His own frayed and concentrated image stared back out of the picture. In the barber’s chair, just after his breakfast, Ness popped the paper and folded it lengthwise. In the gray photograph he stood with the sheriff and the deputy alongside the unearthed boy found buried in the spillway. A sheet drawn over. Could have been a discovered relic. A museum’s statue being moved. Any evil or wrongdoing existed only in the copy to follow. The men wore blank stares as the camera went off, securing that moment for the annals of history, the men there above their sordid prize, looking neither surprised nor proud. Squinted eyes and shadows told that it was sunny.
That’s a hell of a thing, said Lander, whisking warm foam in a cup. He looked at Ness in the mirror but Ness didn’t look up.
Yes it is, Ness said.
Lander turned him in the chair so he faced away from the mirror. Tilted the chair back. He doled out the foam with the brush, leveling it across Ness’s face.
What’s your opinion about all of this? Ness asked through the foam.
About what exactly?
This murder.
I suppose it’s like any other.
And what would that be?
Bewildered.
Lander ran the razor back and forth over the strop. Focused on the blade. Looked like he was on the verge of saying something.
Go on then, Ness finally said. What are you wanting to say?
Well, Lander said, there was talk of a mob goin out to Rigby’s place.
Ness made a sound, said, Hmm. Lander worked gently at his upper lip.
You think he’s guilty? Ness asked.
I don’t know, Lander said. But that man ain’t right. Gettin arrested for stealin them lady things. I hear he’s got some dolls back up in there. God knows what he does with them. I don’t know. You was there. You see anything?
I’m not sure yet, Ness said.
Lander eased Ness’s head to the side and drew the razor up his neck toward his ear. Blade sounded like it was scraping sandpaper.
You think he’d kill someone? Ness asked.
I don’t know, Mr Ness, Lander said, suddenly frustrated. Sit still. Then he said, You don’t have children, do you, Ed.
No, Ness said. No I don’t.
Maybe that’s the difference. The thought that Billy or Hannah could be yer own. You hear about this stuff happenin. You hear about men like Rigby in the world. There just ain’t no place for them. Better gone, if you ask me.