He’s ten feet from the top when he sees it. One of the thick, heavy power lines is cut halfway through. The old insulation issinged and charred around the cut mark. Clay’s hunch is correct. He can’t prevent his eyes from blurring with tears. But like a soldier on the battlefield who’s just seen his friend fall, Clay knows mourning will have to wait. He climbs all the way to the top and carefully lets go with his right hand, grabbing the stanchion more tightly with his left. He reaches into his back pocket, removes his phone, takes a picture, and starts down.
When Clay sets his feet on the ground, Zoey’s eyes reflect what he’s feeling. He goes to her, falls into her embrace, and feels his shoulders heave with sobs. For Clay, the grieving process has started.
“Tell me,” says Zoey.
Clay wipes away his tears, takes a breath, looks up at the power line, and says, “Teddy was trying to cut down the power line. That’s why he had the sawzall. There was no current running through the lines. The city council was just taking its time hiring someone to cut it all down. That thick copper wire is worth quite a bit at the scrapyard. Tens of thousands if you cut down enough of it. My guess is Teddy tried to saw through it. That’s when he lost his balance and fell. Or maybe lightning struck.”
“The tower?” says Zoey.
“Possibly,” says Clay. “Or it could have struck anywhere along the power line. Even miles away. That kind of power running through a line thick enough to carry it—it would have killed Teddy instantly. Either way, he probably fell onto the hard limestone. Remember, they didn’t turn him over. The backside of him might have been banged up pretty bad. And if the limestone was wet, he would have slid down to the spot where the boys found him. If it rained up here, it would have washed away the blood.”
“Was there a storm early Friday morning?” says Zoey. “I don’t remember one.”
“It must have blown through pretty quickly,” says Clay. “One of those early summer storms. But it definitely rained. I know because I’d planned on going fishing Friday morning, but there was a stain on the water from the runoff. Wasn’t a big storm or the river would have been chocolate milk. Completely unfishable. But there was enough brown in the water to keep me off the river.”
“So what happened to the body?” says Zoey.
Clay shudders and chokes down tears. “Maybe an animal or person dragged him away. Hopefully the dogs will pick up his scent.” Clay walks around the area, looking at grasses and shrubs. “Everything looks perfect,” says Clay. “Which means it was probably a person who used the path.”
Zoey gives Clay a moment to find a balance between investigator and grieving nephew, then says, “So not the boys? Someone else found him and decided to hide the body?”
“That doesn’t make much sense, does it?” says Clay.
“No,” says Zoey. “It doesn’t. But who else would have known he was up here? And why would they want to hide the body?”
Clay disappears in mind and spirit. It’s something that’s happened to him before. Both on the pitch and as an agent. More frequently in athletics when the conscious mind yields to what feels like other forces. How are the most magnificent athletic moments achieved? Most athletes don’t understand it themselves. How did they score that seemingly impossible goal? Or make that mind-boggling catch? In the post-game interviews, all they can do is give the credit to God. Of course, they always sayGod was with them. They never say God wanted the other team to lose.
Clay’s heard artists talk the same way.I’m just a conduit for the universe. The universe is working through me. Clay believes just the opposite. Everything he’s ever seen, heard, smelled, experienced… it’s all inside him. He is a product of everything he’s been exposed to. He’s like a hard drive full of data. Accessing it, assembling it, interpreting it is a conversation between one part of his brain and the other.
So when he has sudden realizations, he doesn’t question where they come from. He doesn’t give credit to an outside force. And most importantly, he doesn’t doubt his realizations. When the voice in his head speaks with such clarity, it’s rarely wrong.
“We need to talk to Thomas Becker again,” says Clay. “And this time, I want his parents and a lawyer to be present.”
“I’ll have Mike and Andy bring him in,” says Zoey. “And I’ll bring in a second team to search Liar’s Creek from the bottom of Miller’s Bluff all the way down to the Mississippi River.”
CHAPTER 41
“I don’t know about this,” whispers Judd. He stands with his back to the storage cage in the basement of the Riverwood Police Station. His voice is hoarse, his eyes are puffy, and his skin has lost its luster.
“It’s our best shot at learning the whole story,” says Clay.
Judd presses his back into the chain-link and says, “I suppose. Better than me speculating for the rest of my life.”
“That’s the idea,” says Clay. “Trust me—this is the best way.”
Something breaks in Judd. Breaks in a good way. Something old and rigid and unforgiving yields. “I do trust you, Clay.” Judd lets his shoulder touch Clay’s. Clay does not pull away. And Judd, who’s not a pragmatist like his son, who doesn’t believe human beings are just data collectors and data accessors and processors, silently thanks Teddy, or the spirit of Teddy, for helping raise Judd and Clay’s relationship out of the muck.
Thomas Becker is bound at his wrists and ankles while sitting at a metal table. His father, Wags, has been brought down from his cell upstairs and is also bound with restraints. Thomas’s mother, Steph, sits on one side of her son at the table. On the other side sits Thomas’s lawyer, Caroline Roth, a septuagenarian who is officially retired but takes pro bono cases for abused women and troubled youth. She’s called the Kevlar Lady because nothing gets past her.
Zoey sits across the table from Thomas. She wears her full uniform. Her hair is gathered tightly behind her head. She is all business. Officers Mike Wahlquist and Andy Kimmich are not present.
“Thomas,” says Zoey. “This is your last chance to tell us what happened in the early hours of last Friday morning. You may have noticed that Officers Wahlquist and Kimmich are not present. That’s because they’re taking your friends, Graham and Markey, into custody and arresting them as accessories to the murder of Teddy Hawkins. They will no doubt be wanting to cut deals with the district attorney, so you can do yourself a favor by finally being forthright and honest about what happened.”
“He doesn’t have to say a damn word,” says Caroline. “You haven’t even charged him yet.”
“Is this really necessary?” says Steph, squeezing one hand with the other so hard it’s turned white. “I mean, he’s just a kid.”
“He is just a kid,” says Zoey. “Which is why, Caroline, we haven’t charged Thomas yet. No one likes charging and incarcerating minors—”
