T-shirt. I can tell by the crease marks on the left side of his face that he’d been sleeping. Behind him, the woman clutches the baby, eyeing us with unconcealed suspicion.
“You Ricky Coulter?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Rubbing his fingers over mussed hair, he walks toward us. “What’s this all about?”
“I understand you did some work for Solomon Slabaugh,” I begin.
“I dug some postholes and put in some end posts for him a couple of months ago.” His brows knit. “Does this have something to do with what happened to him?”
“Where were you yesterday morning?”
He takes the question in stride, as if I’d asked about the weather. “I was here.”
“You work that night?”
“I was sick. Ate something that didn’t agree with me.”
“Is there someone who can verify that you were here?”
Turning, he motions toward the woman. “Honey, tell them where I was yesterday morning.”
She hovers a few feet away, bouncing the baby, dividing her attention between us and the soap opera. “He was home sick. We ate at that burger place down by the speedway, and he threw up half the night.”
The baby squirms and begins to cry. Bouncing him slightly, she coos to him. “Shush now, little bear.”
Tomasetti looks from the baby to Coulter. “You ever have a disagreement with Slabaugh?”
Coulter shakes his head. “Never. Solly was a real stand-up guy. Honest and nice as could be.”
“We know about your record,” Tomasetti says.
“I figured that’s why you’re here.”
“You robbed your employer,” I add. “Took two hundred dollars and over five hundred dollars in tools.”
Coulter’s gaze flicks to me. “That was a long time ago. I did my time for that. I’m a different man now.”
“Prison rehabilitated you?” Tomasetti’s voice is bone dry.
Coulter doesn’t notice. “You might say that. I found the Lord when I was in prison. I read the Bible. Started going to services every Sunday. Once I let Jesus Christ into my life, He showed me the way.”
Tomasetti gives him a “You’ve got to be shitting me” look. “He didn’t happen to show you the way to Slabaugh’s cash or valuables, did he?”
Coulter offers a placid smile, his resolve unshaken. “If someone needed a shirt, Solly would have given them not only his shirt but his coat, too. If I needed something—money, food,
“Do you mind if we take a quick look around?” Tomasetti asks.
Coulter opens his arms, a priest welcoming the lost into his church. “Knock yourselves out. I don’t have anything to hide.”
I see Tomasetti roll his eyes as he starts toward the kitchen. Searching the home of a private citizen without a warrant can be tricky, but I know why Tomasetti asked. He knew Coulter would give us his permission. Chances are, we won’t find a damn thing. Criminals rarely invite the cops into their homes if they’ve got something to hide. But you never know when a lucky break might present itself.
I start toward the bedrooms at the rear, not quite sure what I’m looking for. I pass a bathroom, flip on the light, peek inside. I see a shower curtain with green fish and little blue starfish; seaside-themed wallpaper. Ratty towels hang neatly on a pitted chrome rack. A plastic boat rests on the side of the tub. A typical family bathroom. Nothing of interest here.
Moving on, I come to the first bedroom. It’s a small space with a single window and blue paint on the walls. A bunk bed decked out in Spider-Man sheets sits opposite a crib. Toys of every shape and size lay scattered on the carpeting. The room smells of baby powder and dirty clothes. Stepping over a coloring book on the floor, I peek in the closet. Out-of-season clothes lie folded on an old bookcase. I notice a Sam’s Club–size box of disposable diapers, sneakers, a tiny hoodie wadded up on the floor.
I proceed down the hall to the master bedroom. It’s larger, with two windows, newish beige carpet, and a fresh coat of paint. The furniture is rustic with a Native American theme. The bed is unmade and I can see the glow of the electric blanket control on the night table. I go to the closet, pull open the sliding door. I see a half dozen pairs of blue jeans, sweaters, and flannel shirts. Work boots and a pair of women’s clogs lie on the floor. Moving the clothes aside with my forearm, I check the rear, where an old suitcase, a baseball bat, and an old leather glove are stashed.
I’m about to straighten, when I catch a glimpse of glossy wood behind a long coat. I shove the coat aside. A strange thrill rushes through me when I see the dark patina of a rifle stock. I don’t have anything against citizens keeping guns in general. But Ricky Coulter is no ordinary citizen. He’s a felon—not to mention a person of interest in a triple murder case—which makes it illegal for him to possess even a hunting rifle.
I pull a pair of latex gloves from my coat pocket, slip them on, and pick up the rifle. Some vague sense of recognition flares in the back of my mind as I drag it out. The rifle is familiar, but I’m almost certain I’ve never seen it before. It’s an older .22 bolt-action with a walnut stock, no scope. I open the chamber, find two bullets inside. Loaded. With little kids in the house. “Idiot,” I whisper, and tug a Baggie from my belt.
Plucking out the bullets, I drop them into the Baggie, put it in my coat pocket. Closing the chamber, I carry the rifle into the hall.
Tomasetti and Coulter are standing in the living room. I can tell by Coulter’s expression that Tomasetti isn’t being very nice. Both men stare at the rifle in my hands as I approach. I focus my attention on Coulter. “Did you forget about this?” I ask.
He blinks at me. “Where did you get that?”
“I didn’t pull it out of my back pocket.”
“It ain’t mine.”
“Maybe you could explain how it got in your closet.”
His eyes flick from me to Tomasetti to the rifle. “I’ve never seen it before in my life.”
His wife gasps. “Ricky … where’d that come from?”
Tomasetti shakes his head. “And to think I was just starting to like him.”
“I’m serious.” Coulter’s voice is indignant now. “I don’t have any guns in this house. I got kids. I’m a convicted felon; I can’t have any kind of weapon.”
“How did it get in your closet?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” He takes a step back, his eyes bouncing like Ping-Pong balls between me and Tomasetti. “It ain’t mine. I swear. I don’t own a twenty-two, and I never have.”
In ten years of law-enforcement experience, I’ve heard every conceivable lie told in every conceivable form and spewed with the vehemence of brimstone and fire. I’m an expert at spotting lies and the liars who tell them. But as I watch Coulter, all I can think is that this guy is a step above the rest, because he’s almost believable.
Tomasetti steps closer to him. “So if it isn’t yours, how did it get there?”
“I don’t know.” He chokes out the words like a cough. “I’m telling you: That gun ain’t mine.”
I glance sideways at Tomasetti, and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing I am:
“We’re going to have to take you to the station,” I say.
“Ricky? What’s going on?” His wife rushes toward us. She’s still holding the baby, looking at the rifle as if I’m about to shoot her husband with it. “Where did you get that gun?”
The toddler runs to his mother, grabs her leg, and buries his face in the denim. “Mommy.”
“It’s not mine. I swear!” Coulter chokes out a sound of pure anguish. “Aw, come on … my kids…”
Maintaining eye contact, I tug handcuffs from my belt and approach him. “Turn around.”
“What are you doing?” his wife screeches.
“We’re just going to talk to him,” I tell her, hoping she stays calm.
“Aw man.” Coulter’s face screws up. To my dismay, he hangs his head and begins to cry. “Don’t do this. Not in front of my kids.”
I glance toward the door. “Let’s step outside.”
With the insouciance of a man taking a Sunday stroll, Tomasetti steps between the wife and Coulter. “We just have a few questions for him, ma’am. Step aside.”
