KT followed Clark down the hall without a word. She led him to the vacant classroom where Mayfield was waiting. He thanked the boy for coming, said, “I hear your sister’s doing well.”
KT folded his bony frame into his seat. A patchy stretch of stubble climbed his neck. His small eyes were sunk in their sockets. He looked tired, irritated, but relatively calm. He did not look, as far as Clark could tell, like a young man hoping to conceal a murder.
“If this is about Dylan I ain’t got no idea where he is,” KT said. “He told me he never wanted to come back to this shitty town again and he was going to drive till he found a new place he wanted to be. I was like whatever. Jamal and me drove back from G-town last night and I ain’t heard from D since.”
Mayfield tilted his head. His considerable gut was creased over the edge of the table. “You’re answering a question I don’t recall asking.”
“That’s what this about, right?” KT said. “The wonder boy don’t show up to practice and now the school’s bugging?”
Clark hoped her nerves didn’t show. Her experience with interviews had, until now, been limited to drunks, meth heads driving cars with hot plates, battered spouses and their battering spouses. She had never worked a murder, and the wounds on Dylan’s body left little doubt that they were dealing with a homicide, making his the first violent death reported in Pettis County in years.
Clark felt far out of her depth. She knew that these initial interviews were precious to the investigation, that Dylan’s friends and schoolmates would likely never be more honest than they were now—or more apt to fumble some unpracticed lie—and she was terrified of squandering the moment.
“Just treat this like talk,” Mayfield had told her when they’d arrived at the school. “If they’ve got something to hide they’ll do all the work for you.”
“Maybe we could back up a little,” Clark said to KT now. “What exactly did the three of you do in Galveston over the weekend?”
KT rolled his eyes. “We fished.”
Mayfield cocked his head. “You fished for two days straight?”
No, KT explained, of course they hadn’t. The three of them—Dylan, KT and Jamal—had left town straight after the game Friday night, getting into Galveston around 1:00 a.m. Dylan seemed weird from the minute they arrived, KT said, distant and moody, and had gone straight to sleep. They got up around ten the next morning, ate some breakfast with KT’s half brother, Floyd, and then took a little putter boat out into the Gulf to fish all day.
Clark jotted all of this down. “And was Dylan still acting moody when you got out on the water?”
“He’s was a fucking pain is what he was,” KT said. All day long Dylan talked about how shitty a place Bentley was for a guy who wanted any kind of future, how the only thing anybody cared about was a game that gave you brain damage, blah blah blah. By Sunday afternoon, KT had had enough. “We was out on the water again, nothing biting, and still he’s just going on and on about how he had dreams, how he wants to have a future. So finally—it must have been like around six I guess—I say, ‘Bro, if you hate that place so much, how come you don’t just leave?’ So he got real quiet, didn’t say much till we docked that night, and then he just got out of the boat, grabbed his keys and was like ‘Peace.’ He got in his truck, headed out and that was the last I heard from him.”
“That’s it?” Clark asked. “He just up and left?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did he have a change of clothes with him? Money to live off of?”
KT’s eyes narrowed. “If he did, he didn’t tell me nothing about it. He uses his momma’s credit card. That boy never has no paper.”
“He also doesn’t have any other family that we know of,” Mayfield said. “Meaning he has no one to stay with.”
KT glanced over his shoulder, lowered his voice. “You want my opinion, Dylan’s got some girl on the side somewhere. You find her and you’ll find him with a finger in her.”
Mayfield, sounding as if he hadn’t heard any of this, said, “Did Dylan mention his brother at all?”
“The queer one?”
“Does he have another?” Clark said.
“You’re the detective, lady. Dylan maybe said something to Jamal about him, but to me—”
“How exactly did the three of you get to Galveston on Friday night?” Clark said. “Did you all take your own cars?”
“Nah, lady.” KT scratched at the strap of stubble along his chin. The condescension in his voice was starting to rankle her. “Jamal’s ride been fucked all semester. Alternator shit, you know. If he takes it more than a few miles a day it’ll be dead in the morning.”
Clark and Mayfield said nothing. The boy looked between the two of them, frowned.
“So what you wanna know? Dylan took his ride, Jamal and me rode in mine’s. It weren’t no thing.”
Something occurred to Clark. “You and Jamal drove in your green Tacoma truck, yes?”
“That’s me, yeah.”
“Do you make a habit of leaving your car door unlocked, Mr. Staler?”
“What? No. Never.” Then, after a pause, “I mean, maybe once or twice, but—”
“A man named Jason Ovelle was arrested on Friday night for breaking into a player’s truck. Are you familiar with him?”
KT’s eyes widened. “Who?”
“It was your truck he broke into. Jason was stopped before he could get into your belongings. This looks like news to you.” Clark shrugged. “Well, how could anyone tell you—you were gone the minute you were out of your pads. But didn’t your sister date Jason Ovelle in high school? Weren’t they arrested together back in the day?”
A muscle in KT’s jaw was throbbing. The room smelled of dust and sweat and hot metal from the window blinds beaten by the sun.
“I never heard of that Jason guy.”
“You said it was your brother, Floyd, you stayed with in Galveston,” Mayfield said smoothly. “I’ve worked in this town my whole life and I never met a Staler by that name, son.”
“He ain’t a Staler. He’s my half brother.”
“Last name?” Clark said.
“Tillery.” KT spelled it.
“Phone number?”
KT pulled out his phone, read her a number, gave an address.
Clark jotted all this down. She noted that his story about the trip, at least, more or less aligned with what she knew so far. Before they began the interview Mayfield had brought her up to speed on the work he’d done to track down Dylan over the weekend. Paulette Whitley had given Mayfield the same name for this mysterious half brother during the investigator’s interview with Joel’s family on Saturday, had given the same phone number. There was, Clark knew, just one problem.
“Well, that is unusual,” said Mayfield. “I spent all weekend calling that number. Never once did it answer.”
KT’s face darkened. “We must of been on the water.”
“You’d have to have been miles out to sea for cell service not to reach you. Radio waves fly farther out there, you know.”
KT studied them, perfectly still but for the vein pulsing in his jaw.
“You should call Floyd today,” KT finally said.
“You said Dylan left on Sunday evening,” said Mayfield. “Last night.”
“He did.”
“Then why did he text his brother on Saturday morning saying he was running away from Bentley?”
That rattled the boy. After a long pause he said, “He did?”
Mayfield said quickly, “So when did you and Jamal get back to town yesterday?”
KT told them nine o’clock. He dropped Jamal at his house and was home himself by nine twenty. No, he didn’t hear from Dylan in the evening, nor this morning.
“So Dylan doesn’t have any family that could take him in. Who’s this other girl you mentioned? You’re saying she might have feelings for him enough to let him stay on her couch?”
“Not on her couch.” KT smirked. “It was just—Dylan, he’s always texting somebody, trying to hide it from Bethany, you know. Real covert. But I see it.”
“And you’ve never seen a picture of this girl? Never caught a name?” Mayfield said.
“Nah, man. Dylan can be real secret if he wants to. He want to hide something from you, you ain’t never gonna know it.”
Mayfield and Clark exchanged bored little frowns.
“I put out an APB for Dylan’s truck on Saturday afternoon,” said Mayfield. “That’s an All-Points Bulletin, son, a request for every cop from here to Atlanta to keep an eye out for a sky-blue Chevy with a Bison bumper sticker. If Dylan left out of Galveston Sunday night, someone should have seen him by now.”
KT shrugged again. He was beginning to look irritated. “That ain’t my problem.”
“You don’t seem especially concerned about finding your friend.”
“He’s a grown man, ain’t he? He got a right to his privacy.”
“He’s dead, son.”
The news hit KT like scalding water. He pushed back in the chair, stared from Mayfield to Clark and back again.
“You’re fucking with me.”
“I’m afraid not,” Clark said.
“He was discovered early this morning,” Mayfield told KT.
KT blinked. Tears had sprung up. “How?” he tried to say, but his voice cracked.
“Dylan Whitley was murdered,” Mayfield said. “Past that we ain’t at liberty to say.”
KT stared at Clark, stared through her. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, opened it again. “But Dylan was with me all weekend.”
“Fishing?”
“Yes!”
“So why did Dylan come all the way back to Bentley last night just to get himself killed?” Mayfield said.
“Man, you’re the fucking cop!” KT shouted. Clark saw the anger return to his eyes. She saw fear as well. Fear for himself, she wondered, or for his friend? “I don’t know why the fuck he’d come back. He just kept talking about how he couldn’t handle it here no more. He said he ain’t got no future but for football and he’s sick of the way people make him like some fucking king. Ever since he told them over the summer he wanted to quit he—”
KT broke off. The boy seemed taken aback by his own words, like he’d said too much and knew it.
Clark cut in fast. “Dylan threatened to quit the team?”
“It weren’t no threat.” KT shook his head. His nose had begun to run. He struck the desk with his fist and said, “Fuck. Fuck. It’s fucking stupid.”
Mayfield deftly tugged a small packet of Kleenex from his pocket and pushed it across the table. He itched his ear when KT’s face was buried in a tissue. Clark caught the signal.
“KT,” she said, suddenly speaking in her warmest voice. “What happened when Dylan tried to quit the Bison this summer?”
KT pressed the tissue to his eyes. He wiped his nose. He sniffled. “You can’t tell nobody I told you this.”
“Of course,” Clark said. “We ain’t here to spread gossip.”
KT took a deep breath. He looked between the two of them with raw red eyes and started to talk.
When Clark led Jamal Reynolds into the room fifteen minutes later the backup quarterback was shaking.
If Mayfield was at all unsettled by what he’d just heard from KT, he gave no sign of it. “We’re sorry to drag you out of class like this,” the investigator said, rising to shake Jamal’s hand. “I’m sure you’d much rather be learning about—what class did we drag you out of?”
Jamal stared at the packet of tissues on the table. “He ain’t dead, is he?”
Mayfield glanced at Clark. She nodded.
“He is, son. I’m very sorry.”
The news knocked something loose in Jamal. He didn’t look up, but he seemed to sit deeper in his seat. His breathing grew heavy. “An accident?”
Clark and Mayfield exchanged glances again.
“No, Mr. Reynolds.” Clark pushed the tissues toward him. “It looks like homicide.”
Jamal shook all over but he didn’t cry. After a long minute of silence he said, “He was fine on Friday.”
“Friday?” Mayfield said gently. “Or do you mean yesterday?”
“What?” Jamal looked between the two of them blankly. “Oh. Yeah. Yesterday.”
“Were you and Dylan alone at the coast?” Mayfield said.
A long pause. “KT was with us too. At his brother’s place.”
“What was that guy’s name again? KT’s brother?” Clark said.
Jamal shot a look at the blank notepad in front of her as if hoping to find a hint there.
“I didn’t really talk to the brother much,” Jamal said. When the cops didn’t break their silence, Jamal looked up and added, “I think it was...Tommy?”
He watched Clark’s face as he said it. The boy was clearly hoping she’d give him some little tell: warmer, colder. He was out of luck.
Instead, it was Jamal’s panicked eyes that betrayed him. He’d never met KT’s half brother in his life.
“What time did you last see Dylan, Jamal?” Mayfield said.
“Why you asking me this?”
“Answer the question please, Mr. Reynolds.”
Jamal took a tissue and pressed it to his eyes. “Jesus, help me.”
Mayfield’s voice never wavered. “It’s a simple question, Jamal. When did you last see Dylan Whitley?”
“Sunday.”
“At what time?”
“Late.”
“When Dylan drove you back from Galveston?”
“Yeah.”
Clark and Mayfield glanced at each other again.
“And what time did you return to town?” Mayfield said.
“Eight. No. Nine.”
“Which is it?”
“Nine.”
Mayfield frowned. Clark felt it too: one of these boys was lying, no question, but here, at least, their stories matched, just barely. KT too had said that he and Jamal had returned to town last night around nine o’clock.
“So Dylan dropped you off at your house around nine. He drove you because your car’s having alternator trouble?”
Jamal nodded his head yes.
“And did KT drive back by himself?”
Jamal flinched. Clark would bet money the boy had just realized he’d made a serious mistake.
“KT stayed in Galveston, I think. I don’t really know. He’s been a dick lately.”
Mayfield cocked his head. “Is that right? I understand you boys all went to Galveston a lot this summer.”
“Them two did. I hadn’t never been before. That’s why we went. So I could come.”
“KT told us it was your idea to go with them this time, Jamal,” Mayfield said, which was the truth: KT had divulged it at the end of his interview. Revealed that, and plenty else. “Is he correct?”
Jamal blinked. He toyed with the tissue in his fingers. “I guess.”
“Why did you want to join?” Mayfield said.
Jamal shrugged. “It seemed fun, I guess.”
Mayfield adjusted his shirt’s collar.
Clark spoke gently, as if this were just a simple mistake to clarify. “Jamal, why would KT tell us that he drove you home from Galveston last night, not Dylan?”
From somewhere outside, a door burst open and a moment later another door slammed. In the space between, a girl was screaming.
Jamal stared at the wall. “That sounded like Bethany.”
When the young man’s back was turned, Mayfield gave Clark a shake of his head. Jamal was shutting down on them.
“Jamal,” Clark said calmly. “Jamal, look at me, please. Is it true that Dylan talked about quitting the football program over the summer?”
Reynolds glanced at her. “He what?”
Clark said nothing.
“Why the fuck would Dylan want to quit?” Jamal sniffed. “What’s that even matter now?”
“Right now, Jamal, everything matters.”
The bell rang, a worried hum of voices flooded the hallway. Faces stopped to stare through the door’s window until Clark taped it shut with a sheet of paper.
Jamal said when she sat back down, “All I remember is back, back in June, D said he’s gonna get me more field time this season.”
“Is it possible that Dylan did more than talk about that?” Mayfield asked.
“He wasn’t shouting it.”
“Mr. Staler said that Dylan told you two he was quitting in June, but then the very next day he came around and said he’d changed his mind. Is that true?”
“I don’t know nothing about that.”
“How’s practice going for you, Jamal?” Mayfield asked.
Jamal clenched his hands into fists.
“I imagine you’ll be starting for us on Friday, won’t you?”
“What?”
“That must be exciting.”
“Man, the fuck are you saying?”
Very calmly, Mayfield laid out KT’s most damning allegation. “Mr. Staler told us you were the one pushing Dylan to quit the team in the first place. He says you’ve wanted to be a starter for years. He says you finally got Dylan to agree to quit only for him to back out at the last minute and keep playing. KT says you were livid, Jamal. He says—”
“That’s a fucking lie!” Jamal shouted. “Why the fuck would Dylan want to quit?”
Mayfield’s voice never wavered. “You mean to tell me a talented player like yourself wouldn’t want a piece of the spotlight while he had the chance?”
Jamal opened his mouth but no words came. Tears glistened on his cheeks.
“You didn’t want to spend your last year with the team cooling on the bench, did you, Reynolds?” Mayfield toyed with his pen. “You never went to the coast—your story’s got more holes in it than a bum’s shorts.”
“That’s a lie, KT’s telling lies—”
“You asked Dylan if you could tag along on this trip, asked him for a ride, tricked him out into the middle of nowhere where you didn’t think a soul would ever find him.”
“Oh fuck. Oh my fucking God.”
“You dumped the body. You walked home, made your folks promise to say you’d been gone all weekend.”
Jamal started shaking.
“And then all you had to do was tell people that Dylan had run away. No one ever had to be the wiser. It was just dumb luck that body was even found.” The table groaned as Mayfield leaned forward. His voice softened. “Let’s end this now, son. Nice and easy.”
Jamal pressed his hands to his face and tears dripped through his fingers. He let out a low, pained whine.
Clark had misgivings. Mayfield’s theory had plenty of faults, but it had a sort of logic. If Jamal was going to confess to something, he would do it now.
But instead the young man said, through a barrage of sobs, “I’d never hurt D. He was my fucking brother.”
Mayfield pressed Jamal for a few minutes more but could get nothing else out of him. The young man was still shaking when they released him.
“Christ, I miss smoking.” Mayfield paced the stuffy room.
“If nothing else, KT and Jamal agree on one thing.” Clark popped the soles of her feet free of her heavy heels—the only pair she owned—which she’d dug from behind the boots in her closet early this morning at Mayfield’s request. She wondered if the street clothes she was wearing made her look less intimidating than if she were in her deputy’s uniform, as the investigator had said, or if she just looked like she was too uncomfortable to be any sort of threat. “Both of those boys say they got home around nine.”
Mayfield fumbled with the air-conditioner only to find it was dead. “And what does that tell you?”
Clark hesitated. “That they had a story planned out in advance. Maybe.”
“Maybe. They sure didn’t plan it well.” Mayfield looked at her again. “You’ve got a knack for this, you know.”
Clark looked down at her notes. The interviews had made her heart race worse than a brawl in the dirt, but they’d also made her giddy in a way that was almost embarrassing. She had always suspected she would be good at investigative work; she prayed Mayfield didn’t notice the little smile his words had sent over her face.
“We’re fortunate they’re both eighteen,” Clark said. “Should we care that they didn’t ask for attorneys?”
“I’d have been more suspicious if they had. Try calling that number the Staler boy gave you, the one supposed to belong to this mystery brother of his. I bet you a dime KT himself will answer it with a sock stuffed in his mouth.”
Clark reached for her phone. She’d half expected to see a message from Joel—saying what, she couldn’t guess—but instead there was only the daily email from her father’s nursing home, checking in to say that yesterday he enjoyed pea soup and asked his nurse why the lights outside were so funny.
Clark filed the email, punched in the number KT had given them, listened to it ring.
There was a knock at the door. Coach Parter slipped his considerable bulk through a surprisingly narrow crack. For a time he only stared at Mayfield, patting his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Lord, Grady, you might have warned us.” Parter leaned against the door frame, wiping sweat from his meaty arms. “Principal Mathers is beside himself. I’m sweating enough to salt a fish—you know how I sweat at bad news.”
“It’s a bad situation.”
“Christ almighty, the Whitley boy. And just five days before the Stallions game.”
Mayfield narrowed his eyes. “I’m sure the team will find a way to carry on.”
To Clark’s surprise, a man picked up her call. She turned away from the men and introduced herself.
As she spoke into the phone, Parter shook his head, said to Mayfield, “I come to say they’re canceling class today. They’ll announce it soon. You need to talk with the team, I’m assuming?”
Mayfield said, “We’ll talk to the boys today, yes. We’d also like to speak to Bethany Tanner, Mr. Whitley’s girlfriend.”
“Bethany?” Parter looked up. “I heard one of her friends took her home. The news hit that girl awful hard. You won’t turn the boys’ screws today, will you, Grady?”
Mayfield picked at a nail. “I’m sure we’ll just have a chat.”
Parter looked dubious but seemed to realize there was little he could do. He promised to gather the team, shimmied back into the hall. Clark lowered the phone, more puzzled than when she had picked it up a moment ago.
“Somebody lives at that address in Galveston,” she said to Mayfield. “He says his name is Floyd Tillery and he wants to know—are we free to come see him tomorrow morning?”