“How did it taste?”
“It was a beer. Schlitz. I loved it.” He paused, licking his lips. “That should have been a sign, I guess. But I was twelve. What did I know?”
“Did anyone else see you?”
He smirked. “My dad offered it to me, then sat down on the back porch and drank one with me.”
Nick and I exchanged glances before Doug continued. “Yeah, I grew up in one of those families.”
I wanted to jump ahead to the night he found his wife in bed with the police chief, but I didn’t want to force it and then have him realize he should keep his mouth shut. He was telling us his life story. I just hoped he’d tell the truth once he got to the night he killed two people.
“Says here you have two older siblings, a sister and a brother?”
“Yeah. They were pretty cool, I guess. As I think about my time as a teenager…those weren’t my best moments.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I was a punk. Just running around, acting like I was Mr. Badass. My sister was in college, but she came home one weekend when my parents were out of town and threw a party. Wow…what a party it was.”
“Yeah? You smoke a little weed, maybe something a little harder?”
“I did everything, times ten. I was over the top, challenging everyone, trying to shag all the college girls. I was full of myself.” He smacked his lips. They were dry and cracking.
Nick jumped in. “Want some more water?”
“Uh, sure. Thanks.”
As Nick left to get another water, I had a slight feeling of déjà vu—talking to my dad the morning after one of his binges. I’d feed him multiple cups of coffee, and he’d talk to me in the calmest voice. He usually didn’t go back and relive his moments of drunken glory, but even at age seven, right after Mom had died, I recognized how odd it felt taking care of someone twenty-five years older. Yet, given his personality and predisposition for how he handled stress and regret, it became the norm. I would prop him up, and then in return, he’d push me to be the best…usually in tennis, where I quickly learned how to put my foot on the throat of any opponent, especially if it was a boy. Yep, that was when Dad had the biggest smile on his face. I’d always wondered if that was the reason I’d worked so hard at the sport—just to see him happy.
“Here you go,” Nick said, handing Butterfield another cup of water.
He downed it in seconds.
“So, Doug, while you were a first-team party animal, you obviously put some focus on other things as well, since you got into BC.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” He looked at the cup.
An abbreviated response. Maybe he was about to clam up, which meant it was time to bring in the lawyers.
“You suppose? I heard you were a badass on the football field.”
He tried to smile, but his mouth never quite got there. “I did a few things, but it really just fed my ego and allowed me to be a bully. Want to know something else?”
Nick said, “Sure.”
“I took PEDs. Just what a kid needed who had issues dealing with the highs and lows of life. It made me even more volatile. And how did I deal with that?”
“You drank even more,” Nick said.
He fiddled with his cup while nodding. “And all the while, my parents, my family just thought I was a normal kid growing up.”
“No one said anything or tried to get you help?” I asked.
“Pssh. They noticed once I got kicked off the BC football team during my sophomore year. That was the end of the world. I think they’d already planned on attending the NFL draft party with me a couple of years later.”
Nick sat up. “You were NFL material?”
“That was the hype from the coaches when they recruited me out of high school. But they didn’t know me. They didn’t know that I didn’t have it in here.” He patted his chest.
I was amazed at how much he was pouring out his soul. It reminded me, once again, that in most crimes, there’s more than one victim, even if the trigger event to initiate the downward spiral of the perpetrator started decades earlier. I glanced down at Butterfield’s file. He was fifty-six. Society dealt with alcohol-related offenses differently in earlier generations. While society may be more aware nowadays, where did that leave Butterfield and many others like him…like Dad, who grew up in another time? Caught in a quagmire of self-destruction, where the collateral damage to those of us nearby was often traumatic, if not catastrophic.
A thought just hit me: was my mother’s hyper-intense focus on religion at least partially due to Dad’s drinking problems? Or was her behavior the catalyst that sent Dad over the edge?
The chains from Butterfield’s handcuffs rattled against metal, distracting my attention. He was wiping his face with both hands. Elbows on the table, he continued sharing his life, and all Nick and I had to do was listen. “Thought I had a plan after I dropped out of school.”
“I don’t see where you were actually kicked out of BC,” I said, flipping pages in the file.
“Not formally. I had two semesters where I didn’t show up to a single class, but because of my standing on the football team, the school just put me on probation. When I finally got kicked off the team, I knew it was just a matter of time, so I dropped out.”
Nick glanced my way. We both knew we were getting close. I just hoped we could get Butterfield to finally reach the climactic ending of his tragic story before our time was up. I had a feeling this was a one-shot deal. Once the Boston Police Department took custody and started playing hardball, Butterfield would probably wise up and demand a lawyer. After umpteen motions and proceedings, the judge would finally set a trial date—a trial that would drag reputations through the mud and take months to complete. No one would be satisfied with the outcome or the process through which it was reached. No one except the lawyers collecting their fees.
“Your plan?” Nick asked. “You said you had a plan after you dropped out.”
“Right. The big plan. Well, that consisted of throwing all my crap in the back of my hunting truck and driving down to Virginia. I was going to go into the real estate business with my cousin.”
“What part of the state?” I asked.
“The beach, actually Norfolk.”
My old stomping ground…when I was barely able to walk. For some reason, I thought about the time when Mom died. It was crazy, yet I couldn’t recall her funeral. I only knew that my life had changed almost instantly, including my address. Dad moved us to Port Isabel, Texas, in no time, and we started over. And it didn’t take long for me to lose almost any recollection of my mom. Another sad thought. But at the same time, I didn’t completely lose my connection with her. Dad had told me that I’d decided to go into law because of the fact they’d never found the guy who killed my mom by running her car off the road.
I blew out a breath, wishing we could start winding down the interview. I didn’t need to relive decades-old drama. Feeling sorry for myself wasn’t a natural disposition, and I wasn’t going to start now.
“That’s where Agent Troutt grew up,” Nick said, extending a hand to me.
I gave him the eye. I know he was only trying to keep the talking machine moving, but still…
I just nodded and glanced at my phone, wishing it would all end in about five minutes.
“Oh yeah? It was a pretty nice area, I guess. Lots of government work with the Navy base in Virginia Beach,” Butterfield said. “My cousin had served in the Navy. He thought there would be plenty of opportunities to sell homes, and then we could move into commercial real estate and really bank.”
“Did you?” Nick asked.
“Did I what?”
“Bank.”
“I got my real estate license, which itself was a miracle. I can still remember the hangover I had when I took the test.”
I could imagine this guy’s top ten list of hangovers would put anyone to shame.
Again, he kept talking, as if he was being paid to tell us his li
fe story. “Me and Terrance, though…we weren’t a good mix.”
Butterfield reexamined every inch of his paper cup, picking at the frayed edges.
“Did you guys fight a lot about how to run your mini empire?” I asked.
He lifted his eyes. “Actually, we were exactly the same, but he was just more experienced than me.”
I turned my head, not understanding what he was saying.
“He partied. Hard. Like there was no tomorrow.”
“Shit,” Nick said.
“I know, right? Worst choice I ever made,” he said, his voice suddenly void of energy. For at least a minute, he just stared off into the corner, not moving. He was recalling something or someone. According to his file, he didn’t meet his wife until he was thirty years old. Was he thinking about her now, how he’d found her and the police chief together? “Doug, what happened?” Nick asked.
“What didn’t?” He shook his head and took in a deep breath. “Oh my. What have I done with my life?”
His whole body seemed to cave in. This mountain of a man appeared to be losing the depression battle. But it was too soon.
“Who here hasn’t screwed up their life in some fashion?” I said. “You see, Doug, we’re not raising our hands.”
He glanced at both of us and then nodded a couple of times.
“You’re doing good. Tell us more.”
It took a minute, but he finally pulled himself from the back of the chair, leaned on the table, and anchored his chin on his hands. “I was arrested for DWI twice in six months.”
I nodded.
“But I kept partying, kept thinking I didn’t have a drinking problem. I was twenty-two, carefree and thinking I could rule the world.”
“Just like most young people.”
“But very few were as destructive as me.”
He was right. I had to get to the next phase of his life, or at least find out if he would even go there.
“So something changed your life. Did you meet your future wife?”
It appeared he held his breath for a moment, his eyes unblinking. Then he said, “Oh, Rebecca. I met her in Vegas three or four years later. We were both drunk then.”
Nick and I traded another glance. Neither of us said a word, hoping Butterfield would use that as a segue to get to the night of the murders. “But the time I really thought my life had changed was when I was arrested for a hit-and-run.”
Something inside me clicked, and I could feel my pulse pick up speed. Why, I had no idea. “How bad was it?”
“Fortunately for me, it looked worse than it was. A guy on a motorcycle ran a red light, and I plowed right into him. Of course, I was higher than a kite—”
“Weed on top of the alcohol?” I asked.
“Weed, PEDs, coke…and yes, my booze of choice. I didn’t discriminate against any of them.”
“You didn’t stick around to help the guy from the motorcycle?”
“Of course not. He had a broken leg and some scrapes, but I didn’t know that. I thought he was dead. I was all about saving myself.”
“I guess it didn’t work out.”
He shook his head. “They caught me about an hour later. Want to know where I was?”
I opened my hands to the ceiling.
“A bar. A fucking bar. Damn, I had…” His voice faded for a moment. “Check that. I was going to say I had a pair on me, but the reality was I had balls the size of tiny atoms. I was gutless and afraid.”
“You may not realize it yet, Doug, but you admitting this now is a good thing. It’s never too late to put everything on the table and figure out what’s important in life,” Nick said.
My partner knew what he was doing. By giving Butterfield a pat on the back, he would keep him talking.
“Thanks,” Butterfield said, looking at Nick. “But I don’t deserve it. Not a bit of it.”
This might be the moment. I could see he was on the edge of confessing his life’s biggest regret—the one that would send him to jail for the rest of his life. He could save the victims’ families and the city a lot of undue pain by just admitting his crime and moving on to the next phase of his life.
He brought his hands to his face, almost as if he were praying. The chains rattled again, breaking the silence in the room.
“Doug, we know you’ve made mistakes, but we’re all human here. We’re not judging you,” I said.
“I lied a moment ago.”
I had no idea where he was going, but I could feel my neck grow stiff. “How so?”
“That turning point in my life didn’t come when I hit that guy on the motorcycle.”
I looked at Nick and then pushed away from the wall I was leaning against and scanned his file one more time. “Doug, it’s actually documented right here about your hit-and-run. You were twenty-two, right?”
He nodded, but he didn’t look at me.
“Am I missing something?”
A few beats, and then he brought his fingers to his eyes and started breathing like a Lamaze champ. “Doug, we’ve told you before, we’re not here to judge you.”
“I know,” he said through a garbled voice. He cleared his throat and continued. “I haven’t told anyone this…this part of my life.”
He closed his eyes and let his chin drop to his chest. We were losing him. Could we get another couple of statements from him?
“Do you know the statute of limitations for…” He stopped talking before he finished, his tired eyes glazed over.
Was there something from his past he wasn’t telling us?
“We’re here for you,” Nick said. “You want some more water? Maybe a snack or candy bar?”
“No!” he erupted.
Nick flinched.
“I’m tired of being saved. Tired of thinking I can scam everyone into doing what I want them to do. Tired of getting away with shit. And believe me, I’m one of the greatest bullshit artists out there.”
He released a chuckle, although he didn’t smile. A few more deep breaths, and then he wiped sweat from his forehead.
“I’m not sure I can do this.” He was breathing so hard I thought he was heading for a heart attack.
“You can do it, Doug. You’re stronger than you think,” Nick said.
Doug pounded a fist to the table, and then another. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, but that couldn’t stop the flow of tears. His face turned red, and he absolutely lost it.
I could see the agent on the other side of the glass look in. I held up a hand, signaling we were okay for now. I looked back at Butterfield as he wept and banged his fists on the table. It was painful to watch on so many levels. But I knew this breakdown had to happen—for him to have any chance at moving on with some semblance of life, even if it would be behind bars, and for us to get an admission of guilt.
Finally, he ran out of gas and rested his head on his arm, which was draped across the table. A minute passed and he said nothing.
Nick tried to bring him back to life. “After all these years of lying to yourself, don’t you want to just put everything out there? To finally take that huge weight of guilt and shame off your shoulders?”
Butterfield lifted his head and nodded.
“We’re ready when you are,” Nick said, crossing his legs.
“It was a month after I hit the motorcycle guy,” he said, wiping tears from his face with the grace of a bear. “I was out on bond. My parents had put up fifty grand, and I gave them my word I wouldn’t run, that I’d be a good, law-abiding citizen until my trial or the family lawyer was able to work out some type of plea deal.”
I stuffed my hand in my pocket, looking for something to keep me anchored. He was at rock bottom, and he was going to let it all out. I was anxious, but transfixed by every motion he made, every word that came out of his mouth.
Glassy-eyed, he stared at the blank wall, and I wondered if he was replaying whatever event took place so many years ago that still haunted him.
Nick gave him a slight nudge. “So
where were you?”
“Driving in my hunting truck. I’d actually put in a day’s work at our little real estate office. I was trying to stay busy. Anything to keep the demons out of my head.”
“And?”
“I met a couple of buddies for happy hour. Nothing serious, just a couple of drinks to take the edge off. It was all about being social—at least that’s what I had convinced myself.”
Another pause as he dug his fingernails into the palm of his opposite hand. This guy was falling apart before our eyes, and it was nerve-racking to witness. But I couldn’t stop watching or listening.
“I got in a fight over a stupid pool game, and I got kicked out of the bar. Of course I blamed everyone else, put up a big scene. I was pissed. So how did I handle it? Like a little brat. I went to a liquor store, picked up a bottle of cheap whiskey, and jumped back into my truck. I drove like a bat out of hell, screaming at the top of my lungs while downing the entire bottle of whiskey. That taste…it’s just so addictive. It brings out the worst in me.”
“How did it end, Doug?” Nick said calmly.
“It was late, maybe eleven or so at night. Not many folks on the road. I was on some two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere. That fucking deer.” He pressed his fists into the sides of his head. “No…I can’t. I can’t do it!”
“Doug, I think you—”
“No,” he barked. “I’m saying I can’t blame it on an animal. It’s just me justifying my actions again. Finding another excuse. I won’t do it. The deer caused me to swerve, but I shouldn’t have been doing eighty miles per hour, not on a night with a lot of fog, and not when I was drunk as hell. I lost control of my truck, swerved all over the road. The next thing I knew I was headed for the railing of a bridge. I swung the truck back and thought I was safe, but I rammed right into a car parked on the side of the road.”
I took a step in his direction, my gut twisting. “Where was this, Doug?”
He thought a moment. “Highway 165, south of town a bit.” He looked at me a second, then went back to the blank wall. “I jumped out of my truck and ran over to the car. It was just dangling off the side, swaying up and down, with this creepy sound of metal grinding. I saw a woman inside. She looked dazed, but alive. I panicked.”
The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 4-6 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set Book 2) Page 52