Let the Guilty Pay

by Rick Treon

I broke down my interview with Agent Orange and ended it by asking Jorge if he’d recognized Sylvia. He hadn’t. We were typical men and didn’t remember the faces of strippers we let grind on us. We also agreed that Sylvia had gone out of her way to avoid us outside of work, when she was in clothes that may have sparked more recognition. We had assumed she was either banging Paul on the side or hiding in her motel room. But if Veronica was right, she was sleeping with Jameson.

  We parked at Allsup’s. “What we really need to find out is why Paul brought her out here,” I said.

  “She probably found out he was a welder while giving him a dance, and she wanted a different way to make good money. It wouldn’t be the first time a welder had taken a stripper out to be their helper.”

  “It wouldn’t?”

  “Nope. I’m not saying it happens all the time. But I’ve heard guys tell stories.”

  As if on cue, Paul parked his truck beside us. Jorge rolled down his window. “Your turn to talk to the cops?”

  “Yep. Better than working, I guess. I left Ronnie with Zak.”

  Jorge smiled. “Hell yeah. But remember bro, snitches get stitches.”

  I opened my mouth but decided against asking Paul anything. I’m sure we’d all talk about it later at Site Three. And Veronica would appreciate being there to hear whatever he said.

  As we pulled onto the highway leading toward Borger, Jorge called Zak to let him know we were heading his way. To our surprise, Zak told us he’d planned on us being off all day and to take off with pay. We hung up before he had a chance to change his mind.

  “Well, what do you want to do?” Jorge asked.

  I wanted to run. To get as far away as possible before I was arrested. But if I was already the focus of the investigation, leaving would only confirm their suspicions.

  If these were going to be the last few days of freedom, I might as well enjoy them. “Fuck it. Let’s go drink.”

  “Hell yeah, bro. All I have to do is talk my old lady into letting me go.”

  “Why? Just let her think you’re at work.”

  “It’s been a long time since you’ve lived in a small town,” Jorge said. “Someone’ll see my truck parked at the bar and tell her before we finish our first beer.”

  I nodded. His truck and the welding equipment in the back was easily identifiable. Jorge cranked up a local country station and sang about being more redneck than me as we drove to his house, where we found his wife smoking a cigarette on the front porch.

  “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be back in a second.”

  While Jorge walked over to sweet talk his wife, I found myself getting angry again. I tried hard every day to be positive, to be friendly. To be nice. I’d worked hard to cultivate a life that allowed me to work essentially stress-free. Like writing, this was supposed to be another easygoing lifestyle. But then some asshole had to kill this Sylvia Davenport and leave her rotting corpse for me to find.

  I hadn’t realized my teeth and fists were clenched until Jorge jumped back into the truck.

  “All right, we’re good,” he said. “I have to be back for dinner at six, and I can’t be too drunk to work on the house tonight. So, where do you want to go?”

  “What bars are open at eight-thirty on a Monday?”

  “The Hog and The Oasis are definitely open.”

  The Hog was what they called the Jolly Pig, but I’d never seen it. The Oasis was on Main Street across from the Morely Theater. I’d driven past it, and it looked decent. “Let’s try The Oasis.”

  Jorge answered by turning the music back up and revving his engine.

  27

  Jorge dropped me off at five. I’d tried not to drink too much or too fast, but I was toeing the line between buzzed and drunk as I walked into the hotel room. The more I’d had to drink at The Oasis, the more convinced I was that solving the murder with Veronica was my only shot at avoiding a life sentence.

  I put my laptop on the desk and opened it for the first time in weeks. I Googled “Sylvia Davenport” + Austin TX and clicked on the first link, which brought up a news article with the headline Local woman speaks out about Dakota Access Pipeline protests.

  A click brought me to a story that ran three years ago in the Austin Chronicle, the city’s left-leaning weekly paper. The story was accompanied by a picture of Sylvia Davenport. I read slowly as my eyes struggled to focus.

  Sylvia, who the article said had moved to Austin from California, was apparently an environmental activist with no day job listed. The story said she was well-known in those circles and sometimes acted as a de facto spokesperson for the movement against the Dakota Access Pipeline, a project planned by a Dallas energy company. It would start in North Dakota and run southeast through the Midwest, including a stretch underneath the Missouri River less than a mile from a Native American reservation.

  Protests erupted when construction began at a site that may have contained Native graves and buried artifacts over three years ago. Guards near the site used pepper spray and guard dogs, causing injuries and a media firestorm. Sylvia Davenport claimed to have been there—a photo showed what looked like a dog bite on her calf—and she used the Chronicle to describe the scene and backstory.

  The grinder and battery finally made some sense.

  I was proud of how clearly I could think despite the six-pack and scattered shots I’d taken throughout the day. We’d gone from The Oasis to The Jolly Pig, which was, as the name suggested, a good time. Then Jorge had driven to Amarillo and spent a couple hours barhopping.

  And now, with one web search, I’d figured out who Sylvia Davenport was and found an explanation for her destructive behavior.

  But why our job? Why this pipeline? It wasn’t the same energy company as the Dakota Access Pipeline, which had been delivering oil for two years. And we were only adding onto an existing pipeline, not laying anything new. And if she was still concerned with Native interests, our previous job in Oklahoma would’ve been a better place to start.

  I Googled “Sylvia Davenport” + Austin, TX + FBI. Nothing useful popped up. I was left to fill in the blanks.

  But it only took a few moments for my brain to do that. I should’ve been a detective. I was going to break this case before that asshole Agent Orange—after drinking all day—and leave him looking like a fool for thinking I had something to do with it.

  And it was so damn obvious.

  Sylvia had been sent by the FBI to get close to Jameson. I didn’t know why, but that was the only reasonable explanation. Veronica was sure they’d been sleeping together, so Jameson had to be Sylvia’s target. Paul and Jorge had already known we would be testing to get onto this job when we were at Tight Strips. The FBI must’ve known that somehow and sent her to get friendly with the guys, many of whom were regulars during the two months we spent on the nearby job.

  While discussing the life of a stripper that night with one of the girls—the one who’d earned my two hundred dollars—I’d learned the dancers were contract workers. Much like a freelance writer or a welder’s helper, all the club needed were tax documents. Easy in, easy out. If Sylvia was a confidential informant for the feds, that would be a simple way to get her on the job. And her propensity for acting out against oil companies could explain how she was tangled up with the FBI.

  Thoroughly satisfied with myself, I started to close my laptop. But I stopped short.

  This time I Googled Free Butch Heller and scrolled through the results. I tried remembering which site I’d seen Veronica perusing. I remembered when I saw it: ButchHellerIsInnocent.org. I wanted to find and read the forum post claiming someone was with Heller when Summer was being killed. If I could figure out who it might be, maybe I could do something to squash the theory before it took hold. Was it true? Possibly. But the greater truth—my truth—had to remain the only credible theory of the crime.

  I found a link to the post on the homepage.

  * * *

  Posted at 5:53 a.m. Sept. 7, 2019, by Butch’s Alib
i

  Butch Heller didn’t kill Summer Foster

  How do I know? Because I was talking with Butch that night while she was being killed. He was sitting outside my house drinking and telling me how much he loved her, lamenting about how he’d screwed everything up. Butch told me he and Summer had fought at her Fourth of July party, and he didn’t know if they could work it out this time.

  He drove away from my house as the sun set that night, at about 8:35 p.m. The authorities say Summer Foster was likely killed during the fireworks show, which started a few minutes later and lasted 10 minutes. It takes nearly 20 minutes to drive from my house to hers, which means he would’ve gotten to her right after she died. He found her already dead, which is exactly what he’s been telling everyone for twenty years.

  I know what you’re thinking. Why didn’t I tell the cops this when they were investigating? Why didn’t he? Butch and I have our reasons. He doesn’t want me talking about it now, but I won’t let him die because I didn’t speak up. I’ll be reaching out to his lawyers soon. Butch Heller will be exonerated.

  I know what else you’re thinking. Who really killed Summer Foster? I know that, too, but I’m still gathering proof to take to the lawyers. I only have a couple of days, but I’m close.

  I clicked the back button and looked at the countdown displayed prominently at the top of ButchHellerIsInnocent.org. It looked like a digital clock, which read 07:06:48:32, the seconds counting down until midnight the following Tuesday. Whoever Butch’s Alibi was, they were running out of time. There weren’t any clues in the message, but there wasn’t much substance, either. They may know Heller didn’t do it. But there’s no way they knew who did.

  I closed my computer and my head spun. I needed to start eating and hydrating to avoid a massive hangover. Much of the morning would be spent riding out to Site Three, wherever that was, but I still didn’t want to be puking in the truck. I decided the first step was a shower. Then I’d drink a cup of terrible hotel coffee and sober up enough to get dinner. I’d end the night with a Gatorade and a gallon of water before passing out.

  I’d gotten down to my underwear when Veronica walked in the room. “Oh, hey. Sorry.”

  “Hey yourself,” I said. “Come on in. I need to talk to you anyway.”

  She turned to face the door. “Aren’t you going to finish getting dressed?”

  “I’m not too worried about it.” To my surprise, I wasn’t.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Why yes, I have. How can you tell?” I was having too much fun screwing with Veronica. “Jorge and I wrapped up with the investigators early and decided to do some day drinking.”

  “Are you sober enough to tell me what you found out?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I sat down on the bed. That shower would have to wait at least a few more minutes. “Our mysterious victim is one Sylvia Davenport, a previous employee of Tight Strips gentleman’s club in Oklahoma City. I did not get her age.”

  Veronica blinked and looked as though she was ready to express her displeasure. It was time to give her the rest of the story.

  “But they did tell me she was a confidential informant for the FBI.”

  Veronica sat down on the bed and crossed her legs. “Holy shit. How’d you get them to tell you that.”

  “Well, it turns out, I’m their prime suspect, so that asshole Agent Orange thought he was telling me stuff I already knew. She gave me a lap dance a few months ago, so he’s sure I did it.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, it’s fucking crazy, and I have no idea how I missed that fact. But they showed me a photo taken from surveillance video. So, naturally, they assume I’m connected with her in some substantial way. And, let’s not forget that this woman was killed the same way as Summer Foster, who was my neighbor twenty years ago.” I shook my head and laughed. “I’m gonna go to prison for a murder I didn’t commit.”

  “Hence the day drinking,” she said.

  I nodded and stood. “I need a shower. Want to drive me to get food and hangover supplies after I get done?”

  “Sure. But I get to pick the place. And you’re paying.”

  Tortilla chips and tamales sopped up some of the alcohol, though I was still far from sober when we got back to the hotel room. Dinner had been more pleasant than I expected, and I began to feel like we’d turned a corner. I had finished explaining about Sylvia’s sabotage and her history of protesting oil pipelines.

  I got the feeling Veronica was finally appreciative of my efforts. Or maybe she felt sorry because I might be going to prison soon. Either way, she was warming to me.

  “So, are you going to write a story about the murder now that you have some more information?” I asked.

  We sat down on her bed. “Soon,” she said. “I emailed my editor with what you gave me. She’s going to run background checks to confirm everything.”

  “Did you tell her you’re sleeping next to the Texas Rangers’ top suspect?”

  Veronica laughed. “I left that part out. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you killed Sylvia.”

  “Good to know. Who do you think did?”

  “So far, the only people I know that she had much contact with were Jameson and Paul. If she came to work with this crew on purpose, and we keep using your Venn diagram, those two seem to be our only choices.”

  “Yep. I think targeting Paul would be a little too on the nose, though. It’s got to be Jameson. Plus, we already know he’s a creeper.”

  Veronica shook her head. “You’re the one who said he’s a coward, and I don’t think Jamie is capable of killing anyone, either. Plus, what could he be doing that would interest the FBI?”

  She was probably right about that. But she was wrong about Paul. “We must be missing something,” I said.

  Veronica put her hand on my knee. “We’re not going to figure it out tonight. My boss said I have a week to wrap everything up. Once she confirms what we know, I’ll have a ton of work to do. I don’t even want to think about it right now.”

  Veronica hung her head and slumped her shoulders. “My neck is killing me. Do you know how to give a shoulder massage?”

  I tried not to stare at her. The answer was no, I didn’t have much experience rubbing the shoulders of attractive women. But I wasn’t about to tell her that.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Veronica made noises like I was doing the job right, so I began using more pressure. Meanwhile, my heart rate was rising along with my hopes.

  “So, I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Veronica said.

  “What’s that?” I whispered into her ear.

  “What was it like being so young and seeing something so terrible?”

  My hands must’ve stopped because Veronica turned her head and apologized. “I shouldn’t pry like that.”

  I resumed the massage. “No, don’t be. I just haven’t been asked that in a long, long time. People usually ask me what I’ve written lately, or about the process of writing the book.”

  “It must be hard to think about, even after all this time.”

  “It is.”

  I wasn’t exactly lying to Veronica. The murder was hard for me to think about, insofar as I didn’t want to remember what happened that night. I had talked about it a hundred times. To the arriving officer. To the first investigator, then his partner, then both. Then I had to go over it several times with the district attorney and other lawyers in his office as they built their case.

  Then there was the trial, followed by writing the book. By the time I was a sophomore in college and had been on a summer book tour, I could hardly distinguish between my real memories and the rehearsed, edited version that I gave on the witness stand. That’s what I used to write Cold Summer, which is why I read those passages every time I had to talk about the murder.

  “How well did you know Heller and Summer before she died?” Veronica asked.

  “Summer had been our neighbor all my life, so you could say I knew her
well. She’d been helping train Ruth Ann in track, so they were close before she died. My sister, that is.” Veronica winced when I applied too much pressure. “Butch was always kind of around, but we didn’t talk much. Dad and I did help Butch rebuild his front porch. That was a few hours before he killed her, come to think of it.”

  “Why didn’t you stay for the party?”

  I thought for a moment before responding. I had to be careful, stick to the script. “I was still kind of depressed from my sister’s death, as you can imagine.”

  “The only thing I never understood was what caused you to change your mind,” Veronica said. “Why go back over there and join the party right when Summer was being killed?”

  I’d never told anyone that part. I’d found a bottle of liquor stashed away in my sister’s closet earlier that day. My parents hadn’t touched her room in the six months since she’d been killed.

  I wasn’t as interested in preserving her space. Part of me wanted to be near her things, to remember her, so I’d go in there about once a week. I got nosier with each visit. That day, while my dad was mowing the lawn and my mother was out visiting a friend, I decided to look in the top of her closet. I found a locked jewelry box in the back corner.

  I’d already located a small keyring in her desk drawer. The second key I tried worked, and inside the box I found a couple of love letters, a composition notebook, and a pint of pineapple rum. After my parents went to Summer’s party, I opened the bottle and the notebook. By the time I was done with both, I was drunk and needed to go over to Summer’s yard.

  “I was sixteen,” I finally said. “I suppose the thought of sneaking some beer and making out with a drunk girl was too much to ignore, even if I was grieving.”

  “If it weren’t for bad luck, you wouldn’t have any luck at all.”

  “I guess not.”

  Veronica pulled away and turned towards me. She leaned in slowly, putting her lips up to my right earlobe. “Let’s see if we can change that.”