25

That night, I tried again with Butras. We were driving past the golf course, past the tree where it happened. There were six poinsettas in silver foil-wrapped pots next to the bronze plaque that was sunk in the ground.

“Who do you think did it?” I asked.

“A crazy person. A sicko,” he said.

“Why don’t you think anyone was caught?”

“Whoever did it didn’t live around here. Came in, went out.”

“Why’d they come here?”

“No idea. Why not? Quiet place.”

“No suspects from Pompan?”

“There were plenty but you asked me what I thought,” Butras shut me down.

“I don’t hear much talk about it at the station.”

“No reason to. Nothing good to say. Unsolved mystery.”

“Nobody gets killed for nothing.”

“Don’t concern yourself with that case. Stay focussed on the routine stuff we see everyday.”

“How many detectives are still on it?” I couldn’t leave the hanging man alone.

“It’s an FBI priority, not a department priority any more.”

“Why not?”

“Ask the chief.”

“I hear the dead man had a lot of enemies.”

“The hanging was a surprise, but finding Clarence Wilbourne dead didn’t make one person around Pompan blink.”