door!”
The door swings open. I catch a whiff of something vaguely unpleasant and find myself facing a small man with greasy hair, a receding hairline and a mustache the color of spicy mustard.
“Dwayne Starkey?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Kate Burkholder. Painters Mill PD.” Keeping my right hand close to my weapon, I pull out my badge with my left and hold it up. He stares at it long enough to make me wonder if he knows how to read. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“This about those kilt women?”
“What makes you think that?”
A hard laugh rattles from a cigarette-rough throat. “I know how you cops think. Somethin’ bad goes down and you want to hang it on the first con you see.”
“I just want to ask you a few questions.”
He looks undecided. “You got a warrant?”
“I can have one in ten minutes if you want to do it that way. It’d be a lot faster if you just open the door and talk to me.”
“I probably shouldn’t without my lawyer.”
A familiar baritone voice comes from behind Starkey. “If you didn’t do anything wrong, you don’t need a lawyer.”
I look past Starkey and see Tomasetti standing in the mudroom. I want to ask him what the hell he’s doing in Starkey’s house, but Starkey beats me to the punch.
“Who the fuck’re you? What’re you doin’ in my house?”
“I’m the good cop, Dwayne. I suggest you stop being a shithead and cooperate with Chief Burkholder. Believe me, you don’t want to piss her off.”
Starkey looks at me. “How the fuck did he get in my house?”
I’m wondering the same thing, so I don’t even try to answer. “Dwayne,” I begin, “we just need a few minutes of your time.”
Starkey steps back. He wears grungy jeans. A shirt with old sweat stains. He looks like he wants to run. I glance down at his feet and see dirty white socks. If he breaks for the door, he won’t get far.
I push open the door and step into a mudroom that smells the way Starkey looks, an unpleasant fusion of cat shit, body odor and cigarette smoke.
Starkey looks from me to Tomasetti and back to me. “I know my rights so don’t try any shit.”
“You have the right to sit the fuck down.” Taking the man by the scruff, Tomasetti muscles him into the kitchen and shoves him into a chair.
“Hey!” Starkey complains. “You can’t do that.”
“I just want to show you how much we appreciate your cooperation.”
I step into the kitchen. The stench of rotting food and animal feces punches me like a fist. An obese cat watches me from atop a 1970s refrigerator. I watch my step when I cross to Starkey.
“You still work at the slaughterhouse, Dwayne?” I ask.
“I ain’t missed a day since I started.”
“What do you do there?”
“Look, I got a clean record there.” He points at Tomasetti. “I don’t want you cops fuckin’ things up for me.”
Tomasetti slaps his hand away. “Answer the question.”
“I’m the sticker.”
“What’s a sticker?” I ask.
“I stick the steer in the neck after he’s stunned.”
“You cut its throat?”
“I guess you could put it that way.”
“You like doing that?” Tomasetti asks.
“It pays the bills.”
Something crunches beneath Tomasetti’s shoe as he steps into the living room. “You gotta go to school for that?”
Starkey glares at him. “Fuck you.”
“Dwayne,” I snap. “Cut it out.”
He looks at me as if I’m dense. “That guy’s an asshole.”
“I know.” I’m aware of Tomasetti moving around the living room, but I never take my eyes off of Starkey. “Where were you Saturday night?”
“I don’t remember.” His attention is on Tomasetti, and I wonder if Starkey has something to hide.
For the first time anger stirs. Two women are dead and this filthy little man is doing his utmost to make our job as difficult as possible. Leaning over, I smack the side of his head with my open hand, forcing his attention to me.
“You can’t hit me like that,” he says.
“Then pay attention. Where were you were Saturday night?”
“I was here. Rebuilt the transmission on the El Camino.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“No.”
“Were you here all night?”
“Yeah.”
“You ever been to the Brass Rail?”
“Everyone’s been to the Rail, man.”
“When’s the last time you were there?”
“I dunno. A week ago.” His brows knit. “A week ago Sunday.”
“How well did you know Amanda Horner?”
“I don’t know no Amanda Horner.” He’s starting to look nervous, like he’s finally taking this seriously. “You guys can’t pin no murder on me. I didn’t do it.”
“You raped a woman fourteen years ago.”
“The little bitch lied, man.”
A burst of anger goes through me. Before I even realize my intent, my hand shoots out and I slap him open- handed. “Watch your mouth.”
He rubs his cheek. “That chick was a tease. Drunk. Fucked up on coke. She wanted it.”
“She was twelve.”
“I didn’t know that! I swear. She looked like a grown-up woman. Tits out to fuckin’ here.” He makes a slashing sign a foot from his chest. “And she wadn’t no virgin like she claimed.”
Disgust ripples through me. My temper hammers at the door, but I don’t let it out. “How well did you know Ellen Augspurger?”
“Don’t know her neither.”
“If I find out you’re lying, I’ll come down on you so hard you’ll wish you were back in prison.”
“I swear I don’t know her. Either of them.”
“You on probation?”
“What do you think?”
“You like porn?” Tomasetti breaks in.
Starkey cranks his head around. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
“Kiddie porn? You keep it in the house?”
“I don’t do that shit.”
“No, I’ll bet you’re an S&M kind of guy, aren’t you?”
“This is bullshit. You can’t talk to me that way.”
“Dwayne,” I cut in, “do you keep knives in the house?”
He blinks again, as if he’s having a difficult time keeping up with our questions. “Everyone has knives.”
