The Case Against William

by Gimenez, Mark

  "You see Tebow signed with the Patriots?" Chuck said. "No way he's beating out Brady."

  Everyone stared at Chuck. He turned his palms up.

  "Just saying."

  Frank returned to John Smith. "Did you know Darrell Jackson and Bo Cantrell?"

  "Yes, sir. The three of us, we were the starting linebackers back then. They were seniors."

  "Did they have sex with Dee Dee?"

  John sighed. "Darrell had sex with every girl on campus, from what I heard. He was this handsome cowboy. He modeled for book covers, romance novels, had copies in his room."

  "What about Bo?"

  "Bo, he was …" John shook his head. "A swamp rat from the bayou."

  "Did they shower after the games?"

  "I didn't keep tabs on that, Mr. Tucker. You'll have to ask them."

  "We will. Where are they now?"

  "Last I heard, Darrell is back cowboying on his family ranch in Wink, and Bo is up in Omaha."

  "Doing what?"

  "Playing pro ball, for the Wranglers."

  "Thanks, John."

  "Yes, sir. I hope William is innocent."

  They watched John walk off.

  "He ain't the killer," Dwayne said.

  "How do you know?" Chico said.

  "I've interviewed a hundred killers in my time, and none of them were Mormon." He paused. "Course, sometimes they fool you."

  "I know," Frank.

  Chapter 44

  "Looks like a bigger version of Roy Rogers," Dwayne said.

  "Who's Roy Rogers?" Chuck said.

  Frank and Chico had flown to Omaha to find Bo Cantrell. Dwayne and Chuck had driven the one hundred seventy miles from Lubbock to Wink to find Darrell Jackson. They had. On the Lazy River Ranch outside town. Darrell rode up on a big white horse just as they pulled up to the ranch house and got out of the rental. He did look like a male model.

  "Help you?" Darrell said.

  "Nice looking horse," Dwayne said.

  "You a rancher?"

  "Cop. Ex-cop."

  "What brings you out here?"

  "Dee Dee Dunston."

  Dwayne almost hoped that Darrell would yank on the reins and gallop off. Because then William Tucker's life would be saved. Which would save Frank Tucker's life. If the boy went to prison, Frank would never be free. He was a good man and a good friend, and Dwayne Gentry was down to three friends in the whole world. He couldn't afford to lose one.

  "We understand you knew her," Dwayne said, "in the Biblical sense."

  Darrell dismounted. He jingled.

  "Wow, cowboys really do wear spurs," Chuck said with a kid's grin.

  Darrell frowned at Chuck then turned to Dwayne.

  "I knew her. But I didn't kill her, if that's why you're here."

  "It is."

  "I thought William Tucker confessed?"

  "Nope. He didn't kill the girl."

  "Paper said his blood was on her."

  "It was on you, too," Chuck said.

  "You an ex-cop, too?"

  "Coach."

  "An ex-cop and an ex-coach."

  "You wore number fifty-two back then, didn't you?" Dwayne said.

  "Yep."

  "William was bleeding at the end of that game. When you tackled him, his blood got on John Smith, Bo Cantrell, and you."

  "How do you know?"

  "Game film," Chuck said. "Got a real neat zoom feature."

  "Did you shower after the game?" Dwayne said.

  Darrell recoiled and seemed a bit amused.

  "Odd question."

  "Mind answering it?"

  "Yeah, I showered after the game. Always did. I may be a cowboy, but I'm not a cow. I got a degree in engineering, and I know how a shower works."

  Dwayne and Chuck exchanged a glance. Darrell pushed his hat back on his head.

  "So you two fellas came all the way out here to ask if I showered after the game? Hell, you could've called."

  "What about Bo Cantrell? He shower after the game?"

  Darrell laughed. "Bo Cantrell was a half-crazy, juiced-up coon-ass from Louisiana who suffered one too many concussions. And he stunk worse than cow shit. His idea of bathing was swimming in the swamp."

  "Tell us about him."

  "We came up together, started all four years. He was middle linebacker, I was outside. He was dead set on going pro, but he was only two-thirty. Pro linebackers are two-sixty. So he got on steroids junior year. Made him meaner than a rattlesnake. And the concussions didn't help his disposition."

  "You didn't partake?"

  "Nope. I never figured on going pro. I'm a cowboy. I had this ranch to come back to. Bo, he didn't have anything waiting back in Louisiana for him. If he didn't go pro, he was back hunting gators in the swamp. I always figured I'd read about him in the paper."

  "Sports pages?"

  "Obituaries. Figured he'd commit suicide, like those other brain-damaged pro players." He shook his head. "Well, I'd better go look for some cows."

  Darrell Jackson stuck a cowboy boot into a stirrup and mounted the big horse. He jerked the reins as if to gallop off, but didn't. He turned back to Dwayne and Chuck.

  "By the end of our senior season, Bo's head just wasn't right. The juice, it made him paranoid. You go looking for Bo, you watch yourself. He started carrying a gun."

  Bo Cantrell had been taken by Omaha in the third round of the NFL draft two years before. He was now a starting linebacker for the Wranglers. He sported a shaved head and tattoo sleeves on both arms. When he walked out of the Wrangler's training facility after their Tuesday practice, Frank called out to him from across the parking lot.

  "Bo!"

  He glanced their way but kept walking and yelled over his shoulder, "No autographs."

  Frank and Chico caught up with him.

  "We don't want your autograph."

  Still walking. "Good."

  "We want to ask you about Dee Dee Dunston."

  Bo stopped. He turned and looked them over. And Frank looked him over. His head seemed oversized, his neck was thick, and his shoulders were wide and lumpy with muscles. He had acne. He was not a handsome human being. He wore a Wrangler T-shirt, sweat pants, and sneakers. Grass was in his hair; his thick arms were matted with dirt and sweat. His body odor was stifling.

  "You cops?"

  "I'm Frank Tucker. William Tucker's father."

  Bo maintained his stern expression, but Frank saw something in his eyes. Guilt.

  "Way I hear it, your boy's done confessed to killing Dee Dee."

  "You heard wrong, Bo. He didn't kill her."

  "Then who did?"

  They locked eyes. Dwayne had reported in on their meeting with Darrell Jackson. Only one suspect remained.

  "You did."

  Bo's massive neck muscles clenched. His breathing came faster, and his face flushed. He was the killer.

  "You didn't shower after practice, Bo."

  "So?"

  "Habit. You didn't shower after the UT game two years ago either."

  "So?"

  "So William's left elbow got cut at the end of the game, when you and Darrell Jackson and John Smith tackled him. He bled down his arm. His blood got on their arms and your arms. But they showered after the game, washed the blood off. You didn't. His blood was still on your arms when you raped and murdered Dee Dee that night out back of the Dizzy Rooster."

  "Prove it."

  "We can. We can prove that you killed Dee Dee. It's over, Bo."

  Bo Cantrell stepped toward Frank as if to hit him.

  "Fuck you."

  He turned and walked fast to a jacked-up four-wheel drive pickup, got in, and sped off. Chico took a photo of the license plate with William's cell phone. Then Frank called Dwayne. When he answered, Frank said, "You and Chuck drive to Midland, fly to Omaha. It's Bo Cantrell."

  "How are we going to get Bo to confess?" Chuck asked.

  Frank and Chico had picked up Dwayne and Chuck at the Omaha airport that night and driven back to t
he hotel.

  "We're gonna haunt his ass," Dwayne said. "When you know who the bad guy is, and the bad guy knows you know, you gotta get in his head, let him know you're watching him, make him look over his shoulder, get him scared."

  "Of us?" Chico said. "An ex-lawyer, ex-cop, ex-coach, and ex-con?"

  "Good point," Frank said.

  "I've dealt with his kind before," Dwayne said. "He ain't the brightest bulb in the box, see, but he figures he got away with murder. And rape. Now it's two years later, and he likes his life. Wants to keep it. He'll do anything to keep it. Even kill again. 'Cause he's got nothing to lose."

  "Kill again?" Chico said. "That would be us?"

  "It would," Dwayne said.

  "That calls for a drink."

  Chapter 45

  At eight the next morning, Friday, they were parked directly across the street from Bo's home in an upscale Omaha neighborhood. It looked like the Tucker's old house in River Oaks, which is to say, completely unbefitting Bo Cantrell.

  "He's gonna see us," Chuck said.

  "We want him to," Dwayne said. "This ain't a surveillance. This is a haunting."

  "What's the difference?"

  "Surveillance, you try to be stealthy, not let the suspect know you're watching him. A haunting, you want him to know he's being haunted."

  "Ohh. But that sounds more dangerous."

  "There is that."

  Bo Cantrell pulled out of his driveway at nine. He saw them and sped off in his truck. They followed him to the Wrangler's training facility. They watched him walk inside. He glanced back at them at the door.

  "Who wants coffee?" Chico said.

  "Starbucks?" Dwayne asked.

  "Of course."

  "Venti decaf Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino with extra whipped cream," Chuck said. "One shot."

  "Espresso?"

  "Whiskey."

  "Grande pumpkin latte, one shot, and a doughnut," Dwayne said. "I always ate donuts on stakeouts."

  "What kind?"

  "Whiskey?"

  "Donuts?"

  "The kind with sugar."

  "I'll have a donut, too," Chuck said.

  "A scone," Frank said. "Regular tall coffee, no whiskey."

  "Call me if Bo comes out," Chico said. "I'll be back in ten."

  Bo came out at three that afternoon. Frank waved to him. He did not wave back. He drove to a liquor store—

  "Now he's teasing us," Chico said.

  —and then to a strip joint.

  "Now he's taunting us," Chuck said.

  They did not enter the establishment. Bo might have friends in low places. They waited. And waited. A few hours later, he exited the joint with a stripper.

  "There's a cash transaction," Chico said.

  They followed him back to his house. He entered with the girl, but they saw him peeking out the window at them.

  "That's good haunting, boys," Dwayne said.

  Chapter 46

  The next morning, they were again parked outside Bo's house.

  "You sure this will work?" Frank asked.

  "Pretty sure," Dwayne said.

  Saturday went much the same as Friday except Bo stopped to eat before going to the strip joint. A Cajun food place. He sat by the window. Frank waved to him. He gave Frank the finger.

  "Jesus, he eats like a pig," Chico said.

  "Cajun," Dwayne said.

  "The food?"

  "Bo."

  "I wonder, could I grill crawdads?" Chuck said.

  Chapter 47

  On Sunday, Omaha played the Patriots in the Wrangler Stadium. They acquired four tickets behind the Omaha bench from a scalper outside the stadium. Inside, Chuck bought a Wranglers football—

  "I wonder if I can get some of the players to sign it after the game?"

  "You're a groupie, aren't you?" Dwayne said.

  —Dwayne an orange team color plastic cowboy hat that made him look like a kid waiting in line for the pony ride, Chico T-shirts for his girls, and Frank a poster. He borrowed Dwayne's Sharpie. They found their seats. When the teams came out for the game, they screamed, "Bo!" until they caught his attention on the sideline. When he found them in the stands, Frank held up the poster on the back of which he had written BO CANTRELL IS A KILLER LINEBACKER. Bo stalked down the sideline.

  "Boo! Boo!"

  The fans booed Bo. He had missed an assignment; his man caught a short pass and ran for a touchdown. The Patriots were running over the Wranglers. Over Bo Cantrell in particular. He came to the sideline and kicked over the Gatorade table. Then he glanced up at them in the stands. Frank held up the sign again.

  "Now this is what I call a haunting," Dwayne said.

  Bo's game went from bad to horrible. He missed assignments and tackles. The Patriots ran over him, around him, and through him. The coaches yelled at him, his teammates yelled at him, and the fans yelled at him. The Wranglers lost 48-7.

  "Hey, Bo, sign my football!"

  Bo had just exited the players' locker room at the stadium. A few fans had gathered in hopes of snagging an autograph. Chuck held his football out to Bo as he walked by.

  "Bo! Come on, man!" Chuck yelled.

  Bo gave Chuck a glare as if he wanted to deck him. He didn't. Sign his ball or deck him. He stormed past and to his truck in the parking lot. He drove directly to his favorite strip joint. He closed the place down at 2:00 A.M. They followed him home and parked on the street. He stumbled inside and apparently to bed as all the lights went out. They rolled the windows down and sat quietly for an hour. And another. They took turns napping. Chuck snored; Chico talked in his sleep. Frank couldn't sleep. He and Dwayne talked about the old days in Houston. Which seemed so long ago. A different life.

  "The haunting didn't work," Frank said. "It's four-thirty. Same time in Austin. William is set to plead at nine. What do we do now?"

  "Get out of the fuckin' car."

  Bo Cantrell stood outside the car and pointed a big handgun inside the car.

  Chapter 48

  Frank, Dwayne, Chuck, and Chico sat on a couch in Bo Cantrell's large living room facing a massive flat screen television on the opposite wall. A cable sports channel ran replays from the football games the day before; the volume was muted. Bo was not. He cursed each time his botched plays were shown, and they were shown over and over again. He pointed the gun at the screen.

  "That fuckin' play, it wasn't my fuckin' fault. The fuckin' strong safety, he's gotta help over the fuckin' top. But I fuckin' got blamed."

  "Limited vocabulary," Dwayne whispered.

  "Linebacker," Chuck whispered.

  Cable sports ran 24/7 these days; problem was, there wasn't enough sports action to fill all that airtime. So the highlight and lowlight reels ran in loops. If you missed the recap of your team's game, it would run again in ten minutes. The Wranglers' recap had run a dozen or more times over the two hours since Bo Cantrell had abducted them at gunpoint. He paced back and forth in front of the screen. He held the big gun in one hand and a whiskey bottle in the other. Dwayne was thinking.

  "Jack Daniels Tennessee Honey," he whispered.

  "We're gonna die," Chuck whispered.

  "Yep. Wouldn't mind a shot of JD before we do."

  "Why'd you say that?"

  "It's good stuff."

  "No. That we're gonna die."

  "Oh. Just agreeing with you."

  "Well, don't."

  Bo shot the TV.

  "Shit!" Chico said.

  "Look, TV still works," Chuck said. "What brand is that, Bo?"

  "Shut up!"

  "Just asking. Say, Bo, would you sign my football?"

  Chuck had brought the Wranglers souvenir football in with him.

  "Shut the fuck up! I'm trying to think!"

  "Do you have a hard time thinking, too? From concussions? I had ten concussions in college, one in peewee."

  "When you was a kid?"

  "No. When I was a referee."

  Bo shot the ceiling.

 
; "Shut up!"

  "I gotta pee," Chuck said.

  "You gonna die!"

  Bo paced again.

  "You know," Dwayne said, "I'm never really gonna move to Panama or Ecuador or none of those places."

  "Why not?"

  " 'Cause you guys are all I've got. I've never had a real family."

  Chuck leaned into him.

  "Buddy hug."

  He gave Dwayne a hug. Dwayne whispered.

  "We could attack Bo, maybe Frank and Chico could get away."

  "Or they could attack Bo and we could get away."

  "We're bigger than them."

  "They might be quicker."

  "We gotta man up, Chuck."

  "You sure?"

  Dwayne sighed. "Yeah, I'm sure." He shrugged. "Hell, we all gotta die sometime."

  "But do we gotta die tonight?"

  "You goddamn right you gonna die," Bo Cantrell said.

  "You're going to kill us, too, Bo?" Frank said. "Like you killed Dee Dee Dunston?"

  Chapter 49

  Dee Dee Dunston stood at the long bar in the Dizzy Rooster. She was pretty drunk. A meaty hand clamped down on her arm.

  "Let's dance, Dee Dee."

  She turned and came face to face with Bo Cantrell. He had a dark face, dark eyes, and a dark mood. He was ugly, and he stunk. She recoiled from his body odor.

  "Did you shower after the game, Bo? It is Saturday night."

  She yanked her arm free and turned her back on him. Bo expressed his displeasure in his typical vocabulary.

  "Fuck you, Dee Dee."

  "In your dreams, asshole," she said over her shoulder.

  Dee Dee ordered another beer. A big hand grabbed her arm again; she whirled around to tell Bo Cantrell off, but she found herself staring into the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

  Her knees felt wobbly.

  She had grown up on a ranch, which offered little in the way of a social life. When she arrived in Lubbock, she found boys and girls gone wild. Most were from the country, the first time off the ranches and farms and ready to kick loose. Dance. Drink. Screw. God, everyone was screwing like rabbits! Dee Dee Dunston's virginity lasted exactly one week on the college campus. She loved sex. Private sex. Public sex. Wild sex. Sex. Anytime. Anywhere. But only with athletes. Star athletes. Like the one with the blue eyes standing before her.