Let the Guilty Pay

by Rick Treon

  “Yes. I’m trying to see if I have this right. In return for telling my editor I don’t want to write the story she assigned to me, you claim you can get me, quote, inside access to another murder that just happens to have taken place at your job—though I thought you were essentially self-employed as a true-crime author.”

  “I understand it sounds radical. But if you’ll indulge me for a few minutes, I think I can convince you.”

  A shorter pause. “I’m listening.”

  I explained what happened on the job site, minus a couple of details—the fight, the fact I’d discovered Jillian’s body, that her murder mirrored Summer Foster’s—and began describing what a welder’s helper does. I could hear her typing on her computer and imagined her pulling up local news stories. I’d done that earlier, and there were a couple of short articles online. All they said were that local and state authorities were investigating a death on private property near Fritch, but they were enough to lend credibility to my story.

  “Assuming you’re telling the truth, I still have one question,” Veronica said. “How do you plan to give me this golden ticket into the investigation?”

  “That’s the best part. A welder can bring you onto the job as their helper with no questions asked. Literally none. He gives them your name, you show up to fill out paperwork so they can pay you, and you’re in. No background check, no references, no resume—nothing.”

  Saying it out loud made working on a pipeline sound illegal. “It’s all legit, though. I swear.”

  “You want me to work out there? Using those power tools and doing all that stuff you were talking about?”

  I understood why this would scare her, especially if she’d never worked with her hands. But I hadn’t touched a power tool since high school and was handling myself well enough. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. I bet a third of the helpers on our jobs have been women, and most are better at it than I am.” I was fibbing a bit. Maybe a fifth were women, and all of them were more competent helpers than me. “Plus, I know a welder. We’ll tell him you’re desperate for money and that he’ll have to do some of the harder work. He’ll be thankful to have anyone there to hand him rods and run his temperature.”

  “See, I don’t even know what that means. And would I be replacing the woman who died? This all sounds insane.”

  “Yes, you’d be helping Paul,” I said. “He’s our welding partner. He’s also an old friend of mine, and he’ll be fine with it.”

  I had no idea if that was true. But Paul needed a warm body to help him, and Jillian had been new, too.

  “Okay, let’s say all of what you’ve told me so far is true, and you really can get me out there like you say. How does that help me?”

  I smiled as I set the hook. “I see you doing a sort of Gonzo Journalism piece with it. You can do your best Hunter S. Thompson impression, minus the drugs” —though if she wanted some, there was plenty to be found out on the pipeline— “and you can give the details about what kind of work she was doing, ask people what they thought of her, that sort of thing. And I can feed you what I learn from the investigators.”

  “Why would they talk to you?”

  It was my turn to pause. I didn’t see any harm in telling her I was one of three people who found the body.

  “Me, my welder, Jorge, and our boss found her. I gave one statement to a state trooper yesterday, but I was told the detectives in charge of the case would probably need to talk to me, too. And, though I’m not a journalist, I do have experience interviewing people and will be able to get details out of whoever is in the room.”

  Even through the phone, I could tell she was close to giving in. “Here’s what I think,” she said. “I will admit, a fresh investigation will probably be a better story. But, like I said, I was given the Butch Heller assignment and have done a lot of work on it, so I don’t know. Let me call you tomorrow.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention that the job pays sixteen dollars an hour for sixty hours a week, including overtime after forty. And seven hundred dollars a week per diem.”

  What I heard next—a cough and tapping as she crunched the numbers on her computer’s calculator, coming up with $1,820 a week before taxes—was the sound of me reeling her in. “And you’ll be making all of that on top of whatever the Ledger pays you since you’ll be on assignment. That also means you’ll be expensing things.”

  “More like they’ll use getting paid as an excuse to not reimburse me, but I get what you’re saying.”

  I could tell by her voice I’d convinced her of my idea’s merits. That’s why I saved the bit about the outrageous pay for last. It was a sure way to push any young writer, journalist or otherwise, onto my side of the fence.

  We finalized her plan to call me with an answer in the morning. I hung up feeling wide awake, certain that I’d gotten Veronica’s mind off Summer Foster and onto Jillian’s murder.

  Princess, a tiny mop-creature that resembled a miniature dog, pawed at my right hand. She began whining for me to pet her, and the other dogs joined her. Even Hammy chimed in from his kennel in the kitchen, which was covered with a blanket to help him sleep.

  I felt bad for causing so much noise but was glad for the company. I’d accomplished my goal, but it was hard to keep out thoughts of the two dead women, and of my own morality. After all, I’d just traded Jillian’s death to keep someone from further investigating the murder of Summer Foster.

  But I desperately needed to keep Veronica from exhuming that case. Digging up the truth would set Butch Heller free, and that kind of upheaval might be too much to handle.

  6

  Excerpt from Cold Summer

  If someone wanted to shine a positive light on Butch Heller, they might call him quixotic. He imagined himself the knight of Hinterbach, perhaps even all the Texas Hill Country, fighting police and small-town corruption. To everyone else, he was a public nuisance, a frequent resident of the city jail’s drunk tank, and a man described by many in the community as common trash.

  But to Summer Foster, he was the handsome former sports hero, and the only man to ever earn her love. And during the weeks leading up to her death, many neighbors and observers reported positive changes in Heller, including regular attendance at twelve-step meetings held at a church in nearby Kerrville.

  Because the Fourth of July is one of the biggest drinking holidays of the year, Heller attended a special meeting at 8:30 a.m. As events would reveal, his short time being a friend of Bill W. was not enough.

  According to witness statements, the only thing Heller said after he was found on a neighbor’s porch was one simple phrase, repeated several times: “I need to call the police.” He offered no confession or claims of innocence before police arrested him. With the exception of asking for a lawyer, Heller remained silent during the initial interrogation, which took place a few hours later after sleeping off the considerable amount of alcohol he’d consumed that evening.

  By the time prosecutors presented the case in front of a grand jury, the Hinterbach Police Department, Nimitz County Sheriff’s Office, Texas Department of Public Safety, and Federal Bureau of Investigation had gathered enough physical and circumstantial evidence to secure a conviction without any input from Heller.

  7

  Butch Heller

  July 4, 1999, 7:45 a.m.

  Heller lifted the straight razor, stopping just before it reached his neck. It was a holiday. Maybe shaving wasn’t necessary. Plus, by the time the party was wrapping up and Summer was getting in the mood, he’d have that nice two-day stubble she liked. Thoughts of his younger girlfriend mixed with the heat of the shower, and Heller wanted to wake Summer with a kiss between her shoulder blades.

  He shook off the feeling and focused on the task at hand. He was up early on the nation’s birthday for yet another congregation of former drunkards in Kerrville. Heller didn’t want to go, but attendance was mandatory if he wanted to remain with Summer.

  Though
he wouldn’t admit it publicly, Heller was enjoying the benefits of sobriety. His body and face were thinner. His skin had shed its reddish hue. Summer had complimented him on his looks the day before, though the comment was sandwiched between a you should’ve stopped drinking a long time ago and an I told you so.

  He hadn’t argued Summer’s decision to kick him out six months ago—a first for him—but instead started getting clean on his own. Heller had been sober when he returned twenty-three days ago, but he knew she was far from convinced he could stay that way. He had suggested the meetings, not expecting her to believe it would work. But if he attended the twice-weekly meetings, along with completing other honey-do’s like rebuilding the rotting front porch, he could move back in.

  Heller had been faithful. He’d even been getting dressed up for the meetings—he’d once heard a man say people should dress for success—and he was shaving daily, revealing the strong, cleft chin that had helped him get laid so many times as a younger man. Now he wished the facial hair would instead grow on the top of his head.

  He walked naked from the bathroom to the closet in their bedroom. Part of him hoped Summer was awake and would appreciate his body. A morning quickie wasn’t in the cards, though, as she was still dead asleep on their queen bed. He took a moment to enjoy the sight of a sky-blue comforter exposing her sculpted shoulders and left arm, which she was using as a pillow to support a head of short blonde hair—a new haircut he was still getting used to. No matter the length of her hair, she was stunning. He would’ve taken her picture if they owned a camera.

  He tiptoed around the bed to the closet instead, reaching inside to pull a plain blue T-shirt and a pair of jeans from the shelf above the hangers. Heller slid back around the bed to the dresser, where a pair of socks waited in the bottom drawer—his only drawer, which also held the underwear he wore in winter and whatever else he could fit. Though she’d relinquished some closet space, Summer hadn’t given him an equal share of the dresser. He still had to earn that, which was fine for now. Summer’s house, Summer’s rules.

  After dressing and slipping into a pair of sneakers, Heller tried his best to open and shut the door quietly, though that was next to impossible in such an old trailer. As he stepped onto the porch he’d agreed to fix, Heller looked at the lawn he needed to mow again. He didn’t know why Summer insisted on that chore. It was just a patch of overgrown weeds.

  He kicked up a cloud of dust on his way to a cherry red 1987 Firebird that used to be his pride and joy. He’d gotten it repainted a couple years ago and had an old high school buddy put flame graphics down the side. It still looked perfect, though he hadn’t bothered to wash it in months.

  Heller squirmed in his seat. He’d never felt comfortable in churches, though he wasn’t there searching for the Lord and had no reason to feel guilty.

  As a boy, Heller’s parents had dragged him to a Baptist church, where he slept with most of the girls and women who attended, many of them in darkened rooms during Sunday and Wednesday services. They were in their holy place, and he was in his. Plus, there were few better alibis to give lazy boyfriends and husbands.

  He’d attended different churches for the same reasons in his twenties and thirties, but by his early forties he was a devoted boyfriend—except for drunken parking lot hookups when he and Summer were fighting. She’d given up on salvation long ago, so church wasn’t a part of their deal.

  A man who said his name was Greg led Heller’s new meetings. Heller didn’t have a sponsor, but Greg would do the trick if Summer ever demanded to meet one. Most of the guys there were regulars, but Heller noted several new faces searching for strength at the only Fourth of July meeting for at least fifty miles.

  Heller didn’t consider himself one of them. He drank for fun, but everyone else blamed it for some of his most recent troubles.

  Greg had been droning on for a while before he said something that caught Heller’s attention. “Okay, everyone, we haven’t had much participation today. You regulars know I can’t let y’all go until we have some speakers. Otherwise, we might’s well be going it alone, and we’re here because that’s not an option. So, who’s going to volunteer to speak so we can all go celebrate with our families?”

  Twenty seconds of silence passed before Greg shook his head. “All right then, looks like I’m going to have to pick someone. Butch, you’re up.”

  Heller had spoken a few times. He enjoyed holding court and could always make folks laugh. And if it got this thing over with sooner, all the better. He walked to the front of the bland room—which stunk of sweat mixed with that terrible body spray that had become so popular—nodded at the crowd, gave the standard greeting, and got the standard reply.

  “You know, I hadn’t realized it until the drive over this morning, but today is the six-month anniversary of… well, anniversary isn’t the right word for it. Damned if I know what the right word is. Anyway, six months ago this morning, something terrible happened.”

  Heller had his audience hooked, so he paused for effect. “There I go, using the wrong words again. Six months ago this morning, I did something terrible. I won’t bring up the details, except the fact that I’d been drinking.”

  He clenched his fist until the shaking stopped. He’d fibbed—the six-month mark had not snuck up on him—but the feelings bubbling to the surface were real.

  “Of course, even that terrible thing wasn’t enough to get me to stop cold. I felt guilty, so I drank more. I tried to relieve my guilt by telling my old lady what happened, and she kicked me out. Y’all know what happened then.”

  Heller saw several heads nodding at him, so he nodded back. “Exactly. I started drinking even more. I started walking around with a bottle. You know what made me finally go a day without drinking? My boss threatened to fire me. I wouldn’t’ve cared, except I didn’t want to run out of money to buy more booze. When I started shaking by the end of my shift because I wanted a drink so bad, that’s when I decided I needed help. That’s when I started coming here.”

  A murmur spread through the crowd. “And now I’m staring down the barrel of being sober one month. And I’m damn proud of that.”

  Heller looked down as the crowd applauded. He’d told the truth for a bit. Every good lie needs to start that way. He had gone on a bender after it happened. The confession to Summer was also real, which had led to her kicking him out of their house. He took some liberties with the story after that, though. Heller didn’t fall deeper down the rabbit hole, and his boss never threatened him.

  He stopped drinking because he loved Summer.

  Heller was Hinterbach’s Good Time Charlie, and he knew giving up booze would be a grand gesture, the kind that gets the girl. And getting the girl had been Heller’s specialty since he was twelve years old.

  Heller let Summer sleep in. He knew she would be up until well after two a.m. hosting her annual Fourth of July party. They were legendary in the Bach. As the high school librarian, she was one of the most beloved, trustworthy members of the community. Adults would come over before the city fireworks show to pre-game for the festivities, then return afterward to finish off the night.

  There would also be plenty of high schoolers there to celebrate with Summer’s son, Sammy. Their parents didn’t know—or didn’t care—that she enjoyed being fawned over by the boys once a year.

  Giving her the extra hours was a nice gesture, though any kindness was canceled out by using it as an excuse to slip away without accountability. The meetings sometimes went ninety minutes or longer. But he’d been there less than sixty. It seemed everyone was eager to make the most of their holiday. She wasn’t expecting him home for at least another hour.

  Heller felt the smallest rush of adrenaline as he passed the turn for Hinterbach. He wasn’t going to drink. No drugs would be involved, either. Still, he felt guilty about lying to Summer. But he knew it was for the best.

  She wasn’t ready to know about the house at the end of County Road K.

  8


  A buzzing phone disturbed my morning daze. The clock on Jorge’s dash read 6:52.

  “That was fast.”

  “Yeah, I emailed my boss last night, and she got back to me early.” Veronica was obviously a morning person. Or her coffee had a few extra espresso shots. “I need to work out the details with you and get up there ASAP so we don’t miss the exclusive.”

  I yawned in response. “We’re about to get started out here. Can I call you back at ten?”

  “I’d rather not wait.”

  Another yawn. “Fine. What details do we need to work out before you leave?”

  “Where I’m staying and what all I’ll need to bring to get the paperwork done. I can figure out the rest when I get there.”

  I hadn’t planned on being her babysitter. “The Ledger’s not going to put you up in a hotel?”

  “Not when I’ll be making a per diem there.”

  “Okay, so use your per diem to get a hotel.” I thought Veronica was in her late twenties, but maybe she was younger than I remembered. Why else would I have to walk her through this?

  “Yeah, I thought about that. Then I thought about the fact that I’m doing you a huge favor, and how I’d like to keep that seven hundred every week.”

  Nope. She was no kid. “What are you saying? That if I don’t pay for your hotel, you’ll talk your boss out of the assignment? How’s that going to look?”

  Veronica paused. “How about a compromise. You pay for half of a room. But at a decent hotel, not one of those thirty-dollar-a-night roach motels.”

  I didn’t like it. I wasn’t making a second income, and I also enjoyed pocketing the per diem every week. But I had one more counteroffer I could live with. “Tell you what: We can go half on a decent hotel room, but only if I get to stay in it, too. Two beds, of course.”