Page 44 of The Bright Lands
Putting aside the mysterious side-girl for a moment, Clark thought even less of the idea that Jamal might have killed his close friend for the chance to steal some glory for himself. Even in a town that worshipped its quarterbacks, this felt like a stretch. For one thing, the other boys on the team had all stated that Jamal and Dylan were fast friends, hanging out often and studying together on school nights. Paulette Whitley had attested to this. Jamal’s parents had attested to this. And Jamal was a senior—he had only a handful of football games in his future. Would he really kill a close friend—not mention risk the death penalty—for a few hours of field time?
Clark didn’t buy either theory. From the moment they’d told Jamal that Dylan was dead he’d been shocked, disgusted, bereft—but he hadn’t betrayed a moment’s concern for his own safety until Mayfield started putting the screws to him. Clark didn’t buy this boy as a killer.
Dylan’s other friend, however, she had trouble with.
“You do realize that both of the possible motives we’ve given to Jamal come from statements made by KT Staler, a boy who’s now conveniently vanished to leave his friend in the soup.”
Mayfield shrugged. “Sometimes these things are easy.”
“Would it be so easy if the roles were reversed?” she said. “If KT were stuck here and Jamal had disappeared?”
“I’m not sure what you’re implying, Deputy.”
“What if Jamal’s skin was a little lighter? KT’s a little darker?”
“You’re going to stop that kind of talk right now.” Mayfield twisted slowly in his seat to fix her eye. “The fact stands that every other boy on the team but Reynolds and Staler has himself an alibi for Friday night. Furthermore, Joel Whitley was spotted by a half-dozen people in town right after the game. He’s got a nosy old crow of a neighbor who swears Joel woke her up when he pulled in just after eleven. The mother’s boyfriend, Darren, he woke the lady up again at two fifteen, and we’ve gothimon a video at a gas station in College Station an hour before, driving back from working on an oil rig in Corpus Christi. Maybe there’s a hole in that man’s story somewhere but I don’t see it. So the family’s out. The team is out. We’ve got an APB in every station looking for KT Staler’s teal-green Tacoma but that’s about all the resources we can give that boy. You can’t follow every lead in a case like this, Deputy. He’ll turn up if he turns up.”
“But he’s our prime suspect.”
“Correction—that would be Reynolds, the only boy—white or black—left in town without an alibi,” Mayfield said. “For what it’s worth, Mr. Boone says the county attorney’s office is going to file subpoenas for KT Staler’s phone records to help us track him down.”
“If he’s alive,” Clark said. “I still don’t like the fact that Jason Ovelle was rooting around in Staler’s truck. He said something about KT owing him money.”
“Ovelle’s got holes in his brain from all the tweak he’s cooked. Funny you mention him, though. Browder swung by his old room in that rat’s nest motel down the highway and apparently nobody’s seen Ovelle since Friday. God willing, we never will again.” Mayfield studied a printout from a stack of folders.
“Go back. Nobody’s seen Ovelle since Friday night? The night Whitley was murdered?”
“No, they haven’t, but before you ask I already have the APBs filed forhimtoo. Like I said, you chase one bird at a time.” Mayfield studied the field. “And when you have it in your hand, you squeeze it till it chirps.”
Clark followed his eyes, noted the tall Turner twins and pale little Tomas Hernandez studying Jamal as their new quarterback struggled again to his feet. They shook their heads and turned away.
She said, “What if we’re looking at killers. Plural. Like you said yesterday. I’m thinking about the phone.”
“The phone?”
“Dylan died in a nasty fight—look at these bruises. If you’ve just beat a boy black-and-blue and cut his throat deep enough to slice the vocal cords then you’re going to be high as a kite on adrenaline. You ain’t going to have the sense to take the boy’s phone and unlock it with his thumb so you can start covering your tracks the next day. You need a cool head for that sort of forward planning. Someone to look at what you’ve done and see a way out.”
“Hence why we wait for Jamal to crack. If he and Staler were in it together, he’ll lead us to him, one way or the other. Dead or alive.”
Clark spotted something in one of the autopsy photographs. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing.
A thin, pale mark ran straight across the back of Dylan’s left thigh. It looked like an old scar, but Clark couldn’t imagine what sort of accident could produce such a clean, even line.
Mayfield studied the photo. “Any record of a surgery?”
“None that I’m aware of.”
“A play of the light,” the investigator said, sounding unconvinced. They were hitting a wall.
“Have you ever investigated a murder before?” Clark asked.
“Open-and-shuts.” Mayfield shrugged. “An ugly bar fight. A man beat his wife with her own iron for burning his shirt. Only a few real mysteries. A disappearance. As you remember.”
Mayfield let the word hang in the car’s hot air. She knew perfectly well what he meant.
Clark watched as the players on the field lined up to throw themselves at each other again. Big Coach Parter himself stood at the thirty yard line, bellowing something to Jamal—“No strength in your goddamn legs, Reynolds!”—his mouth inches from the boy’s helmet grill. Clark wasn’t sure she’d ever seen the school’s athletic director actually coach. With a player like Dylan on the team, he’d probably never had to.
“You must have wanted to ask,” Mayfield said. “Don’t tell me you didn’t print off your brother’s case the first day you had a password to the computers here.”
