“Yeah that’s him.”
“Was your son depressed recently?”
“Depressed? Of course he was depressed. His life was shit.”
Once more I bit my tongue. Amazingly, I felt offended on behalf of the young man who’d stolen my identity.
“In what way was his life shit?” Rhine asked.
Winters counted the reasons on his fingers. “He got kicked out of high school for being a Peeping Tom. He couldn’t keep a job. He was still a virgin, as far as I knew. He wanted to join the army but failed the GED three times. Do you know how severely stupid you have to be to do that?”
I tried to remind myself that anger was a fairly common reaction to news of a suicide. Of all human emotions, grief is the most mercurial. It can take a thousand different forms.
The sheriff said: “Do you remember Tommy acting differently recently?”
“The kid was always different. ‘Special,’ his mother said. She always made excuses for his failures.”
“Did Tommy use drugs, Mr. Winters?” Rhine asked.
“I wouldn’t know. Probably. Half the kids his age are druggies. More than half.”
“Did he own a gun?” the sheriff said.
“Smith and Wesson .357 Mag. Couldn’t shoot with it for shit. He was scared of the recoil.”
“Did he ever dress in army fatigues?” Rhine asked. “Or own any police gear?”
Beads of perspiration popped from the pores on the man’s forehead. “You’re welcome to search his bedroom. I left him to himself. I have enough problems of my own.”
The sheriff leaned forward. “What kind of vehicle did your son drive, Mr. Winters?”
“Silverado. Green.”
“What about money? Did you notice him making any big purchases recently? Items he shouldn’t have been able to afford?”
A wet splotch had appeared on the front of Winters’s shirt, over his sternum. “I told you the kid couldn’t keep a job. What does any of this have to do with him killing himself?”
Rhine drew herself up to full height. “We have reason to believe your son was impersonating a law enforcement officer.”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“Your son was identified by a girl whose car he pulled over, allegedly for speeding. He identified himself to them as a game warden. He did the same to a man whose trailer he robbed.”
The range master rubbed his big forearm along his wet brow and shook off the moisture. He slid from the stool. “I need to use the facilities.”
None of us spoke as he limped into the next room. We heard a door close and a muffled fan start up.
“He’s really lost weight since I last saw him,” said Rivard. “Twenty, thirty pounds.”
“You’re kidding.” To my eyes Tim Winters was borderline obese. I leaned close to the sheriff. “He’s really perspiring. More than normal. Have you noticed?”
“I have.”
“It’s a hot day for Christ’s sake,” said Rivard. “And his son just died.”
We heard the toilet flush and then water running from a tap.
When Winters reappeared, his forehead and forearms were dry. He seemed to have composed himself in the bathroom. And he had changed his shirt to a polo with the club logo on the front.
An idea must have come into his head while he was cleaning himself up because he glared at Rivard.
“You’re one who planted the idea in his head. The last time you were here, he grilled you about becoming a game warden, wouldn’t stop asking questions.”
The sergeant moved the tobacco in his mouth around with his tongue. “I don’t remember that.”
Rhine reached into her pocket and removed a folded piece of paper. She opened it to reveal a mug shot of a man with eyes like a dog’s and a chin bristling with black stubble. The only features Dylan LeBlanc had in common with his cousin Alvin Payne were pointed ears—except that they looked more demonic than elfin on the drug dealer.
“Do you recognize this man?” she said.
Winters accepted the picture from her. “Yeah, I recognize him.”
“You do?”
“He’s come out here to shoot a few times with a couple of guys. Who is he?”
“His name is Dylan LeBlanc and we believe he’s a drug smuggler. You wouldn’t happen to know when he was here? Presumably you had them show identification and sign in.”
“April maybe? I can check my files.”
“Do that, please.”
Winters disappeared into his office for five minutes. When he returned, he had sign-in sheets with three names from April 24, 26, and 28, none of which belonged to Dylan LeBlanc. “I’m pretty sure this was them. They gave me fake IDs, I’m guessing.”
The fact that the men had used aliases didn’t seem to surprise Sheriff Rhine. “Do you remember if your son was ever here the same time Mr. LeBlanc was?”
He paused so long it seemed he’d forgotten the question. “Maybe.”
“Would Tommy have had an opportunity to talk with Mr. LeBlanc or overhear one of his conversations?”
“I suppose. Tommy worked the register for me a couple of times. And he was always eavesdropping on other people’s private discussions. What’s this about?”
“Your son stole a significant stash of drugs from an Airstream trailer belonging to a man named Alvin Payne.”
Winters laughed. “Tommy didn’t have the balls to do something like that!”
Rhine flared her nostrils. “Do you mind my asking you a personal question?”
“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?”
“Would you like to continue this later after you’ve had a chance to process what happened to your son? It’s not uncommon for people to feel shame when there’s a suicide in the family.”
“You can stop trying to get in my head, lady.”
“Sheriff,” I corrected him.
But Winters chose not to acknowledge me. “Yeah, I was ashamed of the kid. Who wouldn’t be?”
“But he was your son,” I said, unable to hold back.
Winters responded with a harsh laugh that shocked us all into silence.
“How is that funny?” Rhine asked.
“Because he wasn’t my son! Biologically, I mean. Karen couldn’t have kids so she convinced me to adopt him. Worst mistake of my life. You adopt a baby, they should tell you
