“No. He’s still hell-bent for election to go through with it. Even so, talking to him has convinced me that you may be right. Some of the things he said made me think maybe he didn’t kill her after all.”
“What are you going to do, go to the cops?”
Joanna shook her head. “I am a cop, remember?” he said. “But since this happened in Peoria PD’s jurisdiction, I wouldn’t be able to do anything bout it, not officially. And even if I tried, that case is closed as far as homicide cops are concerned cause they’ve already turned it over to the prosecutor.”
“What’s the point, then?”
“The point is I’m going to do a little nosing around on my own. Unofficial nosing around. Do you still have my card?”
Butch reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out Joanna’s business card. She jotted a number on the back and returned it to him. “That’s the number of my room over at the academy. There’s no answering machine, so either you’ll get me or you won’t. You won’t be able to leave a message.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to write down everything you can remember about the night Serena Grijalva died. I’m sure you’ve already given this information to the investigating officers, but since mine isn’t an official inquiry, I most likely won’t have access to those reports. There’s no real rush. I’ll come by tomorrow or the next day and pick it up.”
“Wednesday’s the day before Thanksgiving Butch said, pocketing the card once more. “I suppose you’ll be going home for the holiday?”
Joanna shook her head. “No, Jenny and the Gs are coming up here for the weekend. We’ve a got super-duper holiday weekend package at that brand-new hotel just down the street.”
“The Hohokam?” Butch asked. “It’s only been open a couple of months. I’ve never been inside. It’s supposed to be very nice.”
“I hope so,” Joanna said.
“And who all did you say is coming, Jenny and the Gs? Sounds like some kind of rock band.”
Joanna laughed. “That’s my daughter and her grandparents, my in-laws. Ever since she was able spell, Jenny’s called them the Gs.” She paused for a moment. “Speaking of names, where did Butch come from?”
Running one hand over the bare skin on his shiny, bald skull, Butch Dixon grinned. “My real we was Frederick. People called me Freddy for short. I hated it; thought it sounded sissy. So when as six, my uncle started teasing me about my new haircut, calling me Butch. The name stuck. I’ve been Butch ever since, and I wore my hair that way for years, back when I still had hair, that is. When it started to disappear, I gave Mother Nature a little shove in the right direction. What do you think?”
Joanna smiled. “It looks fine to me. I’d better be heading back,” she said, standing up. “I’m taking you
“Customer,” Butch corrected, holding up his hand.
“And I’ve got a reading assignment to do before class in the morning.”
“And I’ve got a writing assignment,” he said patting his shirt pocket. “I’ll start on it first thing tomorrow morning. Do you want me to call you when it’s finished?”
