Greer Fuller stood in front of my desk. I looked at him, the dark, curly hair, the freckles, the innocent face.
He seemed uncomfortable.
“Greer,” I said. “How you doing? What’s up?”
“Hey, I was . . . uh . . . I was in the neighborhood. Got your address off your card.”
“Cool. That’s why I gave it to you. Have a seat.”
He sat in one of the chairs in front of my desk.
He still looked uncomfortable.
“You want a drink? Beer? Peach Fresca?”
“It’s pretty early for a beer, I think. But . . . Peach Fresca? Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack, Greer. As a heart attack.”
I produced a can out of the minifridge next to my desk. And watched with excitement as Greer popped it open and took a sip.
“That’s actually really good,” he said.
I love turning people on to Peach Fresca.
“Consider your life changed. I buy the product by the case. Peach flavored, that is. It comes in some other flavors too. Original Citrus, of course. Black Cherry. Both are pretty good, but not as good as Peach.”
Greer, now with a vaguely confused look in his eye, nodded, took another sip. But confusion wasn’t the primary thing Greer was communicating with his body language, his facial expression. He looked like he wanted to talk about something, something that made him, well, uncomfortable.
He looked over at my Ping-Pong table and said, “You play a lot of Ping-Pong?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I do. Want to play?”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
I grabbed a couple of paddles out of my desk drawer. Not anything advanced. Not like a two-hundred-dollar Killerspin that feels kind of heavy in your hand and has thick, tacky, difficult-to-handle rubber that makes the ball explode off the face with wicked spin. No, nothing like that. I just grabbed a couple of hard bats, basement style, dimples out. Bats that are much, much easier to play with.
I had a feeling Greer wasn’t going to be so good.
You know, there are really three kinds of Ping-Pong players. One, people who just have no ability. It’s just not in them. They can’t even really rally. They miss the ball entirely sometimes. Two, people who have some ability and with some practice can be okay, pretty good, even. These are people you can hit around with, even if they aren’t going to give you a particularly good game. But you can put some music on, have a couple beers, hit around, not want to kill yourself. And three, people who have some real innate talent and who, with practice, can become quite good, maybe even great. This third group encompasses a lot of people, because there’s a wide gap, a really wide gap, between someone who’s very good and someone who’s pro-level great. Like, I’m a good player, but I would get killed—killed—by Xu Xin out of China. Or Ma Long, also out of China. Or Vladimir Samsonov out of Belarus. Look, these guys are top ten in the world, but you get my point.
Greer, unfortunately, was in group one. Could not really even hit the ball back. Now, this was a guy I pretty much just innately liked. With his sort of wounded-bird friendliness and all. But it was tough to like him when he made such poor contact, if he made contact at all, with the new orange Halex three-star balls I’d opened just for this occasion. That’s another thing about Ping-Pong. The other thing that players don’t always share with others. When you love the game and are pretty good at it, watching someone with zero talent kind of makes you not like them. Like, I was literally starting to not like Greer as I watched him flail around. Well, to be honest, I was starting to kind of hate him.
But, as most people do when they play Pong, he was having a good time, and it was loosening him up. So that was good. And it kept my opinion of him just above total disdain. You know? Because maybe Ping-Pong was going to be the conduit to his actually telling me what was on his mind.
I hit a ball with a little zip on it to his forehand side to see what would happen. He took a swing at it and missed entirely, and then, as it bounced around on the concrete floor of my office, he scurried wildly after it, flailing around as he tried to grab the ball. Zero coordination, this one. Zero. He finally got his hands on it, walked back over to the table, and stood there.
He said, “I came by because I wanted to tell you something else about Keaton.”
“Okay.”
He took a deep breath. “I guess my mom hiring you made me think about stuff again. And the truth is, I want to know what happened as well. I want to help you. So that’s why I thought I’d tell you . . . I didn’t tell the police this . . . Not many people know about it. My parents do, but I’m not sure if they told the police either. I told them about it, my parents—not when it happened, but later. After the murder. And I know . . . I know they haven’t shared this with you. I don’t know, you said anything might help you, so . . .”
He was really uncomfortable. This wasn’t easy for him. So I said, “Thanks, Greer. Yeah, you never know what might help.”
He nodded and said, “Pig Hunt.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.
Greer continued. “Pig Hunt. That’s what Keaton called it. When Keaton and I were young, teenagers, we had two pet guinea pigs. Do you know what a guinea pig is?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
“So ours lived in this cage in our backyard. It was pretty big, pretty nice. They lived there year-round. And Keaton and I played with them all the time. We’d take them out of the cage and hold them and let them walk around, you know, play with them. And see, another thing we used to do is, we had this gun. A twenty-two. A rifle. And when we first got it, our dad would take us on trips to the woods somewhere to shoot it. But after a while, sometimes Keaton and I would shoot it in our backyard, at cans and stuff, when our parents weren’t around. You know, they wouldn’t have allowed it, probably.
“Anyway, one day, out of nowhere, our parents weren’t home, Keaton just started saying ‘Pig Hunt.’ Walking around the house saying ‘Pig Hunt.’ Kind of chanting it over and over. Almost turning it into a song, ‘Pig Hunt, Pig Hunt.’ Over and over. I just thought he was being weird. And then he stopped. So then later, we go outside with the gun and we’re shooting stuff around the yard, like we had a bunch of times. And then he puts the gun down and says, ‘Let’s go play with the guinea pigs.’ So we go over to the cage and he tells me to grab one of them. You know, to play with. And I’m not thinking anything, so I grab one. And I remember, right then, he said: ‘Okay, that’s the one you chose.’ And I didn’t know what he meant. So he grabs the guinea pig from me, puts it down on the ground, and yells at it and scares it, so it runs off, runs across our lawn, and hides in the bushes. And then he does what he’d been doing earlier. Over and over. ‘Pig Hunt. Pig Hunt. Pig Hunt.’ And then he picks up the rifle and aims it in the direction of the guinea pig. And then, kind of right then, it runs out from behind the bushes. And Keaton shoots it and kills it. I mean, blows its head off. I have no idea why. It was maybe the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. And I stood there and watched him do it. You know? I guess I let him do it.”
I looked at Greer. He looked ashamed, and exhausted.
He continued. “I didn’t yell at him or anything. I didn’t say a word. I was just shocked. So we buried the guinea pig in a far corner of our backyard—we, well, my parents, have a pretty big backyard . . . We told them we were playing with it and it ran away. Once they realized it was gone, that is, which was, like, two weeks later. Keaton told me never to tell anyone what really happened, and I never did. Until Keat was murdered. Like I said, that’s when I told my parents.”
Greer wiped at his eyes, the sunlight coming in through the slider catching some smeared tears on the back of his hand. He said, “I just thought, I don’t know, maybe knowing that would help you understand him, or help you with your investigation somehow. I don’t know anything about what you do, but it seems like the kind of thing that might help.” He looked at me with his watery eyes and added, “To know that’s the kind of thing he was capable of.”
Did it help? Would it help? Not sure. But, man, before Greer arrived, I didn’t think I could dislike Keaton Fuller any more. But I was wrong. Guy wasn’t just an asshole, he was a sick fuck too. I mean, punching his mom? Roping his little brother into telling him which of their pets to kill? Fuck, I thought, I hate this guy. I’m glad he’s dead.
I said, “Thanks for telling me, Greer. I appreciate it.”
He took a deep breath and gave me a relieved smile. “Yeah. Thanks for playing Ping-Pong. That was fun.”
I walked over to his side of the table and shook his hand. And instinctively, I gave him a little reassuring pat on the back. Which I think he wanted. And maybe needed.
He looked at me, a little mist still covering his eyes, and said, “Bye. See you later.”
And then he walked out the open slider, rounded the corner, got in his Jeep, and left.
I stood there and thought, Geez, what a weird story. And I wondered if it was easier for Greer to share that story with, basically, a stranger. As opposed to someone who really knows him, knows his family, his world. Sometimes that’s how it works. I also wondered whether Greer realized that—despite the fact that Keaton pulled the trigger in that particular story—he had confessed to me that he knows how to shoot a gun.