back. My current work has nothing to do with guns or yuppies or New York City or disaffected members of the Irish Republican Army. It’s about a man’s journey to find something. He just doesn’t know what that something is. So it’s kind of a book about two journeys. I know something about that.
What Renee put in my back pocket that night was a life preserver. The life preserved was mine. The address in Queens was for one of those franchise package-delivery service stores.
About a week later, the police and the DA from Sullivan County-where the abandoned bungalow colony was located-asked my lawyer and me to come in to “chat.” All I knew for certain until that point was that I hadn’t been arrested and there had been no press conference.
“Mr. Weiler, would you like to tell us your version of-” The Sullivan County DA never got to finish his question.
“My client isn’t going to tell you anything unless you reveal to us the obviously exculpatory nature of the evidence you retrieved from that box. Even then, I may not advise my client to discuss matters with you.”
The Brixton County sheriff sat there silently, glum as could be. I guess he wasn’t in the mood to call me son anymore.
“Counselor, what if I were to tell you that your client is no longer a person of interest?” said the DA.
After a few seconds of stunned silence, my lawyer said we’d be very pleased.
I started to get out of my chair, but my lawyer clamped his hand down on my shoulder.
“That would be lovely, but there is the issue of the late Mr. Petrovic. I can’t very well let my client walk out of this room thinking he’s clear of this mess only to have you boys change your minds next week and prosecute him.”
The sheriff said, “We know for a fact your client didn’t kill Petrovic. Fact is, the only person your client did kill, deserved killin’ and that was Trimble himself. Seems it was Trimble that killed Petrovic and my deputy too. All we want is for your client to tell us his side of things so we can corroborate some details.”
I didn’t wait for permission and just started talking.
About a year ago, I heard from my lawyer. It seems that the evidence Renee left behind included hours of voice recordings she’d made of herself and Jim in which Jim, in the course of their conversations, confessed to just about everything but the Brink’s job and the sinking of the Lusitania. She’d also left behind a written statement detailing her role in things and explaining why she’d made the voice recordings-to protect me-and to fill in any gaps in the narrative.
“I can probably arrange for you to hear the tapes and get a copy of the statement,” he told me.
“No, thanks,” I said.
For a long time afterwards, I’d wanted to give Renee credit for being smarter than either Jim or me. That she was brilliant for seeing how badly things might turn out. Just lately, however, I’ve had a change of heart on the matter. One day it struck me that voice recordings and hidden evidence had Jim’s signature all over it, that he must have known he was being recorded, that these recordings were a testament to him, an insurance policy to make sure he got credit one way or the other, alive or dead.
But who knows anything, really? Did Jim know Renee was making those tapes? Was it Jim’s idea in the first place? These days the only looking behind me I do is in the rearview mirror. I try not to look too far ahead either.
