Page 80 of A Winter of Discontent for Henry Milch
I stared at the house. In the middle of the night, could Buford have slipped out, run over to the RV, killed his cousin, and run back? It was possible. But how to prove it.
It was starting to get cold, so I turned the engine back on. I imagined Buford strangling Bobbie. I tried to imagine every single detail. Then, finally, I said out loud, “Scratches.”
I remembered seeing one single scratch on Bobbie’s neck. A scratch that she wouldn’t have put there herself as she struggled... There would be scratches on his hands. Unless he wore gloves. But would he have?Ifhe did it,ifit was him, it was spontaneous. A snap decision he barely thought about. He saw an opportunity and… Yeah, he wouldn’t have worn gloves or a coat or boats. If he’d taken the time to put them on, he wouldn’t have done it.
I had to see his hands. But how would I do that? He wouldn’t let me in, so I had to get him to reach his hands out. I had to give him something. But what? I looked around the interior of the Escalade. There wasn’t much. Nana Cole made me clean it out right before Christmas. There was a paper soda cup in the cup holder. Empty. The glove compartment held a travel sized pack of tissues, some gum, a pacifier, and the four-inch-thick manual for the Escalade. There was a blanket in the backseat. I was considering going and buying him some dinner somewhere, when I noticed the bag from Fudge You! tucked into the map holder in the passenger door. The fudge I’d bought for Nana Cole had never gotten into the house. That would have to do. I leaned over the seat and grabbed it. Then I shut the car off and jumped out.
I knocked for a long time. Maybe he wouldn’t come to the door at all. Would that mean something? Did he think my coming back meant I’d figured it out? Was there anything to figure out? Was I crazy to think he’d actually come out of his house?
I was tempted to walk away. But then I noticed the plaid blanket next to the stoop, under the snow. He’d put it over his head when he ran from the house to the RV. It would have been like bringing the indoors with him. I know that doesn’t sound rational, but then it’s not rational to spend your entire life indoors. And it didn’t need to work. It just needed to work enough.
Finally, he opened the door a crack. “Yeah?”
“Hi Buford. How are you?”
“What do you want?”
“I brought you some fudge.”
“Fudge? You brought me fudge?”
“Yeah, you know, you really helped us out. When I was working for Melanie Frasier. The things you said, they helped. So I thought I should say thank-you and bring you a little something.”
“I helped?”
“Yeah, you did. A lot actually. Of course, Patty Gauthier confessing helped too. And then Brian Belcher also confessed. So it’s gotta be one of them, right?”
“Yeah. It would seem so.”
I stood there holding the bag of fudge, hoping he’d reach out for it. And then he did. He did! I grabbed his hand and turned it over so I could see the back of it… Scratches! A dozen or so. Bobbie had fought much harder than I’d realized.
Buford snatched his hand back and slammed the door. Well, that was that. He did it. Now I had to go and tell Detective Lehmann, and the whole mess?—
The door flew open; Buford grabbed me by the puffer jacket and dragged me into the house. He slammed the door shut and then pushed me up against it. His hands were quickly around my neck. And then my hands were on his, trying to pull them off me,just as Bobbie would have. I wouldn’t be able to; I was making the same mistake she made.
I was panicking, of course. A logical response to someone shutting off your airway. I had to be calm though, that was the only way…
Jamming my knee into him, I tried to get him in the crotch. I hit him in the hip though, which earned me a “Umph,” and not much else. Pulling my hands away from his, I moved them to his face, upward toward his eyes, then into?—
God that was gross, squishy. I could feel an eyeball slide?—
He let go so he could push my hands away. I took another shot at kneeing him in the balls. This time my aim was better and I connected.
Pulling the door open as he whimpered, I was outside in a flash. Ten feet away from the house I turned and saw him standing in the door. He screamed in frustration.
I ran down the crusty driveway.
Detective Lehmann was nothappy to see me. I caught him in the parking lot just about to get into that garish Subaru. When he saw me, he said, “What?”
“Buford Campbell killed Bobbie,” my voice was hoarse. I hadn’t expected that.
“You’re fucking kidding me. This morning you said it was Brian Belcher, who, you’ll remember, confessed.”
“Yeah, but it’s Buford.”
“The guy who won’t leave his house?”
“I think he put a blanket over his head and ran over to the trailer.” Okay, yes that sounds insane.
