“Feels kinda funny still—I’m tempted to arrest myself for impersonating an officer. Been a long time since I wore a uniform; back when I got out of the military, I swore never again. Just goes to show: never say never.”
“I never do,” I said. “By the way, I didn’t get a chance to talk to you at the service, but I thought it was nice, considering. It was generous of you to pay for the three Kitchings funerals, in light of your history with the family. Sweet of you to put up a headstone for Leena next to her parents, too.” The TBI had never found Leena’s postcranial skeleton, despite turning the sheriff’s offices and every Kitchings residence inside out. What little we had of her—the skull, hyoid, and sternum—had been buried in a small ceramic urn that Jim O’Conner had made from clay he dug from one of his mountains.
“You think we’ll ever find the rest of her?” O’Conner asked.
“I don’t know, Jim. At first I thought Tom or Orbin took her, then I figured it was part of Williams’s scheme to implicate the sheriff for obstruction.” He nodded; either scenario would have been credible. “Now, though, I suspect they were stolen by Knox County’s medical examiner— former medical examiner—
along with another skeleton. Maybe he took Leena as a red herring. Or maybe just to get even with me. I haven’t heard the last of him, he says, and I’m afraid he’s right. But if we ever recover Leena’s missing bones, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I’ve bought the cemetery plot on the other side of hers,” he said. “I hope I don’t need it for a while, but Cooke County sheriffs do seem to die prematurely and violently.”
“I’m betting you’ll be the exception to that rule, Jim.”
“Hang onto that thought. Listen, I wanted you to hear this from me face to face. Leon Williams and his lawyer—some slick Knoxville guy named DeVriess—
just cut a deal with the U.S. Attorney.” I grimaced at the mention of DeVriess, but I supposed if I were in the deputy’s bloody shoes, I’d hire Grease, too.
“Leon’s pleading guilty to second-degree murder in Tom’s death and firstdegree in Orbin’s; in return, he avoids a possible death sentence. He’s also confessed to shooting the prior sheriff during that drug bust three years ago. Apparently he’d been plotting against the Kitchings clan and aiming to be sheriff—pun intended—for quite awhile.”
“Any chance of parole?”
“None.”
“Good.”
“The prosecutor’s also talking plea bargain with Mrs. Kitchings,” he added. “I figure she’ll end up doing only a couple years for second-degree or manslaughter. She doesn’t seem to care what her sentence is. She’s got nothing and nobody left to come home to when she does get out.”
I nodded. “Sounds about right. I figure Williams deserves whatever an ex-cop gets in prison, but Mrs. Kitchings has already suffered about as much as a human being can bear.”
He agreed. “There’s one other thing I want you to know. I appreciate what you did for us up there; what you did for me, especially.”
I held up a hand. “Don’t mention it. I hate to think of Kitchings pinning Leena’s murder on you—or Williams framing you for Orbin’s death.”
“You saved my neck in a couple of ways,” he said. “But I’m not just thanking you for keeping me out of prison. I hadn’t realized how much emotional shrapnel I’ve been carrying around ever since I lost Leena. It still hurts—hell, feels like somebody’s just stomped on my heart all over again—but I think maybe this time it’ll heal, sooner or later.” He wiped his eyes. “I never did stop loving that girl, Doc; it damn near killed me to think she’d stopped loving me. I like to think now that she didn’t, after all.”
“She died wearing your name around her neck, Jim. I’d say that’s pretty convincing proof.” How odd, to hear myself quoting a line from Grease. He drew a deep breath and forced it out through pursed lips. “Part of me’ll always grieve for what happened to her—and for my inability to protect her from it. But at least I know the truth now.”
“And the truth can set you free,” I finished the thought. “If you let it.”
“I think I will.” He looked into me. “How ’bout you?”
I took a breath. “I’m trying.”
He nodded. “Good. You deserve to be at peace, too.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Mostly I am now. Except when I’m looking over my shoulder for a vengeful medical examiner. Listen, I hope we can stay in touch. Maybe keep tabs on each other’s progress. Form our own twelve-step program for griefaholics.”