'She said Stephen had a drug problem. She needed to get him help before it was too late. She couldn't afford treatment.'
'So why did you come all the way to New York?'
'I hung up on her. She called back. She said if I didn't help them, she would sue me for child support and make sure my name was in every newspaper as one of those deadbeat dads. She said technically I owed her thirty years' of payments, and that if she hadn't wrecked my marriage thirty years ago she'd make it her mission to do it now. I couldn't afford thirty years back payments for the life of me. I told her I could give her some money, a little, but that's it. She said she needed to see me. That maybe meeting his father would snap some sense into
Stephen.'
'And you agreed to go?'
'Not at first,' James said. 'I told her I could send it
Western Union. She said those two words again, 'child support,' and I was on a plane the next day.' He looked at me and grinned. 'Sorry I didn't call.'
'Where did you tell mom you were going?' I asked.
'I don't know, just said I was going fishing or some shit. She didn't ask many questions.'
'They say your fingerprints ended up on the gun that killed Stephen,' Amanda said. 'That means two things. One, they found the murder weapon. And two, your prints were on it. Can you explain how that happened?'
'Helen,' he said, shaking his head slightly. 'When I got to their apartment-a real rats' nest. Ugh, just dis gusting. Cockroaches everywhere, food left out.
Anyway, I hadn't seen Helen in almost thirty years. I had some money with me. Not much, I ain't Ted Turner in case you haven't noticed. Stephen wasn't there.
Helen told me he was working. It was late, and I didn't care much. I'd gone that long without seeing the boy.'
'The gun, Dad,' I said.
'I'm getting to that. So I give her some money, two grand. It's all I can do without biting into my 401k. Of course, Helen tells me it's not enough. Rehab centers cost tens of thousands of dollars. I tell her if she kisses my ass, she can keep whatever money she finds in there.'
'And then what?' Amanda said.
'Then…Helen goes to the closet. I have no idea what she's doing. And suddenly out she comes holding this…this cannon. Then she pointed that thing at me and told me she needed money. Of course I've handled a gun or two, and I notice the safety's off. But she's holding the thing all awkward, and even though I didn't think she'd shoot me on purpose, the way she was holding it-both hands on the butt, two fingers in the trigger guard-that thing could have gone off by accident and blown my head off.'
I looked at Amanda. She was thinking the same thing
I was. If Helen Gaines didn't know how to handle a gun, chances are the gun she pointed at my father belonged to Stephen. He was killed with his own gun. But if my father never saw Stephen, how did his prints get on the gun? And who did kill him?
'So I go up to her, slowly. And before she can move
I grab it out of her hands.'
'Slick, Pop,' I said.
'How did you take it from her?' Amanda asked.
'Just like this, I guess.' My father mimicked grabbing the barrel of a gun and yanking it away, the chains holding his wrists preventing much of a visual demonstration.
'The cops say your fingerprints are on the murder weapon. If your prints were just on the barrel, and not on the trigger, they wouldn't immediately think you killed her.' Amanda and my father met gazes. Then he looked down. We both knew he was lying.
'So I might have held it normal,' he said.
'Come on, Dad, we're trying to help you. Nobody else will, trust me.'
'I might have pointed it at her,' he said.
'You might have or you did?' Amanda demanded.
'I fucking did, all right? The bitch wanted to take my hard-earned money for her junkie son, then she points a gun at me? What am I supposed to do? I just wanted to scare her, is all. Just scare her.'
'Did you fire that gun?' Amanda said.
'Absolutely not,' James replied. 'I pointed it at her once.'
'Somebody used that gun to kill Stephen Gaines,'
Amanda said. 'If it wasn't you, someone was able to kill Stephen while keeping your prints intact.'
'The killer must have used gloves,' I said. 'Some thing that didn't disturb fingerprints that were already on the weapon. Human skin has oils, that's what leaves the marks. Dry rubber gloves, if used carefully, would leave whatever marks were already on the weapon.
Whoever it was not only knew enough about firearms to keep those fingerprints intact, knew him well enough to shoot him in the back of the head from close range, and was cold-blooded enough to shoot him again after blowing his brains all over the wall.'
'They say keep your friends close but your enemies closer,' Amanda said. 'Stephen's killer must have been somebody he knew.'
I noticed my father sitting there, his face looking older than ever, fear gripping his whole body. He was waiting for us to say something, to offer some piece of advice or solace that would prove he was innocent. The story he told us, assuming it was true, would have to be proven in court. But from what Detective Makhoulian had told me, Helen Gaines had disappeared. As of right now she was the only person who could corroborate my father's story. And she was a woman who certainly owed him nothing.
'Sign the waiver, Dad,' I said grimly, gritting my teeth, trying to force him to see that his only option would be to fight nobly. The longer he held out, the more public opinion would tilt away from his favor. 'Go to New York. We can do more for you there than we can here.'
'I don't want to go to jail,' my father said. His words were whispers, and if there was ever a moment my heart might have bled for this man, it was now.
'Mr. Parker,' Amanda said. 'James. All we can do right now is try to prove your innocence. We can't do that here. Henry's right. We'll find you a lawyer. We'll help you.'
He looked at both of us. I could sense gratitude trying to squeeze its way through his hardened veins. Instead,
James Parker simply nodded and said, 'I'll sign it.'
Amanda nodded, smiled. I couldn't show that emotion, that happiness. My father had been lying to me his whole life. Innocent or guilty, I had a hard time mustering pity for him. Many times over the years I'd hoped someone would lock him up for one of his crimes. As a young boy I'd wished I was strong enough to stand up to him. It didn't matter how far I went, how much I distanced myself. His sins followed me wher ever I went.
Amanda got up and knocked on the door. A cop opened it, keeping his eyes on James Parker. As we left the room, saw Captain Whalin talking to two uniformed officers. When he saw us, Whalin came over, folding his arms across his chest.
'Well?' he said.
'He'll sign the waiver,' I said. 'Let's get this over with and get him back to New York.'
Whalin let out a pleased sigh. 'I'm glad to hear that.
Last thing we need is another body taking up a jail cell we can't spare. He still needs to appear before the judge tomorrow morning, but that's a formality. I'll call the
NYPD. We'll have the waiver ready for him to sign at tomorrow's hearing, and they'll send officers to escort him back to New York. Then he's all yours. Thanks for talking some sense into him.'
Whalin walked away. I was glad to hear he wanted my father out of his hair, it would help the process move faster. I felt Amanda's hand loop through my arm. I put my palm on it. Her skin felt warm.
As we headed toward the exit, I saw a woman sitting in the lobby. Her hair was blond, unnaturally so, as though she kept her hair colorist in good business. She had on a white cotton blouse, simple jewelry. She was teetering, swaying back and forth. Her arms were wrapped around her thin body, one hand covering her mouth. She looked like she was debating between falling over and vomiting. A pair of knitting needles poked out from her
