“And I’ve already told you some of it probably belongs to my old man,” I remind him. “I’ve told you the whole fucking story. He found me here, we beat the shit out of each other, he hit me over the head, knocked me out, and when I woke up, he was gone. End of story.”
“How many times does he have to say the same thing?” my court appointed lawyer asks. When I told them this morning that I thought maybe I should have a lawyer before I said anything, I got the he-must-be-guilty look, but I figured better safe than sorry. I can afford anyone I want, but I like this guy. He’s only a little older than me, but he’s sharp. And hungry. If he gets me out of here with no charges, he makes a name for himself.
“Start from the beginning,” the detective says, like he thinks he’s going to hear something different now than the last three hundred times I’ve told him the story.
I take a deep breath and start again. “My dad’s favorite drunken pastime was beating the living shit out of me. My first memory is of him standing over me with a strap. Went on all my life. One day I finally decided to fight back. He didn’t like that. Nearly put me in the hospital.”
The detective looks down at his notes. “August 2009,” he confirms. “You were seventeen.”
I nod. “His girlfriend found me bloody on the floor and patched me up. I was pissed, so I made a move on her, mostly to get back at my douche dad, I guess. I didn’t expect anything to happen, but she kissed me back, one thing lead to another.” I shrug. “Left town before the sun came up.”
“He knew what you did?”
“Wendy called me, told me he’d figured it out. Guess he beat her up pretty good too. She said he’d sworn to hunt me down and kill me.” I shift in my seat. “I saw this guy who looked sort of like a slightly older me at the gas station I’d hitchhiked to. Craig Gunnison. Stole his wallet and went as far as I could on his cash—across two state lines. Used his ID for a while until I could get a fake one made. Got a job washing dishes at a two-bit roadside diner in Shreveport, where I met Grim. We started the band, and I figured I was pretty safe because we were playing lowlife Louisiana bars for cash and free booze. But then we started getting noticed, playing bigger venues. I guess my dad saw my picture somewhere. Tracked me here, tried to make good on his threat, and you know the rest. I have no fucking clue what happened to him after he left my apartment.”
“You’re contending that you were unconscious when he left?” he asks.
I nod. “He’d grabbed my electric guitar from the stand near the couch and swung it at my head,” I say, poking absently at my crooked nose. “He managed to get the amp cord around my neck. That’s the last thing I remember.”
The stupid thing? I could have taken him out way before it got that far, but I had money by then. Figured I could make the whole thing go away quietly with a wad of cash. I kept trying to talk him down, but didn’t realize just how fucking crazy the old man had gotten. Alcohol had eaten his brain by then and he was basically a rabid dog. Nothing more. He wasn’t interested in my bribe.
“If he was so intent on killing you, why wouldn’t he have brought a weapon? A knife or a gun?” the detective asks.
He did. I managed to kick the hunting knife out of his hand. But telling this cop that truth that will only complicate things.
“You’d have to ask him,” I answer.
The cop’s mouth presses into a line as he looks over his notes. “What happened to that guitar, Trotte? The one you say your dad hit you with?”
I shake my head. “The place was trashed. I tossed all the broken shit, including the guitar.”
“Huh…that’s interesting because we found the neck and several other pieces of a guitar in the truck with your father’s remains.”
Acid rises in my throat, but I swallow it and try not to show anything I’m feeling. They only use shit like that against you. “Maybe he took it with him for some reason.”
The detective’s gaze hardens. “He was in the passenger seat, Mr. Gunnison.”
“Maybe whoever was driving came up and got him.” I shrug. “I have no fucking clue.”
“Unless you have another line of questioning, I’m going to have to insist that this interview is over,” my lawyer says. “My client has acted on good faith and been forthcoming with information. His story hasn’t deviated or been in any way inconsistent with the evidence you’ve shared. If you have more, please enlighten us and make the arrest. Otherwise, you have no grounds to hold my client.”
The detective gives my lawyer an annoyed look, then stands. “This is an ongoing investigation. We’ll be processing evidence from the apartment for the next few weeks.” He shifts his stern gaze to me. “You don’t have any more trips planned, I trust?”
I shake my head. “Taking a few weeks off.”
“Good.” He closes his file and pulls open the door. “The blood evidence collected from your apartment was enough to get an injunction to seal it until we’re able to complete processing of the crime scene, which could take another twenty-four hours. You’ll have to find somewhere else to stay in the meantime. But you’re free to go.”
Chapter 34