us the house, on Fortuna, second line. Not much, a lot for us, but not all that much in the real world.”

  “You could’ve sold the business, cut the loss.”

  “Ed wouldn’t. He loves this town, Walk. Like you do. But we need the change, the new homes, the new money. And you blocked it, you and the others, you voted it down whenever you could.”

  “Last I heard it’ll go through regardless.”

  “But it’s too late for us now. You buried us, you know that.”

  He let that sit a while, wondered at his role, his need to keep Cape Haven from moving on without him, without Vincent and Star and Martha.

  “Darke?” he said.

  Then she took a breath. “He bought the Fortuna house from us for cheap. In return he had the contracts lined up for Ed to pull it down, and the rest of the street. Construction. Ed would get them, all those homes, condos, it would save us, Walk. And save the Cape, the real Cape, the locals that were born here.”

  “But it’s gone now. All of it.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The King house. The insurance. Duchess Radley has the tape. If she just gives it back to Darke then the insurance will pay out and we’ll get it back.”

  He let that settle, his mind spinning. “How much?”

  Leah swallowed. “All of it. The house, second charge on the company, credit cards and loans. Shit, everything, Walk. We couldn’t even afford to keep me on, that’s why I pick up all the extra shifts at the station.”

  Walk watched the moon, then glanced back at the house. “Does Ed know what you did?”

  “No. I keep the books. Ed is a fucking idiot. He thinks I don’t know, the women, always perfume on him.”

  “You sold out a child.”

  She shook her head, the tears falling faster. “He wouldn’t hurt her. You don’t know Darke.”

  He wanted to take her hand, despite everything, he’d known her a lifetime. He steeled himself. “How did you find them?”

  Emotion left her, she went on, callous facts laid bare. “The call. I knew it was Montana, I filed your receipts. The gas station. And then Hal said the name of the school on the phone with you. And the lake by the farm.”

  “You listened in?” he said, stunned. The facts took his breath, he rubbed his eyes, the back of his neck, felt the heat in his cheeks. He stood, felt his knees weak and sat again. “Your hands are bloody, Leah. And for what? For your husband’s business.”

  “For them,” she said, loud, and pointed at the house. “For my kids. For all the families we support in this town. It’s just a tape, a fucking tape, Walk. Duchess burned the club down. We all knew it, but you didn’t do anything about it.”

  “That’s not—”

  “It is, Walk. You know it is. You and Star and your fucking misguided loyalty to Vincent King. Star was his girl, you promised to watch out for her. I know that. You told me you’d do anything for your friends. Same as in high school. If you did your job, if you brought the girl in and—�
�

  “Where’s Darke now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He watched her.

  “I don’t. I swear it.”

  “Duchess. He’s still looking for her?”

  “It’s about the money with him, it’s always about the money. He wouldn’t stop, with my help or without.”

  He thought of Martha then, at home, running over her closing argument.

  “He killed a man. That’s on you.”

  She cried hard. “I can’t think of that.”

  “Shit, Leah.”

  “There’s people in our lives that we’d do anything for. You know that better than anyone.”

  That night he walked the streets of the Cape till sun breached the night sky and the day found him. He stopped by the Radley house, Milton’s place, Main and Sunset. He stood by the King house and thought of it being knocked down. Even if Darke didn’t come through with the money then someone else would buy it for less. He thought of shooting hoops on the driveway, of hiding out in the old attic and looking at Rich King’s Playboys. There was a chance they had it right, that Milton had done what Martha said. Maybe Vincent was institutionalized, or maybe he just hated himself so much that he’d rather be put to death than go on living as a free man. There were still so many questions without answers. He knew there was a chance he’d colored it a shade it never was, but still, he felt it in his bones. Vincent King was innocent. And he wouldn’t leave it to chance. Not anymore. He’d come so far, he would get to the finish, even if it cost him his soul.

  38

  THAT MORNING WALK STOOD IN front of the mirror and shaved.

  He watched the basin fill, his face emerged, pale, gaunt, sick. He did not dwell, just splashed his cheeks with icy water and took a long and heavy breath. And then he drove to Las Lomas, and took his seat, and ignored the looks and whispers.

  Leah Tallow was led in.

  She looked calm, makeup hid the night before, simple dress, heels. She met Walk’s eye as she passed, he did not smile.

  Martha ran her background, how she’d worked admin at Cape Haven PD for fifteen years, sometimes dispatch. Part of the furniture, like Walk and Louanne. She spoke confidently, stuttered a couple times but Walk could see the jury liked her.