“I was thinking about those guys, but they were travelers... I believe this is gonna be a local guy,” Holland said. “Somebody who knows his way around downtown, somebody people know, somebody who wouldn’t be out of place if he was seen.”
“If we get him, it’s because we’ll have figured out one thing,” Virgil said. “That’s why—why is he doing it?”
“Unless he’s nuts,” Zimmer said. “Then there’s no ‘why’ that you can figure out.”
“That’s the nightmare,” Virgil said. “We don’t want to go there yet.”
3
Virgil, Holland, and Zimmer talked a while longer—Virgil asked whether there were any known anti-Catholic bigots around town, but neither one of them knew of any. Zimmer mentioned that a couple of Nazis lived out in the countryside and were known to have .223 black rifles, but Zimmer said, “They’re, basically, play Nazis. I’ve known both of them since they were born, and they’re a couple of dumbasses.”
“Doesn’t take a real smart guy to pull a trigger,” Virgil said.
“No, but they have to get away after they pull it,” Zimmer said. “Neither one of those guys could elude his way out of a cocktail lounge.”
“If nothing else comes up, I’ll take a look at them,” Virgil said.
“Call before you do that, and I’ll have a deputy go along. They do have those guns,” Zimmer said.
As they were leaving the back room, Holland said, “I’ll introduce you to Skinner before you leave. He saw Miz Rice get shot.”
“This was the kid who was driving around town with his girlfriends and an open beer when he was twelve?”
“You gotta make some allowances for Skinner,” Holland said. “He’s sort of... a genius.”
“A genius who runs a cash register?”
“He’s a high school senior, part owner of the store, and he’s pulling down eighteen hundred dollars a week working weekends only. He generally goes to school during the week,” Holland said. “How much were you making when you were seventeen and going to school?”
“Shoot, I’m not making that much now,” Virgil said.
Holland said that Skinner was the only child of the town hippie. The identity of Skinner’s father was not precisely known; his mother, Caroline, admitted that there were several possible candidates.
“Tough for the kid,” Virgil said.
“Yeah, but growing up here, in Wheatfield, who you are is more important than who your old man was. Everybody knows Skinner and that he’s a good guy.”
“Except your former cop,” Virgil said.
“Yeah, well, I believe he was excessively focused on...” He glanced at Virgil as he trailed off.
“The law?” Virgil suggested.
“Don’t get all stuffy about it,” Holland said.
—
Holland took over the cash register, and Skinner trailed Virgil outside.
The kid pointed up the street. “She was standing at the corner, waiting to cross to the church. Wearing a green jacket and black pants. I was walking up to the store when I saw her get hit. I don’t know, maybe because that Coates guy got shot, and I had it in mymind, but as soon as I saw it, I knew she was shot. She jerked sideways, and then she made this noise, not a scream, more like she was calling out to somebody, and then she fell over, and tried to crawl...”
“You didn’t hear the shot?”
“Nope, not a thing. Anyway, I ran up to her, and she was bleeding bad, and she said, ‘Somebody shot me... Somebody shot me...’ I had a newspaper under my arm, and me and another guy pressed some folded paper over the holes in her hips. And I saw this guy I knew, and told him to call the hospital at Fairmont, to get an ambulance down here. They took her to Fairmont, and then Fairmont called the Mayo in Rochester, and they flew her there on the Mayo chopper.”
A good-looking, forty-something woman walked by and winked at Skinner, who said, “Hey, Madison.”
She said, “Skinner... Don’t be a stranger.”
