Let the Guilty Pay

by Rick Treon

  “No, stay with me. Just in case he’s not dead.”

  I stood and peered into the hole. I could see the gash in his neck, even from that far away. “You’ve seen too many horror movies. But I’ll stay.”

  Veronica squeezed my arm. “Yes, the truck was for you. But he knew he’d have to figure out Sylvia’s game first. Paul said when he realized she was working with the FBI, he knew he couldn’t risk having someone like you who was, quote, semi-famous, end up missing or dead. But when you and Sylvia had your public falling out, he realized he could get rid of both of you by killing her and framing you for it.”

  Veronica drew in a deep breath and stood. We resumed our slog up to Jorge’s rig.

  “I know you have every reason to hate me,” I said as we took our last steps up the hill. “But will you visit me in prison? Other than Jorge and my parents, I probably don’t have anyone else who will.”

  Veronica sniffled and wiped away a tear. “You’re right. I do have every reason to hate you. You killed a woman and sent someone I love to prison for it.”

  I looked away, embarrassed.

  “But,” she continued, “you saved my life. That doesn’t make up for the lives you’ve taken. But I don’t think I can do it anymore. I don’t think I can file those stories or finish my book.”

  Hope filled my lungs. But by the time I exhaled, I knew I couldn’t let that happen.

  Veronica reached into the back seat of the pickup and flipped open her laptop screen. She typed in the password and was navigating her files when I walked over and grabbed her right hand.

  “No, don’t delete anything,” I said. “I’m ready for whatever’s coming. I need you to do what’s right. And that’s writing the truth.”

  She looked up at me and resumed tapping on her computer’s trackpad.

  “And since I know you need a confession for your story to work, here it is.” I nodded down and gave her a moment to open the file.

  “On the night of July Fourth, 1999, I, Bartholomew John Beck, killed Summer Foster in the yard of her home in Hinterbach, Texas, during the town’s fireworks show. I grabbed her and threw her into one of her picnic tables. Killing her was an accident. But after I knew she was dead, I dragged her over to her own tool shed, got out a small sledgehammer, and beat the side of her head to cover up the crime. Then I found a screwdriver and stabbed her in the eye before walking across the street to my house, where I called 911 and told them I’d seen Butch Heller beat her to death.”

  When she finished typing, Veronica looked up and asked one more question for her story.

  “What was up with the screwdriver? She was already dead, right?”

  “Yeah. I’d gotten drunk and read my sister’s diary right before going over there. There was a lot of stuff in there, stuff I’m not going to tell you, but she wrote about how much she loved Summer’s eyes. For some reason that stuck in my head.” It still did. All these years later and I still watched to see what people’s eyes were telling me. “Summer died with her eyes open, so when I was trying to make it look like someone else had killed her, that seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “Can I put that—”

  “Of course.” I pulled out my good-for-nothing phone. “You can put everything you saw and heard in the story.”

  “And the book?”

  I nodded and started walking toward my car in search of a cell signal.

  Walker picked up on the third ring.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “I’m with Veronica Stein and—”

  “With who? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. We’ve found an abandoned truck we think belongs to Paul Schuhmacher.”

  “At a bar in Borger.”

  Walker paused. “How did you know?”

  “He told me where he left it.”

  “You made contact with him but didn’t tell me?” She was yelling so loudly I moved the phone away from my ear.

  “I called you, remember? This is me telling you.”

  “Where is he? Where are you?” Walker sounded frantic.

  “I’ll drop you a pin. But I have to tell you something first.”

  48

  Excerpt from Cold Summer

  Summer’s funeral was attended by more than a thousand people, even though Sammy was her only living relative. Nearly every student attended, along with their parents. Many townsfolk had grown up with either Summer or her parents, so they attended, too. All but one member of the Hinterbach Police Department, left alone to handle phone calls, was there. The same was true of the Nimitz County Sheriff’s Office, who had to leave behind a 911 dispatcher.

  The large turnout had been expected, so the service took place at the Hinterbach Memorial Cemetery rather than inside a church. The casket was closed, but a procession shook hands with Sammy and touched the ornate coffin, which was donated by a group of local businesses spearheaded by Falkner Backerei and Kaffee.

  Summer hadn’t attended any of Hinterbach’s churches since her parents passed, so four men of the cloth—the same four who would later hold the town meeting—took turns reading passages from their Bibles and offered comforting words. Mayor Schuhmacher and several other prominent members of the community spoke, too.

  Perhaps the one person conspicuously missing from the service was Franklin Jones, who hadn’t been seen in public since her murder. When asked later if that was a reason to reconsider him as a suspect, Det. Roland referred local media to the FBI’s San Antonio field office.

  A spokeswoman declined to comment about Jones, citing an ongoing investigation.

  49

  Franklin Jones

  July 4, 1999, 8:52 p.m.

  Patty’s fiancé, Darren, was not one for conversation. They rode together in silence as Jones contemplated his path forward. That car wreck had derailed his plans. As a result, his new first impression with Summer had not been his best. Jones knew she was not going to be convinced of his commitment without a more aggressive approach.

  Jones could be a tough negotiator when necessary. He would get his way.

  The first step would be spending more time with Summer. She’d need that time to discover the improved Franklin Jones. But she would not consent to this time together. Not initially.

  He would’ve gotten that process started immediately if not for that damn neighbor kid. But it would happen soon enough. Jones would force Summer to go with him to his estate outside of Kerrville. He did not relish the need to take her, no more than he’d enjoyed having to discipline her two years ago. But, like so many others, Summer did not know what was best for her. She was lucky he was there, ready to set her straight.

  The first step in this reunification would be to get his car running and looking its best. That’s what Darren was for. Procuring Summer wouldn’t be easy, and Jones may need his help with that, too.

  Jones looked over at Darren. “I really appreciate this. How quickly do you think you can get it fixed? Body, interior, everything.”

  “How much money do you have?”

  Greed is an amazing thing, simple and universal. Once a person learns that, the things he can accomplish are only limited by the amount of money he can access.

  “Enough to get it by the end of the week or sooner,” Jones said. “How many employees do you have in your shop?”

  Darren looked skeptical. But, as Jones had assumed, the promise of more money from his new rich friend compelled Darren to keep talking. “Eight, including my secretary and the girl who does our accounts payable and receivable.”

  “Are any of those folks capable of running your shop for a few days if you’re gone?”

  Darren smirked. “I wouldn’t trust any of them for more than a couple hours.”

  Jones had figured as much. Darren was perfect. “What if I gave you enough capital to hire a couple of qualified folks to run things for you?”

  “What are you getting at, Mr. Jones?”

  “I’d like to see if I could hire you to do some personal errands for
me from time to time.”

  Darren turned his head toward Jones. “Personal errands?”

  Jones pointed out the windshield. “You don’t want to hit a deer. We can talk about it after you get me my car back. It’ll be easy money, though. And if you aren’t willing, somebody’s going to be getting my money.”

  Darren nodded but didn’t pry any further. Jones smiled. Darren didn’t know it yet, but he would be helping Jones secure Summer’s love.

  Content he’d done enough with Darren, there was one other plan he needed to set into motion—as soon as he found some privacy. Though he could probably purchase some temporary hearing loss from Darren, Jones didn’t want to risk scaring off his new Guy Friday. Hearing Jones’ side of a conversation with agents J and K might be too intense.

  Because of the measures he would have to take in his personal life, Jones needed to change strategies with the FBI. Though he didn’t find his new intentions for Summer immoral, he knew they would be considered criminal. Fortunately, Agent J and Agent K were getting a bit desperate to put Jones’ extended family in prison.

  Jones would serve his uncles up to the feds, but only in return for favorable treatment if his name was brought up in a criminal inquiry. If they were willing to strong-arm a man as important as Jones, those two were already predisposed to toeing the line between the law and what is right.

  And if that wasn’t enough, Jones had an ace up his sleeve—Hinterbach Mayor Grant Schuhmacher.

  By the time Jones returned to the Hill Country after college, Grant was running a budding real estate firm. He owned about ten percent of the commercial real estate in Hinterbach in addition to several rental properties around town.

  When Jones was named the VP of his bank, Grant came calling. He wanted to move his cash and loans and get the buddy discount. Jones didn’t see the advantage. He told Grant no at first and didn’t feel any remorse. Then Grant came back and revealed his other sources of cash flow, the ones that used his real estate transactions to launder money. The problem, Grant said, was that his legitimate enterprise was too small to hide the entire river of money available through his underworld contacts.

  Grant said if he could get a large cash infusion to buy up as much land as possible, Jones could charge as much interest as he wanted, earning a nice profit for the bank and a hefty personal commission.

  Of course, the point of a successful money laundering operation is to leave no proof. But when Grant Schuhmacher became mayor and confessed his larger political ambitions, Jones knew it would be smart to collect blackmail material and skim an even larger percentage of the washed money.

  It was finally time to use it. He would serve up his old friend Grant to his new friends in the FBI, then hole up with Summer and live off the cash.

  50

  The crime scene around Sylvia’s body was nothing compared to the mess that descended upon Site Three. The biggest difference was the presence of the FBI, which had no doubt been brought in after Walker and Agent Orange’s inquiry into Sylvia. There was also a substantially larger contingent of DPS troopers. I counted eight SUVs and pickups, with plenty more on the way, judging by the cloud of dust stretching to the horizon.

  Walker and Agent Orange were the first to climb the hill toward Veronica and me. I pointed to where they could find Paul.

  “Why don’t you and the CID guys go down to the body?” Walker asked Orange. “I’ll get their statements.”

  Orange turned around and whistled, though the sound wasn’t traveling far in the wind. We could, however, hear him cursing as he held down his hat and began walking toward the throng of investigators collected below.

  “First, do either of you need medical attention?” Walker asked.

  “She does.” I pointed to Veronica, who was sitting in the passenger seat of Jorge’s pickup.

  “No, I’m fine,” Veronica said. “I’ve got some bumps and scrapes, but I’m okay.”

  I looked at Walker. “Her ribs are broken.”

  “We’ll have someone drive you to an ambulance as soon as we’re done getting your statement. Obviously, they couldn’t make it all the way out on this road. But we’ve got a couple not too far away.”

  Walker pulled out a notepad and looked at me. “I’ll have to interview you two separately. We’ll start with Miss Stein so we can get her to that ambulance.”

  I sat down on the tailgate and recalled the afternoon’s events. I wanted to make sure I could tell the story as accurately as possible this time.

  After three minutes that felt like three seconds, Veronica limped past me on her way to the cluster of police, followed by Walker.

  After hearing my account, Walker assured me the state would consider what I did justifiable homicide, especially with Veronica as a witness. Agent Orange, who had walked up to us halfway through, seemed less caring, though he did give me a “no hard feelings” and shook my hand.

  They stayed behind to deal with Paul and told me to find my way to an ambulance.

  “Will I have to pay for the ambulance ride? Because the last time I rode in one, I got a three-thousand-dollar bill in the mail.”

  “I don’t know the answer to that,” Walker said. “But, if you’re worried about it, just tell a uniform we told him to give you a ride to your hotel room.”

  “What about my car?”

  “I’m afraid that’s considered part of the crime scene,” she said. “Someone will be in touch when you can get it.”

  “It’s parked like a hundred yards away. How is it part of the crime scene?”

  “We’re casting a wide net. Why? Is there something out there you don’t want us to see?”

  I laughed. “Just unpurchased copies of mediocre books. But seriously, I don’t want to be marooned at my hotel forever. I won’t have my car—” I turned and pointed to Jorge’s truck “—and this is my best friend’s primary vehicle.”

  “I know it’s a pain in the ass. But that’s an unfortunate part of being involved in something like this. But I’m sure you already knew that.”

  I did. I wasn’t looking forward to the rest, either.

  It’d been forty-eight hours after she disappeared into the orgy of police and Veronica wasn’t answering my calls, texts, or emails. I was mostly nervous about my own future, but a part of me also hoped she was emotionally solid. I was not sleeping well, and she’d nearly been killed after hearing that she would be cut to pieces.

  I’d been cooped up in the room for most of that time. My car and Jorge’s truck were still being processed by the DPS, and Walker had no idea when mine would be released. Jorge had picked me up once to go eat and left me with bags of groceries, but his other vehicle was in almost continuous use by his wife.

  Along with the groceries, Jorge had brought me some of his wife’s generic Ambien, which I’d been keeping on my bedside table with a glass of water. It was only 8:15 p.m., but I popped three of the pills and turned on a podcast, letting the soothing voice usher in the Sandman.

  Doubling the dose worked, and my sleep had lasted fourteen hours. I found my phone and saw I hadn’t missed any texts or phone calls. I checked my email without much hope, but among the newsletters and unsolicited messages was a reply from Veronica.

  I tried to open the email, but cobwebs left from the sleeping pills and my fat fingers caused me to delete it. I cursed loudly and slammed the phone on the bed. I knew it wasn’t permanently gone, but I would have to wake up a bit before trying again. Plus, emailing was the most passive way to communicate. Whatever she’d sent did not need to be dealt with urgently, so I found a can of Diet Coke and ran a hot shower.

  When I sat down at the desk, I felt ready to receive whatever terrible news was waiting. The feeling didn’t last long.

  After finding the message, I noticed it had been sent a few minutes after midnight. It was a reply to my email, and the body consisted of two links, both to Lone Star Ledger stories. They’d been online for more than eight hours. Why wasn’t I already in an interview room
somewhere answering questions about Summer Foster’s murder?

  I clicked on the second URL: https://www.lonestarledger.org/news/9-13-19/questions-answered-before-execution-butch-heller.htm

  Questions answered before execution: Butch Heller, convicted of brutal 1999 Central Texas murder, slated for death at 9 p.m.

  By Veronica Stein vstein@lonestarledger.org

  Since his arrest on a murder charge in July 1999, Butch Heller had never wavered on two points. He continued to maintain his innocence in the brutal slaying of Summer Foster, the crime for which he has been on Death Row for nearly two decades. Heller also said earlier this year that he still loves Foster, whose life was taken as the small Central Texas town of Hinterbach watched its annual Fourth of July fireworks show.

  He changed his position on one of those issues earlier this week.

  After the Texas Department of Criminal Justice denied his request for a final interview before his execution—scheduled for 9 p.m. today—Heller sent a letter to a Lone Star Ledger reporter. The seven-page, handwritten document covered a wide range of topics, but it ended with a confession—and a promise.

  “I wish I could see you,” Heller wrote. “I wish I could see anybody outside of these walls. But I ruined that a long time ago. I got drunk and killed her. I sometimes wonder how our lives would’ve turned out if I hadn’t.”

  A photo of the letter’s final page broke up the text, and the “confession” was digitally highlighted. I clicked on the little microscope icon in the corner so I could read as much of it as possible. The handwriting was almost as bad as mine. It was possible Veronica had written the letter herself, but my gut said it was Heller. I clicked on the x and returned to the story.

  Heller continued to lament on the life he might’ve led were it not for the events of July 4, 1999 (read more about the murder here) before ending the letter by previewing his final moments.