“The question was rhetorical,” Molly said.
“For now,” Jesse said.
He opened the folder and began to read. Molly watched him for a moment. Then she went to the coffeepot, got two mugs, poured the now-brewed coffee into each. She put one mug on Jesse’s desk and took the other one with her to the front desk.
White male, five feet eleven inches, two hundred three pounds. Appeared to be about fifty. Victim was overweight, and appeared out of shape. No evidence of a struggle. Abrasions on body appeared postmortem.
Fingerprint ID established that the victim was Walton Wilson Weeks, age fifty-one. Jesse wondered if they had estimated his age before they ID’d him. There was evidence of liposuction on his belly and buttocks.
The phone rang. It was Healy.
1 7
R O B E R T B . P A R K E R
“Walton Weeks?” Healy said.
“So quick,” Jesse said. “I’m just reading the forensics myself.”
“I’m the homicide commander of the state police,” Healy said. “Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”
“Oh yeah,” Jesse said. “You know everything.”
“Walton Fucking Weeks?”
“Middle name is Wilson,” Jesse said.
“Walton Fucking Wilson Fucking Weeks?” Healy said.
“Yes.”
“Hanging from a tree limb in Paradise, Massachusetts?”
“Talk about a public figure,” Jesse said.
“He’s got a national television show,” Healy said. “A national radio show. A national newspaper column.”
“Is that as important as being a state police captain?”
Jesse said.
“No. But it’s close. They’re going to swamp you.”
“Maybe not,” Jesse said.
“Weeks was a big supporter of the governor,” Healy said.
“The one who wants to be president?”
“Yeah. That one.”
“So he’s going to be all over this,” Jesse said.
“And me,” Healy said. “And you.”
