THE ONLY GOOD thing about the time on the warrant starting the night of the murder was that it convinced Kaitlin and Livingston to help us. They would meet us at the jail after Kaitlin made an impression or copy of the bloody footprints at the house. If they matched, Bobby was a lying bastard and almost certainly guilty, but if they didn’t, then at least our little group would have reasonable doubt. It would take longer to get the judge on the warrant to be on board, but you have to start somewhere.
Duke was still in his vehicle as Newman and I pulled up. Because of the overhead light, we could see him talking on his phone. The driver’s-side door was open already, as if the phone call had caught him in the middle of exiting his car. We parked and walked toward him.
He hit MUTE on the phone and said, “It’s my wife. You two go ahead. Tell Troy that you need your warrant. He said he’d printed it out for you.”
We both nodded and started toward the building, but not before we heard him say, “I’ll be home as soon as I can, honey. I know she’s in pain, but she doesn’t want hospice-level meds yet.”
Newman and I both hurried just a little, as if we’d eavesdropped on something too personal, and I guess we had. I didn’t have kids, but I couldn’t imagine having to watch someone I loved die like that.
Newman paused at the door of the tiny police station. “Jesus, hospice-level meds.”
“I’m not sure what that means,” I said.
He put his hand on the doorknob but didn’t turn it. “It’s when they give them so many pain meds they just sleep pain free until the end. When doctors offer you hospice care, then it’s over. You’re just waiting for the body to give out.”
It sounded like Newman had experienced it personally in some way. I debated whether I should pry or keep to the guy code of never asking about personal stuff. I was still debating when we heard the gunshot. It sounded like it had come from inside the building. Our guns appeared in our hands like magic, and we went through the door toward the gunfire.