The Case Against William (36 page)

A
maintenance man pointed them in the direction of the practice fields. They
crossed Mac Davis Lane—

"Man,
I loved his songs," Chuck said.

He
tried to sing a Mac Davis song but fumbled the lyrics.

"Damn
concussions."

"Mac
was born right here in Lubbock," Chico said, "just like Buddy
Holly."

"Played
the quarterback that was supposed to be Don Meredith in
North Dallas Forty
,"
Chuck said. "Best movie ever made."

Dwayne
gave him a look of disbelief.

"You're
saying it's better than the
Die Hard
movies? You are
brain-damaged."

"Well,
maybe not the first one. That's a classic."

"Damn
straight it is."

"That's
what I said."

The
athletic complex building sat across the street. Behind the building were the
practice fields. They stood at the fence and watched the team.

"There
he is," Dwayne said. "Number fifty-one. John Smith."

They
stayed until the practice ended an hour later then waited out front of the
athletic complex building for John Smith. When he exited the building, they
approached him. He was stocky and muscular with short blond hair. Wet hair.
He wore a sweat suit and sneakers.

"John
Smith?" Frank said.

The
player stopped. "Yes, sir?"

"Hair's
wet—you just shower?"

He
recoiled. "Hey, if you're one of those creeps like that Penn State guy,
likes to hang out in gym showers—"

"I'm
Frank Tucker. William Tucker's father."

John
Smith held a hand out and started to walk off. "I don't want to talk
about that."

Dwayne
flashed the badge. "Police business, son."

John
Smith stopped and surrendered. But his face did not register guilt. Instead,
he offered a sad shake of his head.

"Sorry,
Mr. Tucker. That was a strange question."

"Here's
another one: Texas versus Tech game two years ago in Austin, did you shower
after that game?"

"Not
sure why you're asking, but I did. I shower every day. Did William really
kill Dee Dee? I guess he did. He confessed."

"He
didn't. Confess or kill her."

John
frowned. "But they said on TV that—"

"They're
wrong. Did you know Dee Dee?"

"Yes,
sir. Everyone did. She was a sweet girl."

"Was
she promiscuous?"

John
pondered a moment then nodded. "That's what I heard."

"You
didn't have sex with her?"

"Mr.
Tucker, I'm a Mormon. And a virgin. Like Tebow."

"I've
got two daughters I want you to meet," Chico said.

"You
see Tebow signed with the Patriots?" Chuck said. "No way he's
beating out Brady."

Everyone
stared at Chuck. He turned his palms up.

"Just
saying."

Frank
returned to John Smith. "Did you know Darrell Jackson and Bo
Cantrell?"

"Yes,
sir. The three of us, we were the starting linebackers back then. They were
seniors."

"Did
they have sex with Dee Dee?"

John
sighed. "Darrell had sex with every girl on campus, from what I heard.
He was this handsome cowboy. He modeled for book covers, romance novels, had
copies in his room."

"What
about Bo?"

"Bo,
he was …" John shook his head. "A swamp rat from the
bayou."

"Did
they shower after the games?"

"I
didn't keep tabs on that, Mr. Tucker. You'll have to ask them."

"We
will. Where are they now?"

"Last
I heard, Darrell is back cowboying on his family ranch in Wink, and Bo is up in
Omaha."

"Doing
what?"

"Playing
pro ball, for the Wranglers."

"Thanks,
John."

"Yes,
sir. I hope William is innocent."

They
watched John walk off.

"He
ain't the killer," Dwayne said.

"How
do you know?" Chico said.

"I've
interviewed a hundred killers in my time, and none of them were Mormon."
He paused. "Course, sometimes they fool you."

"I
know," Frank.

"Looks
like a bigger version of Roy Rogers," Dwayne said.

"Who's
Roy Rogers?" Chuck said.

Frank
and Chico had flown to Omaha to find Bo Cantrell. Dwayne and Chuck had driven
the one hundred seventy miles from Lubbock to Wink to find Darrell Jackson.
They had. On the Lazy River Ranch outside town. Darrell rode up on a big
white horse just as they pulled up to the ranch house and got out of the
rental. He did look like a male model.

"Help
you?" Darrell said.

"Nice
looking horse," Dwayne said.

"You
a rancher?"

"Cop.
Ex-cop."

"What
brings you out here?"

"Dee
Dee Dunston."

Dwayne
almost hoped that Darrell would yank on the reins and gallop off. Because then
William Tucker's life would be saved. Which would save Frank Tucker's life.
If the boy went to prison, Frank would never be free. He was a good man and a
good friend, and Dwayne Gentry was down to three friends in the whole world.
He couldn't afford to lose one.

"We
understand you knew her," Dwayne said, "in the Biblical sense."

Darrell
dismounted. He jingled.

"Wow,
cowboys really do wear spurs," Chuck said with a kid's grin.

Darrell
frowned at Chuck then turned to Dwayne.

"I
knew her. But I didn't kill her, if that's why you're here."

"It
is."

"I
thought William Tucker confessed?"

"Nope.
He didn't kill the girl."

"Paper
said his blood was on her."

"It
was on you, too," Chuck said.

"You
an ex-cop, too?"

"Coach."

"An
ex-cop and an ex-coach."

"You
wore number fifty-two back then, didn't you?" Dwayne said.

"Yep."

"William
was bleeding at the end of that game. When you tackled him, his blood got on
John Smith, Bo Cantrell, and you."

"How
do you know?"

"Game
film," Chuck said. "Got a real neat zoom feature."

"Did
you shower after the game?" Dwayne said.

Darrell
recoiled and seemed a bit amused.

"Odd
question."

"Mind
answering it?"

"Yeah,
I showered after the game. Always did. I may be a cowboy, but I'm not a cow.
I got a degree in engineering, and I know how a shower works."

Dwayne
and Chuck exchanged a glance. Darrell pushed his hat back on his head.

"So
you two fellas came all the way out here to ask if I showered after the game?
Hell, you could've called."

"What
about Bo Cantrell? He shower after the game?"

Darrell
laughed. "Bo Cantrell was a half-crazy, juiced-up coon-ass from Louisiana
who suffered one too many concussions. And he stunk worse than cow shit. His
idea of bathing was swimming in the swamp."

"Tell
us about him."

"We
came up together, started all four years. He was middle linebacker, I was
outside. He was dead set on going pro, but he was only two-thirty. Pro
linebackers are two-sixty. So he got on steroids junior year. Made him meaner
than a rattlesnake. And the concussions didn't help his disposition."

"You
didn't partake?"

"Nope.
I never figured on going pro. I'm a cowboy. I had this ranch to come back
to. Bo, he didn't have anything waiting back in Louisiana for him. If he didn't
go pro, he was back hunting gators in the swamp. I always figured I'd read
about him in the paper."

"Sports
pages?"

"Obituaries.
Figured he'd commit suicide, like those other brain-damaged pro players."
He shook his head. "Well, I'd better go look for some cows."

Darrell
Jackson stuck a cowboy boot into a stirrup and mounted the big horse. He
jerked the reins as if to gallop off, but didn't. He turned back to Dwayne and
Chuck.

"By
the end of our senior season, Bo's head just wasn't right. The juice, it made
him paranoid. You go looking for Bo, you watch yourself. He started carrying
a gun."

Bo
Cantrell had been taken by Omaha in the third round of the NFL draft two years
before. He was now a starting linebacker for the Wranglers. He sported a
shaved head and tattoo sleeves on both arms. When he walked out of the
Wrangler's training facility after their Tuesday practice, Frank called out to
him from across the parking lot.

"Bo!"

He
glanced their way but kept walking and yelled over his shoulder, "No
autographs."

Frank
and Chico caught up with him.

"We
don't want your autograph."

Still
walking. "Good."

"We
want to ask you about Dee Dee Dunston."

Bo
stopped. He turned and looked them over. And Frank looked him over. His head
seemed oversized, his neck was thick, and his shoulders were wide and lumpy
with muscles. He had acne. He was not a handsome human being. He wore a
Wrangler T-shirt, sweat pants, and sneakers. Grass was in his hair; his thick
arms were matted with dirt and sweat. His body odor was stifling.

"You
cops?"

"I'm
Frank Tucker. William Tucker's father."

Bo
maintained his stern expression, but Frank saw something in his eyes. Guilt.

"Way
I hear it, your boy's done confessed to killing Dee Dee."

"You
heard wrong, Bo. He didn't kill her."

"Then
who did?"

They locked eyes. Dwayne had reported in on their meeting with
Darrell Jackson. Only one suspect remained.

"You
did."

Bo's
massive neck muscles clenched. His breathing came faster, and his face flushed.
He was the killer.

"You
didn't shower after practice, Bo."

"So?"

"Habit.
You didn't shower after the UT game two years ago either."

"So?"

"So
William's left elbow got cut at the end of the game, when you and Darrell
Jackson and John Smith tackled him. He bled down his arm. His blood got on
their arms and your arms. But they showered after the game, washed the blood
off. You didn't. His blood was still on your arms when you raped and murdered
Dee Dee that night out back of the Dizzy Rooster."

"Prove
it."

"We
can. We can prove that you killed Dee Dee. It's over, Bo."

Bo
Cantrell stepped toward Frank as if to hit him.

"Fuck
you."

He
turned and walked fast to a jacked-up four-wheel drive pickup, got in, and sped
off. Chico took a photo of the license plate with William's cell phone. Then
Frank called Dwayne. When he answered, Frank said, "You and Chuck drive
to Midland, fly to Omaha. It's Bo Cantrell."

"How
are we going to get Bo to confess?" Chuck asked.

Frank
and Chico had picked up Dwayne and Chuck at the Omaha airport that night and
driven back to the hotel.

"We're
gonna haunt his ass," Dwayne said. "When you know who the bad guy
is, and the bad guy knows you know, you gotta get in his head, let him know
you're watching him, make him look over his shoulder, get him scared."

"Of
us?" Chico said. "An ex-lawyer, ex-cop, ex-coach, and ex-con?"

"Good
point," Frank said.

"I've
dealt with his kind before," Dwayne said. "He ain't the brightest
bulb in the box, see, but he figures he got away with murder. And rape. Now
it's two years later, and he likes his life. Wants to keep it. He'll do
anything to keep it. Even kill again. 'Cause he's got nothing to lose."

"Kill
again?" Chico said. "That would be us?"

"It
would," Dwayne said.

"That
calls for a drink."

At
eight the next morning, Friday, they were parked directly across the street
from Bo's home in an upscale Omaha neighborhood. It looked like the Tucker's
old house in River Oaks, which is to say, completely unbefitting Bo Cantrell.

"He's
gonna see us," Chuck said.

"We
want him to," Dwayne said. "This ain't a surveillance. This is a
haunting."

"What's
the difference?"

"Surveillance,
you try to be stealthy, not let the suspect know you're watching him. A
haunting, you want him to know he's being haunted."

"Ohh.
But that sounds more dangerous."

"There
is that."

Bo
Cantrell pulled out of his driveway at nine. He saw them and sped off in his
truck. They followed him to the Wrangler's training facility. They watched
him walk inside. He glanced back at them at the door.

"Who
wants coffee?" Chico said.

"Starbucks?"
Dwayne asked.

"Of
course."

"Venti
decaf Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino with extra whipped cream," Chuck
said. "One shot."

"Espresso?"

"Whiskey."

"Grande
pumpkin latte, one shot, and a doughnut," Dwayne said. "I always ate
donuts on stakeouts."

"What
kind?"

"Whiskey?"

"Donuts?"

"The
kind with sugar."

"I'll
have a donut, too," Chuck said.

"A
scone," Frank said. "Regular tall coffee, no whiskey."

"Call
me if Bo comes out," Chico said. "I'll be back in ten."

Bo
came out at three that afternoon. Frank waved to him. He did not wave back.
He drove to a liquor store—

"Now
he's teasing us," Chico said.

—and
then to a strip joint.

"Now
he's taunting us," Chuck said.

They
did not enter the establishment. Bo might have friends in low places. They
waited. And waited. A few hours later, he exited the joint with a stripper.

"There's
a cash transaction," Chico said.

They
followed him back to his house. He entered with the girl, but they saw him
peeking out the window at them.

"That's
good haunting, boys," Dwayne said.

The
next morning, they were again parked outside Bo's house.

"You
sure this will work?" Frank asked.

"Pretty
sure," Dwayne said.