He came around the front of the vehicle and took his wife’s hand. She flashed him a subdued smile. He understood. It was how he felt, too. He and Susanne had become invested in Jeannie’s survival during her final hours. The fact that they weren’t friendly with her before didn’t matter. There was sorrow for them in her death, in their inability to save her, as there was anytime dying brushed too close to living. He felt it all the time, but more keenly because of sharing the experience with his wife. And, yet, there was also warm sunshine today and her hand in his. Life went on, with reasons for smiling, even in the midst of death.
A few steps later, mud splashed on the hem of his pants. He’d veered off the sidewalk. Melt was the price to pay for spring warmth, as would be ice tomorrow morning. He brushed at the splatter, mostly smearing it, and looked around. Even though the Flints had lived in Buffalo two years now, this was his first visit to the funeral home. It was in a not-too-large old house on a quiet residential street. Wooden siding. White trim. Paint in need of a refresh, but not direly so. A pair of mature red maples that would provide shade and brilliant color once the leaves came back in. The type of place that brought to mind a family crowded around a groaning Thanksgiving table. Or kids playing freeze tag at dusk while their fathers grilled steaks in the backyard and drank the trendy tequila sunrises their wives forced on them when they’d rather be drinking Coors. It wasn’t the kind of place that made him think of burial preparations and display. But he guessed that was kind of the point—that funeral homes should be homey. This one succeeded.
He opened the front door and moved aside for Susanne to enter first, his fingers resting in the small of her back. Once they were inside, he took her hand and slipped ahead of her to part the crowd. The parlor was so packed that he couldn’t see the walls or furniture. Even the artwork was obscured, except for a painting of a mountain lion fighting off two hunting dogs, hanging above the fireplace mantel. Other than that, the room was just bodies crammed together, giving off humidity and an odor of mingled sweat, molasses, and livestock. They were in ranching country after all.
He stopped and felt Susanne’s gaze on his profile.
She said, “You look like you’ve contracted a bad case of mange.”
He rubbed his jaw. The beard was patchy, he’d admit. And itchy, which he wouldn’t.
She cocked her head. “How can you have more hair on your neck than your face?”
“Just how I like it.”
“As soon as winter is officially over, I am going to take great joy in assisting in your shedding process.”
He winked. “Only ninety frost-free days a year here.”
“If you’re suggesting that you plan to attempt facial hair nine months out of twelve, I’d advise you to consider its impact on your love life.”
“Ouch,” he said, holding back a chuckle.
She squeezed his hand.
They continued across the room toward a somber throng in the back near Jeannie’s open casket. Patrick and Susanne stopped at it, and together they gazed at their former neighbor. The funeral home had done a decent job with her. Her makeup was thick, like it was spackled on. It probably was, to cover the pallor of death. Her gray hair looked stiffly coiffed and darker than it had a few days before. A voluminous pink scarf wound around her high-necked white blouse, covering her neck wounds. The tails of the scarf were artfully arranged against a soft black cardigan. There was no sign of the trauma she’d endured in the last hour of her life.
At the head of the casket, Judge Renkin was holding court with a cluster of men in cowboy boots and western suits. They varied by height, girth, and how much hair they had on their heads, but not much else.
“Do you want to join them for a moment and pay our respects to the judge?” Patrick asked.
“If it’s all the same, I’d rather let you do that, and I’ll go talk to that group of ladies.” Susanne nodded toward three women a few feet away. “I think that’s his daughter, talking to Trish’s basketball coach.”
“Sounds like a good plan.” He pecked her on the cheek. “Then we can get out of here. I don’t like to think too long about burying wives.”
She smiled up at him. “I’m glad to hear that. Ten minutes?”
“If that long.”
After Susanne left, Patrick walked with his hand extended to Judge Renkin. “Judge. My condolences.”
Renkin clasped Patrick’s hand and shook it. The judge’s palms were smooth and his nails clipped. He lowered his head. “Thank you for that, and for what you did to try to save my dear, sweet Jeannie. I’m so torn up about her death. Gentlemen, do you all know Dr. Patrick Flint?”
Patrick wondered just how torn up the judge was. He hadn’t ridden to the hospital with his wife or made an appearance there in her final minutes. In fact, it was a full hour after she’d died when he’d finally shown up. Patrick had broken the news to him, and the dry-eyed, calm-voiced judge had nodded and said, “I’m sure you did all you could.”
But Patrick didn’t reveal his thoughts.
The men exchanged rough, scratchy handshakes with him. More than one cheek bulged with chewing tobacco, and hat marks ringed all their hairlines. It was like a who’s who convention for the town. The mayor, the county attorney, the county judge, and a few additional elected officials. Patrick had even glimpsed the sheriff across the room a moment before.
Patrick introduced himself to the one man in the group whom he didn’t recognize. “Patrick Flint.”
“Shep Rawlins.” The silver-haired newcomer gave Patrick a onceover that morphed into a toothy grin and longer-than-comfortable contact with ice-blue eyes. His jacket was a better cut, his hair style more expensive, his teeth whiter and straighter, and his face slightly more handsome than those of the other men. His name sounded familiar, but Patrick couldn’t place him.
“Where’s that lovely wife of yours, Dr. Flint?” the judge asked.
Patrick gestured toward Susanne. “Visiting with some of the ladies.” A young woman in boots and a modest yellow dress was hurrying toward the group Susanne had joined. From the woman’s attire to her gait to a funny waddle in her behind, she reminded him of a duck. He turned back toward Renkin, stifling amusement.
The judge scowled so quickly Patrick wondered if he’d imagined it. “Oh, yes. There she is. Please give her my best.”
“I will.”
Renkin angled his body to include the rest of his cronies. “The coroner hasn’t issued a report on Judge Ellis’s death yet. What are your thoughts, Max?”
Johnson County Attorney Max Alexandrov crossed his arms over his sports jacket. His young wife had recently run back to her family on the east coast, and he still exuded a forlorn air. He pushed back his thinning light hair. When he answered, it was in the slightest of Russian accents, as if he had grown up in a household with Russian speakers. “Too early to say. Right now they’re calling it suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning.”
Renkin’s voice boomed. “What are the odds that the judge set to hear the Kemecke case died by supposed suicide, and, on the same day, the wife of the judge who gets the case when Ellis dies was shot and killed, too? Suicide is bollocks, I say. Someone could have knocked Ellis out. Or drugged him.”
“Might be related. Might not. They’ll be sending off a blood sample for toxicology. That’ll take a week or more, but, if it was murder, they’ll figure it out.”
“Any leads on who shot my Jeannie?”
“Sheriff Westbury said I’ll be the first to know. You’ll be the second.”
“Either way, the trial is coming to my court.”
Buffalo Mayor Martin Ochoa leaned on his crutches, which he was using while his broken leg mended. He was a short, portly man with a curled mustache who had first been elected right after the Flints moved to Buffalo. He’d risen from humble beginnings. His father was a Basque sheepherder without two nickels to rub together. Patrick had voted for him. “I don’t like it. Billy Kemecke is poison to this town. Can you refuse the c
ase, Harold? No one would blame you for taking time to grieve Jeannie’s death.”
Shep Rawlins nodded. “I need you alive, Renkin. You’re in year five of six of your term. It’s time to be thinking about your transition.”
Transition? Patrick had no idea what the new guy was talking about. He tried not to act like an outsider to the conversation, but he wasn’t in politics, nor did he enjoy talking about it. Maybe he just needed to collect Susanne and get gone.
The judge pulled a pamphlet from his back pocket, lifting the edge of his suit coat. The pamphlet said YARDLEY FUNERAL HOME on the cover. He tapped it in his left palm, lips pursed. “I appreciate that, Governor Rawlins.” The governor of the state of Wyoming. Of course, that’s why his name was familiar. “I intend to stick around and pursue our plans.” He winked. “But a good judge—one the people can count on—doesn’t unduly delay justice over personal issues. I like to think I’m that kind of judge.” He paused theatrically. “And I know my Jeannie would understand.”
Patrick felt a current of electricity course through the men. He’d heard rumors of Renkin running for the U.S. Senate from Susanne. Could those be the plans the judge was referring to?
The governor’s face creased with a concern that didn’t reach his eyes. “I appreciate your sense of honor and duty. Those are important qualities in a public servant, appointed or elected. And of course, with a case this high profile, the public will definitely take note of your sacrifice. But your safety . . .”
Johnson County Sheriff Cliff Westbury stuck his head into the group. In a surprisingly soft-spoken voice, he said, “Harold, I’m on my way out. My condolences again.” The sheriff stood a good three inches taller than Renkin and outweighed him by fifty pounds or more, a lot of it through the midsection.
Renkin took Westbury’s hand and held it, while maintaining eye contact with the governor a moment longer. “I’ll be extra vigilant, you can be sure of that, Governor.” He turned to Westbury. “Sheriff, can you help us keep the court safe until the Kemecke trial is over?”
Westbury clapped the judge on the shoulder. “Already working on it, including ‘round the clock protection for you.”
The men released each other.
“Thank you, Sheriff.”
The sheriff touched two fingers to his forehead and headed for the door.
Rawlins frowned. “At least take the rest of the week off. From everything and, um, everyone. I think the people would expect that. Even demand it.”
Renkin made a hmmm sound. “I can see how they would.” He started nodding. “Yes. I’ll do just that.”
“The state would be happy to pay for private security as well,” the governor said. “Not just because of Ellis and your wife. It’s the first death penalty case in Wyoming since the U.S. Supreme Court reversed their ban on them. We could have rested on our laurels with Kemecke—he was never getting out of jail again after he escaped custody—but if ever a man deserved a shot at lethal injection, it’s him. And you’re well known for your ‘hang ‘em high’ point of view.’” Several of the men chuckled. “You and the trial will attract attention, some of it unwanted. As will those plans.”
“Thank you, Shep.” The judge turned to Patrick. “I’m sure your family will appreciate getting this trial over with. Especially your wife and daughter.”
Patrick stroked his whiskers. “They’d be happier if they didn’t have to testify at all.” It seemed to Patrick like nothing good could come of bringing Kemecke back to Buffalo, for the Flints or the town.
“Unfortunately, Kemecke wouldn’t accept a deal for life in prison. This one is going the distance, whatever the cost.”
Renkin’s words hit Patrick’s gut like a sucker punch. He twisted his wedding ring back and forth. Before he could muster a reply, an unfamiliar man joined them. He was outfitted like a city slicker. The judge stiffened and shifted so his back was to him. Patrick was curious about him, but not enough to stay and find out who he was. It was time to go. He offered his farewells to the judge and the other men, then headed for Susanne, mumbling to himself and worrying about the Kemecke trial and the roles his wife and daughter would play.
The last words of the judge still echoed in his mind. “Whatever the cost.”
That cost is exactly what I’m afraid of.
Chapter Ten: Confess
Laramie, Wyoming
Saturday, March 12, 1977, Noon
Perry
Perry leaned into the wind as he trailed behind his parents, who were holding hands in front of God and everybody even though they knew it embarrassed him. They were walking in from the parking lot back to the basketball arena. The whole family had taken a break from the state tournament to go to McDonald’s for lunch. Since they rarely ate out, Perry had made the most of it. A quarter pounder with cheese, a chocolate milkshake, and a large order of Fat Freds, known as French fries to anyone outside his crazy family.
“Are you sure you want to eat that much, shrimp?” Trish had said. She’d ordered a fish sandwich and water.
Perry straightened his posture. “I’ve grown an inch and put on ten pounds since the start of the school year.”
“All in your butt.”
He glared at her. “That’s muscle. Dad said so.”
Thank goodness, Trish had left lunch early and gotten a ride back to the arena with one of her friends. He couldn’t stand listening to her one more second whining about missing all the basketball she’d come to see, when he knew for a fact the only thing she was worried about seeing was Brandon.
He didn’t know why she had to be such a bad sport and ruin everything. His parents had just been trying to cheer Trish and him up by taking them out to eat. Trish, because the Buffalo teams had lost in the opening round, and because Brandon had sprained his ankle. Their dad was the doctor for the Buffalo teams during the tournament, so he’d wrapped it up. It didn’t look like Brandon would be able to play in the consolation round. Perry, because his parents hadn’t let him bring a friend with him to the tournament. Not that he whined about it all the time like Trish did, but there was so much sitting around and so many games. It was no fun when his teams were losing, either.
The truth was he didn’t even like basketball very much. He was even worse at it than Trish was, and that was saying something. He’d overheard his dad tell his mom that Trish would be good if only she was quick . . . or coordinated . . . or could jump higher than two inches off the ground. Plus, it was one of the last weekends of the year the ski slopes would be open. As cold as it was in Laramie, he’d bet it was even colder at Meadowlark.
He’d begged to stay and ski, but his parents had turned him down flat.
He shivered and ducked his head, hurrying to catch up with his parents. As they neared the doors to the arena, he saw a flash of white camo in his side vision. It reminded him of the person on the snowmobile at the ski mountain. His stomach lurched, and he turned for a better look. The sidewalk was crowded with people, and all he could see was the pattern of the white camo jacket and, bouncing along above it, a white wool cap.
“That’s just like the person I saw back in the forest at the ski resort,” he said, mostly to himself but out loud.
His mom heard him, and she stopped. His dad kept walking. “What person?” She gave Perry a weird look, which she did a lot lately.
“When I was late coming down the mountain at the ski resort because I went off-trail through the trees and then had to walk a long way uphill back.”
“Not when. What person? You didn’t mention a person when you told me why it took you so long to get down.”
“Huh. Well, I saw someone on a snowmobile.”
Susanne raised her voice. “Patrick, come here.” His dad had made it to the doors, where he was waiting. After he’d walked back over to them, his mom said, “Perry, repeat that for your dad.”
“I was late coming down the mountain at the ski resort because I was off-trail in the trees, and I had to walk uphill—”
“The other part.”
“I’m getting there, Mom.” Perry had always thought Trish was rude when she rolled her eyes at people, but right then he had an urge to roll his at his mom. Then he felt guilty, so, instead, he tried to sound extra cooperative. “I saw someone on a big snowmobile back in the woods.”
His parents looked at each other. His mom seemed worried, and his dad made an expression like he’d just taken a big bite of leftover cabbage that had gone bad. Perry had seen him do that once, so he knew exactly what it looked like.
Patrick moved their threesome out of the flow of foot traffic. “Who was it?”
Perry shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Man or woman?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Think, Perry. Short, tall? Hair color?”
“Um, medium-height. I couldn’t see any hair.”
“Did anything else stand out?”
“Why are you asking me all these questions?”
And then it hit him. His parents and the Sibleys had tried to pretend that the ski resort was closed because of an accident, but a shooting and an accident aren’t exactly the same thing. The shooting had been all over the news. Everyone at school was talking about it. His friends thought it was cool that he was there. Or almost there, since he’d been stuck up in the woods. And now his parents were asking him questions about it, because they thought the person he saw might be the one who shot the judge’s wife. That had to be it.
His dad’s lips were moving in an angry way, but no sound was coming out. Perry gave him a second for his brain and mouth to sync back up.
His ears felt hot. “Do you think I saw the murderer?”
His mom put an arm around him. “I’m sure you didn’t, but maybe that person saw something that would help the authorities catch the killer.”
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