She sat on the same stool she had before and waited. When the coffee was done, he poured them both a cup, then pushed a metal pitcher of cream down the bar at her. She doctored her coffee and took a sip.
It was the best coffee she had ever tasted.
The bar was dark, quiet. He must like these quiet moments, she thought, before the people came. The contrast.
“Heard about your case on the news,” he said.
“Four days now.”
He shook his head.
“Did you help the police in identifying all the people who were here that night?” Ruby asked.
“Tried to, that’s for sure.”
“What about the man sitting next to Mitchell that night?”
He leaned against the bar, drinking his coffee, trying to remember.
“I’m sure I mentioned him back then, but it’s been too long. Sorry.”
“They didn’t call you to testify?”
“They said they had enough witnesses, which was fine by me.”
“Do you know if the police ever spoke to that guy?”
“I’m assuming they did. They tracked down everyone.”
“How would they have found him, if he wasn’t a regular?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Seems like they found others that might have been hard to find.”
“Like Mary Baldwin and that cook?”
“Yeah. What did they have to say?” he looked curious.
Ruby knew that when patrons—or workers—at a bar stopped coming in, bartenders seldom asked why. They just moved on.
“They’re both dead.”
“Sorry to hear that—about the cook,” he said.
She yawned, overcome with exhaustion.
“The witnesses at the trial saw Mitchell leave,” she said, “but none of them mentioned that he was sitting next to someone. They’ve been thoroughly pecked at by defense attorneys, and I don’t think they are lying. I think the state picked witnesses who couldn’t describe that man, and now it’s too late to find out what he looked like. Or had to say.”
“Does it matter?” he asked, gently.
“A man who spoke to a murder suspect before the crime was committed—sure it matters. What did Mitchell tell him? In most cases, that’s going to be worse for the defense, not better. Trust me on that. If a guy is going to go kill someone, it usually doesn’t happen out of the blue. And if Mitchell was drunk, he’d have been more likely to blab about his plans.”
“Maybe it was one of those impetuous things. You know, he pulls up at that gas station. Sees the woman is alone inside.”
“Then it was a burning desire inside him, and those desires aren’t easy to hide. Few men can hide them. The kind who can, it’s usually because they’ve made a practice of it. They’re cold inside. Different.” She sighed. “If I’m a cop or district attorney, I’m going to want to interview anyone he talked to. So, let’s assume they did. Why hide it?”
“Maybe they figured they had enough,” he said.
“Maybe,” she said.
