Let the Guilty Pay

by Rick Treon

  I liked Zak, but I felt no sympathy for him. I had my own problems. “You said it was the Texas Rangers?”

  “Yep. I guess they figured even the sheriff wouldn’t be able to handle it. Or maybe the sheriff called them. Either way, they’re the ones who grilled me this morning, though there wasn’t much to say. I hope they’re done with you quick, too.”

  I didn’t bother to tell him it would be a while.

  Zak led me into the building, which looked like a normal office on the inside. I shook my head at a sign that read Employees are our most important product! on the drywall, which was painted that pale blue meant to make workers feel like they’re outside and not in a corporate coop. We wound our way through a corral of drab, gray cubicles to a small conference room in the back corner.

  I peeked my head inside the open door and saw a man and a woman sitting at the far end of the long table. They were dressed like a rich oilman and his tomboy daughter—western in theme, but formal enough to be doing million-dollar deals at a downtown bank, their beige cowboy hats resting on the table. They stood as Zak and I walked around the table toward them.

  The woman, who looked about my age, met me with a warm smile and an outstretched hand. “Mr. Beck, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Caroline Walker. Let’s avoid the Chuck Norris jokes if we can, please.”

  That got me smiling. I loosened up a little, which I suppose was the point. “Yes ma’am. A pleasure to meet you.”

  I turned to the man, a portly balding gentleman who looked to be in his early fifties. He wasn’t holding out his hand. He must be playing Bad Cop. I glanced behind me to see if Zak was still there, but he’d already left and shut the door behind him.

  “Bart, please take a seat. My name is Lieutenant Owen Johnson. Most folks call me OJ.”

  “Yes, sir. By the way, most people call me Beck.” What I didn’t say was that I loathed being called Bart.

  “Noted,” he said. “So, Bart, why’d you kill her?”

  9

  If I’d been hooked up to a lie detector test, Lieutenant Johnson would’ve cuffed me on the spot. I tried to ignore the adrenaline and focus. Despite how my body was reacting to his question, I hadn’t killed Jillian.

  My brain couldn’t find the man’s name. For some reason Agent Orange sounded right, but I thought twice about calling him that. “I didn’t, sir.”

  He smiled at Walker, who slid him a dollar. “I told you he wouldn’t make it easy on us.” Agent Orange pocketed the bill. “No matter how dead to rights they are, killers never just confess when I ask.”

  Walker opened a leather portfolio and acted like she was reading notes. “The reason we ask, Mr. Beck, is we have half a dozen witnesses who saw you assault the woman they knew as Jillian Rogers less than four hours before she died.”

  Shit. I was going to end up in handcuffs without the polygraph. “I know how that looks, but it’s not what you think.”

  Agent Orange leaned in. “So, you didn’t grab her and yell at her before she slapped you in the face and told you—” he lifted the top page of his pad “—we’re over.”

  I lowered my gaze and shook my head. “Yes, she did. But it was an act. I’d just—”

  “It’s okay, Bart, no need to come up with a story. It doesn’t matter why you two fought. We’ve got plenty more to discuss.” He looked back down at his notes. “It says here after discovering the body, you immediately told Zak and your friend Jorge that you’d found the woman everyone called Jillian.”

  “Right, Jillian.”

  “How did you know it was her? The injuries and decomposition of the body made it nearly impossible to ID her by sight.”

  Walker slid two pictures over to me. I felt the knot in my stomach slide up my throat. Seeing the photos side-by-side, I understood his question. “I was assuming. She hadn’t shown up for work that morning and nobody could reach her.”

  He and Walker stared at me, content to let my weak explanation hang between us. I was familiar with the interview trick, but I had no idea how effective it was.

  I broke first. “Look. I don’t know how, but my brain made the connection. I mean, I was right, wasn’t I?”

  Agent Orange nodded. “You were. And that’s a red flag for me.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off. “Where were you Friday night?”

  I finally calmed down a bit. I had an alibi with five witnesses. Ten if I counted the pets. “I was with Jorge. I’m staying with him and his family, and I’m there every night.”

  “So, one of your oldest friends and his family are your alibi. No other corroboration.”

  I wanted to ask if he was seriously accusing me of killing Jillian. “Yep, just Jorge and his family,” I said instead. “Check my cellphone records. The GPS will show me at his house, and it was connected to his internet the whole time.”

  Agent Orange’s lips parted, revealing yellowing teeth and the remnants of his morning dip of snuff. “You’re smarter than most of the killers we deal with. We’re checking all that, but those records don’t come in a day. I’m sure we’ll have you locked up long before we get that information.” He leaned back. “Besides, a smart true-crime writer like you would know to leave your phone behind.”

  Heat rushed from my chest to my hands and face.

  “You know, I read that book of yours when it came out,” he said. “It was good. People usually get a lot wrong when they write about an investigation, but you got close.”

  If he’d read Cold Summer, Agent Orange knew about the similarities in the bodies. But I was going to make one of them say it. “I appreciate that.”

  Before he could respond, Walker took back her photos and slid them neatly back into her portfolio. “Let’s say I believe you, Mr. Beck. Even if you weren’t angry at her for turning you down, and even if your phone indicates you were at your friend’s house all night Friday, how do you explain finding her body in almost the same way you found another dead woman twenty years ago.”

  I took a moment to think, then told them the truth. “I’ve been asking myself that question, and I have no idea.”

  Agent Orange’s gross smile returned. “Well, I guess that’s all she wrote. Or he wrote, in this case.”

  I shook my head. “You’d’ve already arrested me if you could. I know you don’t believe me, but I didn’t do this. I hope you’re looking into other suspects.”

  Orange opened his mouth, but Walker cut in. “You’re right, we don’t believe you. But at this early stage, we do need to investigate multiple possibilities. If you want to get on our good side, you could start by being cooperative.”

  I searched her eyes. She wasn’t as hellbent on arresting me as her partner. I needed to cultivate Walker as an ally. “Okay. What else do you want to know?”

  “Who on the job site knows you wrote that book?” she asked.

  “A lot of people. Jorge knows, and he’s been telling everyone about me and my writing. He’s even helped me sell copies to some of the guys.”

  “By sold some copies, do you mean in person, here?” Walker nodded through the walls to the stalled site.

  “Yes, ma’am. I keep paperbacks in my trunk.”

  “So, they were cash sales?”

  I started chewing the inside of my lip. They probably didn’t care I was ducking the IRS and state sales taxes, but I still didn’t like admitting it. “Yes.”

  “I’m guessing you didn’t give out receipts we could see, so we would have a record of who might’ve read about the screwdriver?”

  I lowered my eyes. “No.”

  “That’s okay. We’ll let you and the IRS work that out.” Walker pulled a white pad from the portfolio and slid it to me with a pen. “But can you write down the names of everyone you can think of who got a copy of Cold Summer?”

  I did as she asked, though some of the names were misspelled and included descriptions like the short labor hand with the tattoo on his neck and the track hoe operator with the long beard.


  When I looked back up, Walker asked how well I knew Jillian.

  “Not very,” I said. “She was Paul Schuhmacher’s welder’s helper, and we all worked together during the day. I was trying to get to know her better during our breaks, but we only talked at work, and she’d only been there a few weeks.”

  “How did Mr. Schuhmacher know her?”

  “He told us he found her on the Internet. I think she’d put out an ad on Craigslist or Facebook.”

  Walker started taking notes. “What else did you know about her?”

  I thought for a moment. It made me sad to think about it, but other than the fact she was sabotaging the job, she hadn’t revealed much to me. I thought about telling them why we fought that afternoon, but they seemed to be backing off. No need to add any other suspicious elements to the mix. “She seemed nice, but I only know her name and that she was from the Austin area.”

  “Well, at least you finally told the truth about one thing,” Agent Orange said. “She is from Austin.”

  It took me a moment to process what he’d said. One thing. And they’d kept saying people knew her as Jillian. “Was her name not Jillian Rogers?”

  “Stop playing dumb,” Orange said. “You know her name was Sylvia Davenport.”

  Orange smelled blood again, but I was too confused to worry about him. “No, I didn’t. She told everyone her name was Jillian.”

  “She did try to hide her identity, yes,” Walker said.

  I shifted to face her directly. “Do you know why?”

  “No,” Walker said, drawing a harsh look from Agent Orange.

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry,” I said. “It’s what I do. Well, used to do.”

  Agent Orange stood and cleared his throat to stop my conversation with Walker. “We’re done for now.” He opened the door and they walked out to Zak, asking him to take me back and pick up Jorge.

  Orange stared me down as I followed Zak back through the maze of cubicles. Walker’s look was softer. But even if her gut believed me, I knew her brain wouldn’t let her count me out as a suspect. On paper, I was guilty.

  I tried telling myself I was the victim of a set of terrible coincidences. But as I climbed into Zak’s truck, I couldn’t shake the sinister feeling that someone was framing me by summoning the ghost of Summer Foster.

  10

  Excerpt from Cold Summer

  Though Summer didn’t work in June and July, she usually woke up early—either with Heller or her son, depending on who was working at the time—but there was no need on July 4, 1999. She knew Heller would be going straight to his meeting, and she could sleep through his morning routine. Sammy had stayed the night with a friend across town, and they’d no doubt sleep in as well. She wasn’t expecting to see them until the cookout that afternoon.

  Her mornings were usually filled with daily chores. She was known to jog around town in the early morning before thoroughly cleaning her trailer and doing the household laundry. Then she would buy groceries, get the mail, and do any other necessary errands. Cooking dinner for Sammy and Heller would start almost immediately after. Evenings were when she had downtime, usually to read or watch television, while Sammy hung out with friends and Heller tinkered with small chores around the house, such as rebuilding the front porch or tightening a loose screen door.

  But Summer had spent the evening of July 3, 1999, preparing for her morning of slumber. The house had been prepped and the shopping was done. All she needed to do was get up by eleven a.m. to get ready for the festivities.

  11

  Summer Foster

  July 4, 1999, 9:30 a.m.

  Summer sat up in bed, sticky, craving a shower and a cigarette. Not that she was complaining. Things finally felt normal. Well, close to it. The pangs of depression remained, but they were lessened by a new distraction.

  She took a few steps toward the bathroom, passing her vanity. It was an antique and no longer shined like it had when she was a girl. But Butch had re-varnished the wood last year and she’d replaced the large round mirror, which caught her eye when Paul began stirring.

  He usually didn’t fall asleep afterward, but they’d spent nearly an hour in her bed. She’d also dozed off, which was risky, but her body wasn’t used to mid-morning naps and only allowed her ten minutes. It had been nice not having to talk. Paul had the energy of a seventeen-year-old and was trying hard to form a real bond with her via constant pillow talk. She was nice to him and always engaged in conversation, though she only needed him for his tongue and his cock.

  Paul rolled over to face her. He was only a sandy-blond senior-to-be at Hinterbach High, but Paul had the body of a full-grown man. He propped himself up on his right elbow, causing his muscles to ripple.

  “How’s my sexy librarian doing?” The boyish grin and acne on his face reminded Summer he was a teenager.

  “You need to stop looking at dirty pictures on the computer.”

  “I don’t do that. Why would I when I have you?”

  Summer sighed. “I can look up the sites you visit on the computers in the library. And yes, I know White House dot com is a porn site. The other one is dot gov. If anyone else catches you, you’re going to be in a lot of trouble.”

  The smile melted from Paul’s face. “I’m so sorry, Miss Foster.”

  “It’s okay.” Summer was still looking at him in the mirror. “I like thinking about you getting hard while you’re sitting right outside my office.”

  Dirty talk had never come naturally to Summer. But she’d known since seventh grade that boys liked it. And she didn’t mind it with Paul. He had knocked something loose in Summer, emotionally as well as physically. He’d suggested her haircut, and she enjoyed the idea of doing something for him. Though she knew those dirty photos were where he got the idea, Summer agreed to the stylish pixie haircut so they would have a secret. A dirty, naughty secret.

  Her head felt light now, free from the blonde ropes that had fallen to the middle of her back. What remained still had the bright color that returned every summer. She’d spent a lot of time under the Texas sun as a child and teenager. Summer’s body rarely had tan lines until Sammy was born, utilizing the roof of the family trailer house as a place to sunbathe when school was out. She always laid out on the side that sidled up to Freddy’s Creek. Boys would sneak peeks, and she’d let them, because that’s what girls in Hinterbach did.

  Paul was constantly complimenting her looks. She knew it was only because that’s what boys are taught to do when they like a girl, but Summer enjoyed it. His go-to compliments usually involved her legs, which were long—she was considered tall for a woman at five-foot-ten—but muscular, and Summer had always thought they looked fat.

  Most people remembered her as a Hinterbach High cheerleader, but she was also an accomplished high school sprinter and walked onto the Texas State track team after Sammy was born. But the pregnancy had caused her to lose a step. She moved back in with her parents after only a semester and a half but kept up with a running routine. Her legs remained strong, but Summer always felt out of proportion.

  Paul, however, said he loved her legs. Compliments like that are what had originally drawn her to him. She wondered if he would sleep with her, or was he just trying to get a rise out of his friends? Was it so implausible that a hormonal teenager would be interested in her? Summer was still on the right side of thirty-five, and she was damn proud of how flat she kept her stomach.

  But then there was her face. Her stress level had exploded at the beginning of the year, leaving her with dark bags under her eyes. She’d also been smoking more. A lot more. She’d been inhaling more than a pack a day for almost six months, and she was sure it was yellowing her teeth and causing lines to form around her mouth.

  But Paul still called her beautiful. Summer smiled and enjoyed his body for a moment as he slid out of her bed. She closed her eyes as she felt his hands grip her hips. Then came his lips on her neck, followed by his chest on her shoulder blades.

  Summer a
ccidentally let a sound slip past her lips. Paul took this as a signal and pressed himself into the small of her back. She usually enjoyed how quickly he recovered—he’d already finished twice—but Butch’s meeting would be wrapping up soon, if it wasn’t already over. And despite the fact she was cheating on him, Summer still cared about Butch.

  On the other hand, she thought about how good Paul felt. Everything about his physicality turned her on. He stood a full head taller than Summer, and he was strong enough to move her exactly how he wanted. And, as crude as it was to admit, Paul’s dick was his best feature. He certainly had nothing to be ashamed of in terms of size, but she’d had bigger. Paul’s dimensions and shape—the way it bulged in the middle, its slight upward curve—were, as she’d told him earlier that morning, perfect. For her, at least, as though they were built for each other.

  The thought of having him inside her was almost overwhelming.

  Almost.

  Summer took one more moment to appreciate Paul by leaning into him, then took a step forward. “You have to go. He’ll be back soon.”

  “Let him. We both know I can kick his ass, then he’ll be out of your life for good.”

  Paul gripped her hips tighter and pulled her into him. Summer could tell the thought of confronting Butch had put his testosterone into overdrive. This time she was able to suppress any sounds, though her breath caught slightly.

  Her body also had another automatic response, which Paul felt when he slid his fingers between her thighs.

  She reached down and grabbed his wrist. “Stop. You really have to go.”

  Before Summer could react, Paul moved his left hand from her hip to the back of her neck, squeezed, and forced her upper body down so hard she barely had time to keep her face from hitting the vanity.

  Cigarette number two shook in Summer’s hand as she tried to bury those eight minutes. She was searching for a plot among the rest of those that already held moments when men had put themselves where she didn’t want them. Hands on her thighs, unwelcome shoulder rubs, even crude jokes and creepy looks—they all wore on her soul. She would have to dig a long, deep hole for this memory. A full grave.