The Guilty (2008)

by Jason - Henry Parker 02 Pinter

  bureaus, this was the grave site of Henry McCarty, also known

  as William Antrim, also known as William H. Bonney, also

  known as Billy the Kid.

  “This grave site’s pretty much the only thing keeping old

  Fort Sumner alive,” Rex said. “State legislature made us put

  that ‘replica’ sign up there, but once a year or so the cops

  come out here to arrest some hooligans looking to steal the

  damn thing. I swear, ain’t nothin’ sacred anymore, they could

  buy their own sign for a buck ninety-five.”

  “But it wouldn’t have been inside Billy the Kid’s grave,”

  I said. “There’s a mystique to him. Just like to a murderer,

  there’s a mystique to using his gun.”

  Rex scratched at his neck. I could tell he’d long ago given

  in to the lore and myth of this town. I didn’t know a whole

  lot about Billy the Kid, only what movies or books passed

  down through their own lenses. I knew Billy was a celebrity

  in the southwest during the late 1800s, had allegedly

  murdered over twenty people before his twenty-first

  birthday, and was eventually killed by Pat Garrett, a newly

  appointed deputy who used to ride with the Kid. I remembered reading somewhere that other than Count Dracula, no

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  other figure in popular culture had been immortalized so

  often on page or screen. He was a legend, plain and simple.

  “If you used to have Billy the Kid’s actual Winchester, the

  one he used to kill,” I said, “why wouldn’t you advertise the

  hell out of it? Why display it as a regular Winchester 1873

  when it could be the highlight of your museum?”

  “We did, for a while,” Rex said. “Then it got stolen, and

  we didn’t want to take the chance. Nobody knows who the

  hell John Chisum is, but everyone wants a piece of the Kid.

  Besides, people visit old Fort Sumner to see this grave site.

  They come to our museum for side trips, before they spend

  their money on souvenirs and lunch.”

  “And nobody cared that it suddenly was gone?”

  “Anyone who asked, I told ’em some rich collector

  bought it.”

  I asked, “How long ago was it stolen?”

  Rex stared at the ground.

  “You know Billy built this town,” he said, nodding at the

  grave site. “That man was a goddamn hero. Most don’t look

  at it like that. But he fought for good.”

  “I bet the twenty-some-odd people he killed would

  disagree.”

  “Any war, man, you have to spill blood to do what’s right.”

  “Said like a true patriot,” I said, biting.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “When he was young, Billy was hired by an Englishman

  named John Tunstall. Tunstall was a rancher, in a territorial

  feud with two men named Lawrence Murphy and James

  Dolan. John Tunstall aimed to take Billy under his wing, turn

  a troubled youth into a good man. John Tunstall was murdered

  by Dolan and Murphy, who’d paid Sheriff William Brady to

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  carry out the crime. After that, Billy and his boys united to

  form a band called the Regulators. The Regulators killed

  Brady, and because of that, the governor of New Mexico

  sccked the hounds of hell on Billy and his gang. But somewhere along the line, the Regulators traded places with the

  devil. The Regulators wanted to kill those who’d done wrong,

  folks who were contaminating everything that was good.”

  “There’s a man in New York,” I said, “using Billy’s gun to

  kill people. There’s no doubt in my mind he stole that gun

  from your museum. A witness said the killer looked young,

  in his early to midtwenties.”

  “Just like the Kid,” Rex said. Then he cocked his head.

  “How old are you, Henry?” I looked at him. And didn’t answer.

  “Someone is looking to carry on Billy’s legacy,” I said.

  “You say Billy meant to create order. He wanted to kill those

  who’d done wrong.”

  “That’s right.” Rex thought for a moment. “You reckon this

  killer of yours is some screwed-up kid, wants to play cowboys

  and Indians?”

  “I doubt it. This isn’t just some kid who wasn’t loved

  enough by his mommy and daddy,” I said. “This guy has a

  motive. He thinks he’s doing good.”

  We stood there in silence, staring at the grave site of one

  of the most legendary murderers in history. A man who died

  at the age of twenty-one, having ended one life for each of

  his years. And yet over the years the Kid had become immortalized as a hero. An icon worthy of legend. How could a

  murderer incite such passion? How could a man seemingly

  deputized by the devil himself be remembered as an angel?

  A beeping sound broke the silence. I plucked my cell phone

  from my pocket, opened it. It was a text message from Jack.

  It was two sentences. When I read them, my blood ran cold.

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  There’s been another murder. It’s David Loverne.

  I couldn’t speak. Mya’s father.

  The last time I saw him was at his daughter’s side at the

  hospital, where…

  I called you, Henry. I remembered Mya’s voice on that

  terrible day.

  “I have to go,” I said to Rex, shutting the phone. “I need

  to get home right away. I appreciate the help.”

  “You gonna be, you know, telling the police about this?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Figures. Anyway, you’ll want to look at Brushy Bill.

  Dollars to dineros if it’s Billy’s legacy you’re investigating,

  it’s something to do with ol’ Brushy.”

  I nodded at Rex, then half-walked, dazed, back to the

  hotel. I threw everything in my duffel, jumped in the rental

  car and headed toward Albuquerque.

  The drive seemed to last for days. Visions in my mind

  reminded me of that night, seeing Mya’s father there, holding

  her hand. Me not being able to apologize because words were

  useless. Knowing Mya had been hurt, and that I hadn’t been

  there for her.

  Athena Paradis, Joe Mauser, Jeffrey Lourdes and now

  David Loverne. Somehow Mya’s father fit in the killer’s

  demented pattern. But how?

  I’d heard rumblings about David Loverne’s misdeeds. That

  his marriage wasn’t as rock-solid as the façade he put on in

  public. Many felt that at some point scandal would hit, and

  hit hard. It was only a matter of time. I thought of Mya, how

  she was so damaged, how she’d been reaching out to me and

  I’d been slapping her hand away. If she ever needed a friend,

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  someone who used to know her better than anyone, now was

  the time for me to be there for her.

  I tried Mya’s cell phone. It went right to voice mail. I

  couldn’t leave a message. I had to see her. Then I remembered

  her text message.

  I’m sorry. Forgive me.

  I was numb when I arrived at the airport. They charged a

  hundred bucks to change my fligh
t. I paid it in cash.

  I called Amanda and left her a message. Then I called Jack

  and told him I would get to the office that night. He told me

  to read the Gazette and the Dispatch before I saw anybody in

  New York. His voice had both an urgency and sadness to it.

  My stomach turned over.

  On my way to the terminal, I stopped by a news kiosk. I

  grabbed a bottle of orange juice and went to the newspaper

  rack. Thankfully they carried both the Dispatch and the

  Gazette. I paid for the drink and papers and took them to the

  gate. Sitting down, I took a long gulp of juice and then laid

  the papers out on my lap.

  The Gazette’ s headline read:

  Ballistics Sheds New Light On Murders

  Killer possibly using “Gun that won the West”

  by Jack O’Donnell

  with additional reporting by Henry Parker

  Then I looked at the Dispatch. There were two stories

  competing for dominance. The first headline read:

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  Athena Paradis’s Greek Boy Toy Speaks Out

  Tells why murdered heiress was second to none

  in the bedroom

  Then I read the second headline. I didn’t hear the juice

  bottle hit the ground when I dropped it. Or the announcement

  that my plane was boarding. All I could see was that headline:

  “He Left Me Bleeding On The Street”

  Mya Loverne, David’s daughter, comes clean about

  the relationship that nearly ended her life

  by Paulina Cole

  27

  Just months ago, voters looked at congressional candidate

  David Loverne as a man who held family above all else.

  A beautiful wife, Cindy. An ambitious daughter, Mya.

  But all this is gone after a series of revelations that

  have shocked New Yorkers and destroyed a family that

  seemed indestructible.

  David Loverne is being accused of perpetuating a

  long affair with a former aide, Esther Margolis. Ms.

  Margolis claims she is pregnant with Loverne’s child,

  and that Mr. Loverne paid her sums totaling nearly ten

  thousand dollars in order to keep quiet and raise the

  child alone. Mr. Loverne refused comment for this article, but Ms. Margolis said, “I couldn’t face looking at

  my son years from now and lying to him about who his

  father is.”

  I read the rest of the article, my heart hammering, hands

  shaking. Then I came to a line that nearly had me shouting

  in anger. It read: Yet David and Cindy Loverne are not the only

  members of the Loverne family whose world has been shat-

  tered.

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  Mya. Paulina was going to exploit Mya’s fragility to sell

  newspapers. I read on, rage building inside me.

  When you first look at Mya Loverne, you see a

  woman brimming with potential. Young, with strong

  green eyes, a confidence and solidarity that tells you

  she’s taken on everything the world has thrown at her.

  At first glance you would think the world is this young

  woman’s oyster.

  But that isn’t the case. In fact, far from it.

  In the last eighteen months, Mya Loverne has been

  attacked. She’s had her bones broken by an attempted

  rapist. And she’s been abandoned by the one person

  who promised to be there for her.

  For Mya Loverne, the wine has grown warm, the

  roses wilted. The one person to whom this misery can

  be pinned is Gazette reporter Henry Parker, with whom

  Mya ended a three-year relationship last summer. The

  relationship was halted in the most disgusting, careless

  way possible, when Henry dumped Ms. Loverne for another woman. This was prior to Mr. Parker being accused of murder, a charge that was not pursued, despite

  a nationwide manhunt that left several dead.

  “We shared our bed and our lives for almost three

  years,” Mya told me when we met yesterday at a coffee shop near her apartment. “Do you know what it’s

  like to have someone know every intimate detail of

  your life and then not even return your phone calls?”

  The original sin, however, was the night last year when

  Mya was attacked while on her way home from a party.

  “A man pulled me into an alley,” Mya told me, the

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  pain from that night still evident in her eyes so many

  months later. “He wanted to rape me. He told me he was

  going to hurt me.”

  In an effort to call for help, Mya pressed the redial

  button on her cellular phone. It dialed the last number

  she’d called. Her boyfriend, Henry Parker.

  “I called him while this man was on top of me,” Mya

  said. “And Henry hung up.”

  Thankfully Mya, ever resourceful, was able to get a

  shot of pepper spray off, deterring her attacker from

  committing the heinous crime of rape. It did not, however, prevent him from breaking Mya’s jaw in retaliation. Henry Parker, though, did not see Mya until the

  next day, when after a frantic night of phone calls from

  Mya’s parents they were unable to locate him. The reason they couldn’t find Henry?

  “He told me,” said Mya, “that after he hung up he

  turned his cell phone off.”

  We all know how Henry Parker has destroyed the

  family of his former pursuer Officer Joseph Mauser, deceased, John Fredrickson, deceased, and Linda Fredrickson, widowed. We have seen the careless havoc he

  has wrought upon the lives of good and decent people

  like Mya Loverne. And yet he is allowed to cover the

  news for this city’s “esteemed” newspaper, the Gazette.

  Well, readers, if this is the kind of human being they

  have reporting the news, the kind of human being Harvey Hillerman and Wallace Langston claim is qualified

  to enter your lives every morning, I must say this is a dark

  day in the history of journalism, and for humanity itself.

  The question is, fellow citizens, will you stand for

  men like David Loverne and Henry Parker occupying

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  prestigious roles in our society? If you’re like me, the

  answer is obvious. Rise up, and demand more from our

  newsmen and our leaders. Demand they be held accountable for their actions. Demand that they not be allowed to harm one more innocent life.

  I put the paper down. Noticed the newsprint smudged on

  my fingers. Didn’t bother to wipe it off. My hand trembled

  as I laid it down. In an article about the infidelity of David

  Loverne, Paulina had stooped to a level lower than I imagined

  possible.

  Mya.

  The article had clearly been written and submitted before

  her father’s murder.

  I called you, Henry.

  And I didn’t answer. And now the whole world knows it.

  And the whole world sees me as a demon. But I’m not. And

  they won’t believe me.

  Oh God, Mya, how could you?

  I stared out the window, alone in an airport in a strange city,

  thinking of the girl whose heart I’d broken, the girl whose

  destiny I had changed for the worse, the girl whose life would

  never be the same. I sat there and star
ed at the newspaper and

  thought of Mya, and thought of Amanda, and wondered if

  Paulina Cole was right.

  28

  The flight touched down just before five o’clock. I turned

  on my cell phone while people were still prying their oversize luggage from the overhead bins. There were eleven

  messages waiting for me. And I didn’t have that many friends.

  I speed-walked through the terminal listening to the messages. The first was from Amanda. Wanting to know if I’d

  seen the Dispatch today. Wanting to know if I’d heard from

  Mya. Wanting to know if I was okay. Her voice was a combination of sorrow because I’d known David Loverne, and

  anger because of what Mya had done. Ordinarily I’d be

  thrilled to know a girl was willing to fight for me, but all I

  could think about was Mya. She didn’t ask for this. And now

  her father was dead.

  The second message was from Jack O’Donnell, telling me

  to expect hellfire and brimstone but not to say a goddamn

  word to the press until everyone at the Gazette had a chance

  to sort through the wreckage. He told me to call him as soon

  as I got the message.

  The next two were from Wallace Langston. Asking me to

  call him as soon as I got his message. Telling me it was urgent

  beyond belief.

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  The third was from a reporter from the New York Times.

  The fourth was from a reporter for the Associated Press. The

  fifth through tenth messages were also from reporters asking

  for a quote on today’s story in the Dispatch as well as my

  thoughts on the death of David Loverne. I knew nothing yet

  about the circumstances surrounding Loverne’s death.

  The last message was a hang up, but I heard a soft whisper

  say “Henry” before the line went dead. I didn’t need to check

  the call log to know who it was from.

  I checked the newsstand as I ran through the airport,

  hoping to see something about Loverne’s murder, but there

  was nothing. It happened too late to make the papers. The

  only ink about the Lovernes at all, in fact, was Paulina’s story.

  As I waited in the taxi line, I couldn’t help but think it was

  an awful coincidence that Mya’s father was killed the day

  Paulina’s story ran. That his dalliances seemed to have flown

  under the radar for so long, what were the chances of his

  being murdered on the very day they were made public, put

  under harsh light? The odds were too long to be a coincidence. Clearly Loverne was killed for a reason. I didn’t have