“Washington, DC, right? Homicide?”
“Good memory.”
“Living on the pension now?”
Grant leveled his gaze on mine. “Basically.”
“Why aren’t you enjoying retirement?”
“Guys like you and me never really leave the game, do we?”
Many cops were filled with unspoken rage. Past traumas, unsolved cases, killers who got away—it all haunted them. They came here hoping that if they found the Mountain Music Festival bodies, they would find salvation.
However, the good cops hid their emotions well. And I’d established that Grant was one of the good ones.
Grant watched me closely. “I hear you’re up for another parole hearing. Your chances look good this time.”
“I’m no threat to anyone,” I said. “Finishing out my days in the mountains isn’t too much to ask, is it?”
He regarded me for a beat. “You want to return to Dawson?”
“Yes.”
Grant never brought a notepad or file. But I suspected his memory was laser sharp. “The parole board will be reviewing your case next month. Compassionate releases are popular.”
Release.I’d heard the word before, but after too many disappointments, I didn’t dare allow any emotion. I crossed my fingers. “From your lips to God’s ears.”
Grant folded his arms over his chest. He was fit. Lifted weights. A runner. We’d made small talk about workouts during his last visit. I exercised any chance I got. It paid to be strong in here.
“I spoke at a conference a few weeks ago,” Grant said.
No small talk today. “About me, I hope?”
“Your case among others.”
“What was the theme?”
“Convictions without bodies.”
“Interesting. You get a lot of cases like that?”
“Enough.”
“Must be frustrating for the police and the families. No closure. And the judges and juries struggle to justify convictions like mine. How many of them wonder if they put away an innocent man like me?”
“I don’t know.” Grant sat back, unbuttoning his jacket. I appreciated that he dressed the part of a professional lawman.
“I bet a lot of them worry and wonder if they made the right call.”
“You willing to tell me where you buried those bodies?” Grant asked.
“No foreplay today?” I chuckled. “Direct. To the point. But girls like a little warm-up before the big event.”
Years ago, the police and prosecutors had dangled a reduced sentence if I told them where the bodies were. Even if I had known, I wouldn’t have told. Cops can lie, and I don’t trust them.
Plus, I’d grown to enjoy the mystery of this unfinished story. All humans chase attention. We pursue it in different ways. Some get on the stage. Some publish. Others get tattooed or choose the perfect personalized license plate. Anyone who says they don’t want to be noticed doesn’t know how to escape the shadows.
My silence kept me center stage. Maybe it wasn’t the attention I’d once craved, but visits like this broke up the monotony of prison life. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
