every day. But back to the main point-the smart thing in a case like this is to make the first deal. So why didn’t the smartest guy do the smart thing?”
“Why?” said Wyatt. “Tell me.”
Mr. Rentner laughed, an unpleasant sound in his case, like unlubricated steel parts rubbing together. “If I knew, I would.” He turned the key, did a U-turn, headed back the way they’d come. “It was chaos in there that night, and chaos leads to incoherence. Luis Dominguez got knocked out with a baseball bat right from the get-go, so his testimony was useless, and Esteban’s wasn’t much better-he was pretty much occupied grabbing his gun from under a seat cushion and trying to do some killing of his own. Do you have a handle on the forensics?”
“No.”
“Good. I mean by that it’s good to say you don’t know when you don’t know. Want to stay short of being an ignoramus, of course. First thing, there were two guns fired that night. One was a thirty-eight revolver belonging to Esteban Dominguez. Two shots were fired from that gun. One slug was dug out of the kitchen wall at thirty-two Cain Street, the other ended up in Art Pingree’s leg. Two more shots were fired from a twenty-two handgun that probably belonged to Art Pingree and was never recovered. The first one passed right through the girlfriend’s throat, severing her jugular vein, and then striking the baby in the eye. The second shot hit Esteban in the chest, missing his heart by an inch or so. He testified that he didn’t see who fired it, also testified that he remembered seeing only two invaders, Art Pingree and Doc Vitti. Pingree swore he wasn’t the shooter; Doc made his deal and fingered Racine; Racine took the stand and also denied he’d fired the shot. But then, in response to a question from the DA about what he thought had happened to the gun, Racine did the most amazing thing: he said he’d thrown it into the woods just as the police moved in. What do you make of that?”
Wyatt was totally confused. “The gun was never found?”
“Nope.”
“It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Not without an alteration or two, completely speculative.”
“Like what?”
“Naturally the DA had no interest in speculation. What he had was a strong case, just about open-and-shut, that speculation could only muddy up. No gun? They figured Racine had thrown it in some other direction, or a dog had found the thing and run off with it, or that it had fallen into a hole they’d missed.”
Mr. Rentner turned down a street that led to the edge of town. They passed a few shabby houses, then stopped outside a trailer park.
“But suppose,” said Mr. Rentner, “there’d been a fourth person on that little shindig. Further suppose that said fourth person, perhaps the actual shooter, ran away with the gun just as the police were closing in, maybe was never in the house at all, but outside a window, let’s say. Maybe Racine was there, too, at least part of the time. Then his testimony starts to make sense.”
“How?” Wyatt said.
“Saying he threw the gun away takes the police off the scent of number four. Therefore, in this scenario, Racine lied to protect whoever that was. Not even much woods back of Cain Street, then or now. Suggests a certain unfamiliarity with the area. I’m not convinced he was even there.”
“But why would he do that?”
“Cherchez la femme,” Mr. Rentner said.
“I don’t understand.”
“A basic French phrase like that?” Mr. Rentner said. Then he sighed and said, “Not your fault. Let’s put it this way-there were rumors at the time that Racine had a girlfriend.”
Wyatt felt the blood drain from his head, like he was about to faint. Yes, Racine had had a girlfriend all right: Wyatt’s mom. The girlfriend theory wouldn’t go away, threatening Wyatt’s whole history.
But there was no time to deal with that. An old black Dodge Ram pickup came driving out of the trailer park, a big-headed man with shoulder-length graying hair behind the wheel.
“That’s Doc,” said Mr. Rentner.
23
“When I heard he was back here, I got it in mind to interview him, gave him a call, in fact,” said Mr. Rentner. “He told me no comment, but not in those words. One thing about the news business-we don’t like to take no for an answer.” He turned the van around-backing into a bush but not seeming to notice-and followed Doc’s black pickup.
The pickup led them down a road with boarded-up buildings. After a while they came to a strip mall, a series of stores with dusty windows and no cars parked outside. The sign over the last store read FIVE ACES LIQUOR. The black pickup pulled in there. Mr. Rentner parked a few spaces away. Doc got out of the pickup, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He wore black jeans, a black jean jacket, dirty work boots; a big guy, about the size of Hector in the Sweetwater visiting room, a comparison that might have suggested itself to Wyatt from the top of a tattoo that curled up Doc’s neck from under the collar of his jacket. His eyes took in Wyatt and Mr. Rentner, sitting in the front of the van. Then he flicked the cigarette away-the wind pinwheeling it toward a Dumpster beyond the last parking space-and went into the liquor store.
Mr. Rentner raised the console lid, took out a digital camera. “Bet he takes a nice dramatic picture,” he said. He got out of the van. Wyatt got out, too. They walked over to the pickup. Mr. Rentner peered through the driver’s side window. “Always look for the telling detail.”
Wyatt peered in, too. “Like how messy it is?”
“Sure. But what else do you see? What pops out at you?”
“That shoe?” Wyatt pointed to the floor in front of the passenger seat.
“Describe it.”
“Well, uh, a woman’s shoe.”
“Color?”
“Red.”
“Style?”
Style? Wyatt knew nothing about women’s shoes styles. “High-heeled, you mean?”
“Good enough. It can’t help raising questions in anybody’s mind, such as-”
Wyatt heard the closing of the liquor store door and looked up. Doc was standing outside, a case of beer under one arm and a muscle twitching in the side of his face.
“What the hell?” he said. “Messing with my truck?”
Mr. Rentner stepped away from the pickup, but not in a hurry. “Mr. Vitti?” he said. “My name’s Rentner, from the Millerville Beacon. This is my young colleague, Wyatt. Wondered if you had a moment for a few quick questions.”
“You the asshole who called me already?” Doc came forward.
“Let’s just say I called you already and leave it like that,” said Mr. Rentner. He was an old man, tiny next to Doc, but he didn’t back away and showed no fear. Wyatt didn’t back away either, but he felt afraid inside, no question. There was something wrong with Doc-he could feel it in the air. “But,” Mr. Rentner said, “these things always work much better in person.”
“Things? What fuckin’ things?”
“An interview for the Beacon. I’m sure our readers would be interested in hearing your side.”
“My side of what?”
“Thirty-two Cain,” said Mr. Rentner. He wasn’t speaking fast, the way most people would be at a time like this, had slowed down, if anything. At the mention of the address the muscle in Doc’s face jumped again. “The events of that night,” Mr. Rentner pressed on, “and whether you see them differently looking back-how about we start there?”
“See them different?” Doc took a step closer to Mr. Rentner, was at about an arm’s-length distance now. “What’s that s’posta mean?”
“Is there anything you’re now free to add about your testimony?” said Mr. Rentner. “Some information left
