alleged that Loverne’s history of infidelity would soon come
to light, the press corps descended on the man’s apartment
building eager to take photographs of drawn curtains, berate
cleaning ladies and doormen, and try to scrape up the scraps
Paulina had left under the table. When a person was accused
of wrongdoing, people didn’t try very hard to photograph
their good side.
Around five o’clock, Loverne left to attend a previously
scheduled fund-raiser. He was swarmed by dozens of reporters. In what would be viewed as a colossal blunder, Loverne
had no private security, and the elderly doorman was easily
overmatched. As Loverne attempted to push his way through,
a lone rifle shot shattered the commotion, blood splashed
against the glass doors, and David Loverne died.
The photographers spent their entire rolls shooting Loverne’s body, the blood pouring from his chest, as well as the
rooftop where it seemed the shot had come from. Several photographers even tried to bully their way into that very building
to either catch the culprit or take photographs of the crime
scene before the police arrived. Thankfully that doorman was
a former cop, realized what was going on and locked the doors.
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The shooter was long gone. But by the time the police
arrived, hundreds of photos of Loverne’s body were circulating among newsrooms, tabloids and the Internet.
I called Curt Sheffield to get the lowdown. He told me one
of the investigating officers mentioned that another note had
been left by the killer, but it was being kept quieter than a
mouse fart. He didn’t find it amusing when I asked him if he
could hold a megaphone to the mouse’s ass to hear it better.
“Doesn’t matter if I tell you,” Curt said. “Guy’s as vague
as my little sister when I ask her how a date went.”
“He didn’t leave a note with Jeffrey Lourdes. Now he
changes his tune and leaves one with David Loverne. This is
my ex’s father, man, cough it up.”
“Again,” Curt said, “you use this before it’s made public,
I’ll string you up to a lamppost. The note was just one line.
It read, ‘Because I had the power.’ That’s it.”
“‘Because I had the power’? That’s pretty vague. What’s
it mean?”
“You’re the reporter,” Curt replied. “You ask me, this guy’s
been watching too much David Lynch.”
As soon as I hung up with Curt, I did a search for that
quote, only adding “William H. Bonney” to the search field.
What came back was most certainly not vague.
In 1878, corrupt sheriff William Brady arrested Billy the
Kid under the auspices of helping the Kid arrest John
Tunstall’s killers. When a reporter asked the lawman why he
would arrest Bonney, a seemingly innocent man, Brady
replied simply, “Because I had the power.”
The connection was no longer a secret. This killer wanted us
to know he had a foot in the past. The notes and public executions were garnering more media attention than anything I’d seen
since coming to the city. Only not exactly in the way I expected.
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The country was captivated by these murders, and the obsession had grown with every shot. Internet sites receiving
millions of hits a day were all but praising the murderer.
Paradis, many said, was single-handedly responsible for the
downfall of popular culture, and, many said, morals and
ethics, as well. David Loverne had long claimed to uphold traditional family values, only in reality he had more sexual
partners than the average Mormon. Mayor Perez—the
intended target—another empty suit full of insincere
promises. Jeffrey Lourdes, once a respected visionary, had
been reduced to common gossip and smut peddler.
I couldn’t believe these attitudes were so prevalent, that
murder was being looked at by some as a reasonable means
to an end. But they were. Somehow the man destroying lives
was actually endearing himself to the public, by eliminating
those deemed to be making our society ill. When I read those
articles, shook my head at the stories, I knew what the link
was. Why the man was killing who he did.
He was an avenger. A Regulator. Killing those who needed
to be killed for the greater good.
Could there really be such a large portion of the population convinced that these murders were a good thing? Was it
just cynical ghouls who would never know what it was like
to lose a daughter, a father, a husband? That the person committing these crimes was not someone to erect a statue for,
but rather a gallows?
I thought about Rex. Something was still troubling me
about our conversation, but in my rush to return to New York
I hadn’t been able to follow up. Before I left, he mentioned
a name. Brushy Bill. It sounded familiar for some reason, and
I made a mental note to follow up with Rex later on. I had a
full night ahead of me. I wondered when Amanda would be
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home. I missed talking to her, and hoped to God that everything Jack told me the other day could be chalked up to the
ramblings of an old, lonely man. That just because he was
going to die alone didn’t mean I would. Amanda had saved
my life; was my life. And I wouldn’t give that up without one
hell of a fight.
But then I rounded the corner to my apartment and saw the
one thing I never expected to see. I stopped on a dime. Couldn’t
move. I didn’t know what to do or what to say. Whether to go
forward and confront it, or to turn and run. The anger inside
me rose up, threatened to consume everything, but her tears,
the misery etched on her face, they drowned it all out.
So when I saw Mya Loverne standing alone in front of my
building, wearing an old sweatshirt, her eyes bleary and red
from crying, I didn’t know whether to scream at her, or to
gather her in my arms and tell her everything would be all
right. Like I should have done the night she got hurt. Like I
hadn’t done for her since.
“Henry,” she sobbed, taking a tentative step toward me. I
couldn’t move. All I could do was stare at the woman who’d
shared my bed so many nights, whose hand I’d held and
caressed, who just the other day had thrown me under a bus
driven by Paulina Cole. A girl who had just lost her father to
a heartless monster. I didn’t know what to say to this girl. But
then I found myself taking a step forward.
“Henry,” she said again, the sobs now racking her small
body. Mya looked like she’d lost at least twenty pounds since
I’d last seen her, and she was a slim girl to begin with. She
looked malnourished, pale, like she had given up on herself.
“Henry, I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to say all those things,
they just happened. Henry, I’m so sorry. Please, my father, I
don’t know what to do.”
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My heart broke as I watched this, this shell of my former
&n
bsp; love. I took another step toward her, and she did the same.
“My dad,” she cried, her voice interrupted by staccato sobs,
“my dad was killed. Oh God, Henry, please say something.”
I took another step. I could feel her breath, caught the faint
whiff of perfume sprayed on long ago and never washed off.
Her hair was a ragged mess, her eyes streaked and bloodshot.
“Mya, I’m so sorry for your father…I…he was a good
person.”
“I know he was good,” she shouted. “So why did he have to
die?” She came toward me, didn’t hesitate, and suddenly Mya
was leaning against my chest. Not in an embrace, but for support.
There was no strength in her. If I moved she would collapse.
But I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
“Mya, I’m going to find this guy. I promise. I’m sorry for
everything I’ve done, everything I did.”
She looked up at me. Her eyes blinked twice. She sniffed.
“You told me you would always be there for me,” she said.
My stomach burned as I drew in a breath. Then her eyes
opened, I saw a fire in them, as she pounded her fists against
my chest and screamed, “Where were you, Henry? Where
were you when I lost everything? When my fucking father
died? Where have you been? ”
She brought her fists down on my chest, punching me with
no force behind the blows. Then I took her arms and held
them.
“I’m going to help you,” I said. “I’m going to help you get
your life back together. You’ve always been one of the strongest people I’ve ever known, Mya. And you can come back.
You can do great things.”
“I have nobody,” Mya cried softly. “I lost you. I lost my
father.”
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“You didn’t lose me,” I said gently. “You didn’t want me.
We weren’t right together. You don’t want me. You haven’t
for a long time. But I can help you. I will help you.”
“I just want to be happy,” Mya said. She wiped her eyes.
A piece of lint from her sweatshirt caught on her eyelash. I
plucked it free. She laughed through her sobs. “You used to
make me happy, Henry.”
I didn’t know how to respond. Mya’s arms had freed themselves, and I felt them wrap around my waist. Mya hadn’t been
this close to me in a long time. Yet there were no sparks. I held
her like I would hold a small child. For comfort. For protection.
I wanted to hate her. I wanted to ask why she said those
things to Paulina, why she took our private life and made it
public, why she threatened to ruin us both. But I also wanted
to squeeze all the pain from her body. Because she didn’t
deserve any of it.
Before I could think, I felt Mya’s breath on my face; harsh,
sweet. She leaned in. I wanted to stop her but I couldn’t.
Couldn’t say no to her right now. I felt her breath, didn’t
want it like this. But I couldn’t break this girl’s heart one more
time. Her breath touched my lips, I wasn’t going to stop her,
and then they pressed against mine, hot and needy.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
My body went rigid. I pried myself from Mya’s grip. Her
hands slid off me. She’d heard the voice, too. I was afraid to
turn around, but I had to.
Amanda was standing on the corner. Watching us. A bag
of groceries lay at her feet. Where she’d dropped them.
“No. No, no, no no no. You have got to be fucking
joking,” she said. She left the groceries and started toward
us with a frightening urgency. I tried to open my mouth but
nothing came out.
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195
“Amanda,” I said. It’s not what it looks like. I can
explain. Of course I would say those things. Isn’t that what
every guy said?
“You goddamn whore, ” Amanda spat. “You drag him through
your filth and then you come to our house to spread it around?
Get the fuck out of here, you disgusting tramp.” Mya took a step
toward Amanda, like she might do or say something, but then
she turned and ran away. I turned back to Amanda.
“Wait,” I said.
“So was she wearing perfume?” Amanda asked, her eyes
wild, searching for some crazy answer. “Tell me she drugged
you, that she had a gun, that she’s the lunatic who’s killing
all those people and offered to sleep with you for the scoop.
Tell me something other than you were just standing here
playing tonsil hockey with the girl who dragged your name
through the mud. Tell me there’s more to it.”
“Her father was killed,” I said. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“No, you knew what to do. You decided to be hero Henry
fucking Parker and swoop in for the rescue. Is that your M.O.
now? You find these damaged girls and pretend to be their
savior until the next basket case comes along? Is that what
you did with me? You were tired of Mya so when I happened
by you figured you’d take my broken ass for a spin?”
“It’s not like that and you know it. I love you, Amanda.”
“Then why were you kissing another fucking girl? ” she
shouted.
“I didn’t…I…she held me,” I said, realizing how lame it
sounded as soon as the words came out of my mouth.
Amanda looked back at the groceries. “There’s your
dinner,” she said. “Cook it yourself. Burn the apartment down.
I’m going to stay at the office tonight.” She turned and started
to walk away.
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“Amanda,” I said, following her. My head was spinning, my
heart felt like it was about to burst. This couldn’t be happening.
“If you follow me I’ll call the cops and tell them Mya’s
girlfriend-beating ex is coming after me.” I stopped in my
tracks, blinking rapidly. “Try me,” she said. “I swear I’ll do
it.”
Then her hand was in the air. A cab chugged up to the
curb. I could feel the eyes of a dozen strangers watching the
scene unfold. I watched as Amanda got into a cab, fleeing
in a cloud of exhaust, leaving me alone on the street with a
bagful of groceries.
30
I stood on the street corner. My feet tapped involuntarily.
My brain was running on about four gallons of caffeine,
half of which probably hadn’t even entered my bloodstream
and would cause my eyes to pop out of their sockets any
minute now.
I didn’t sleep last night. I watched Amanda’s cab drive off,
picked up the discarded groceries, put them away neatly. I
called Amanda. She told me not to call again. I didn’t. Instead
I took a cab to her office, saw the light on, and stood outside
all night just to make sure she was safe. She didn’t need to
know I was there. But I did.
The next morning I decided to visit Agnes Trimble.
It was 8:45 a.m. I’d already plowed through the Gazette
and the Dispatch. A reporter had written an article about the
growing public sentiment that the killer might h
ave done a
public service by killing four people. Tomorrow more ghouls
would come out of the woodwork and celebrate this murderer,
and soon it would cross over from print to radio to television.
Four lives were being trivialized, and a killer was being glorified. Undoubtedly reporters would eat each other to get the
first scoop, pay loads of money to interview this beast.
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Jason Pinter
Pretend to be appalled by the killer’s deeds while cashing the
checks he helped rake in.
I waited outside the department building for Agnes. She
got off the bus, then dropped her keys when she saw me. I
guess if I saw a guy with messy hair, dark circles under his
eyes and a heroin addict’s jitters waiting in front of my office
I’d be a little unnerved, too.
“Professor Trimble,” I said, trying to slow down my convulsions. “Do you have a minute?”
“Mr. Parker,” she said, picking up her keys and smoothing
out her clothes. “My taking your appointment with Amanda
did not give you a free invitation to show up uninvited before
I’ve had my morning scone.”
“I understand that and I apologize for my abruptness and
for interrupting your, uh, scone eating. But I need your help.”
She sighed. “I should charge you a convenience fee.” Then
noticed I’d come alone. “Miss Davies isn’t with you today?”
“No, just me,” I said, eager to avoid any more discussions
of Amanda. Agnes didn’t need to know that the only way I
could stop myself from thinking about Amanda was following this story.
Agnes entered the building, led me to her office. She
unlocked the door and flipped the light switch, the lava lamp
glowing a festive red and green and casting a Christmas-y
glow over her replica firearms. “Did you have any luck with
the information on the Winchester?” she asked.
“You have no idea,” I said. I told her about New Mexico,
about the stolen Winchester, and the connection to Billy the Kid.
When I finished Agnes sat back and twiddled her lip with her
thumbs.
“William H. Bonney,” she said, “is one of the most mis- The Guilty
199
understood figures not only to come from the lawlessness of
the Old West, but in all of history.”
“How so?”
“For the most part, Billy the Kid has been portrayed as one
of the most brutal men to ever raise a rifle. It’s true Bonney killed
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