Bite the Moon (3 page)

Bobby’s head hung over the table. His shaggy hair blocked his eyes. The fingers of each hand worried each other—picking, scraping, rubbing. Tim Hawkins’ back was to the camera as he leaned toward Bobby. Both his palms rested flat on the desktop and supported the weight of his upper body.

The wall cuff hung loose on the wall. At least Hawkins hadn’t restrained him. But Bobby’s body language spoke of such a pervasive misery, I wasn’t sure it even mattered.

“
Hey, Bobby,” Hawkins said on the tape, “didn’t your mama ever tell you that she can forgive you for anything s’ long as you don’t lie to her?”

Bobby raised his head, his eyes wide. There was a look of wonder on his face as Bobby tried to figure out how Hawkins knew that. He nodded his head.

“
All right, then, Bobby. It’s the same with me. Why don’t you just tell me what you did, Bobby, so as I can forgive you?”

“
I didn’t . . .”

“
And then, Bobby,” Hawkins continued, “We can let you see your mama. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Bobby’s head fell forward. A large wet tear plopped on the desktop. Hawkins leaned forward further. His lips were nearly on Bobby’s ear. He whispered, “You do want to see your mama, dontcha?”

Bobby raised his wet eyes to the officer. His lower lip quivered. He nodded his head.

“
Then tell me what happened in that closet, Bobby.”

“
I don’t . . .”

“
What did that bad man do to make you so mad?”

“
He didn’t . . .”

“
C’mon, Bobby. Your mama’s worrying about you now. What did the man in the closet do to make you so mad?”

“
He, he, he . . .”

“
Yeah, Bobby?”

“
He, he was messin’ in my closet. I don’t like nobody messin’ in my closet. I keep it all neat. There’s a place for everything and a thing for every place and I keep everything in its place.” Bobby looked up begging for approval.

“
You do a good job, Bobby. What happened in the closet?”

“
I keep everything in its place then I can find what I need when I need it.”

“
That’s right, Bobby. Then what happened?”

“
Um, I asked him iffen I could help him. On accounta if there was a mess to clean up, that was my job.”

“
What did he say, Bobby?”

“
He, he, he . . . He didn’t say nothin’. Nothin’. He acted like I wasn’t there.”

“
Did that make you mad, Bobby?”

“
Mad?” Bobby’s head tilted sideways and a frown furrowed his brow.

“
Yes, Bobby, he ignored you. Didn’t that make you mad?”

Bobby’s eyes darted back and forth as he sought the right answer. “Mad? Yeah. Yeah. That made me mad all right.”

I sat and watched without comment. I tried not to telegraph my thoughts by folding my arms across my chest, but they kept going there of their own accord. Next to me, Tim Hawkins fought a smug grin that sought to conquer his face. Tim liked to say he was in homicide but this small town did not have enough murder in a year to keep him busy for a week. In fact, Tim’s position was major crimes and even that was not enough to keep him from the occasional drunk and disorderly arrest or juvenile bike theft.

On the tape, the manipulation continued. “After you wrapped the guitar string around his neck, what did you do, Bobby?”

“
Held on?” Bobby looked at the Lieutenant whose head gave a slight nod. “Yeah. I held on.”

“
And what did he do, Bobby? What did he look like?” Hawkins pushed.

Bobby’s eyes had a faraway look as if an old Bugs Bunny–Elmer Fudd cartoon rolled scenes of comic violence through his head. “His eyes—his eyes bugged out. And his feet danced. Yes. His feet danced.”

“
Then what did you do, Bobby?”

“
Uh, I closed and locked the door and went back to work.” Bobby’s eyebrows raised and he nodded his head. The look of a puppy desperate to please romped across his simple face.

Hawkins turned and faced the camera. He was all smug satisfaction as he drew an index finger across his neck. The screen went black.

A big sigh hissed unbidden through my clenched teeth as Hawkins rose and turned off the VCR.

“
What?” Tim’s arms, sleeves rolled to his elbows, folded across his chest so tight that they forced his oversized paunch a little further over his belt buckle.

I stood, shook my head and took a step away from his desk.

“
What, Mullet? No comment?”

I knew I should just keep on walking away and not say a word. But keeping my mouth shut was never one of my strong points. I spun around. “You call that a confession?”

“
Yeah. And a damned good one at that.”

I headed back for the door. I had to get out of there before I said anything else.

“
Hey, Mullet, what’s your problem?”

“
You are my problem, Lieutenant.” I needed to shut up.

“
You coppin’ a ’tude with me, Mullet?”

Oh, yeah, that made this scene complete: a middle-aged, balding, overweight white guy spouting ghetto slang at me. Heaven save me from that midlife urge to be hipper than my age allowed. “You could say that, sir. I do not like coerced confessions. I do not like the crass manipulation of someone with limited mental capabilities. I do not like how you’re railroading Bobby Wiggins when there are so many other real suspects out there.”

“
You’ll never be a real cop, girl. You just don’t think like one. You sound like a defense attorney looking for any lame question you can use to create reasonable doubt. What are you doing in that uniform?”

I turned and left then. I had nothing more to say. Quite frankly, I was no longer sure I knew the answer to his question.

The shift that evening was routine and dull—a few drunk and disorderlies and a couple of domestic violence calls. Fortunately for all concerned, the domestic complaints were tame—heavy on broken crockery and light on physical assault.

My finesse was at an all-time low. There were too many questions squealing their tires through my head tonight. Questions about Bobby Wiggins. Questions about Tim Hawkins. Questions about myself.

I didn’t realize my mind had strayed from the job until I noticed my left hand rubbing on the outside of my right arm. Seeing that, my mind jogged down a rabbit trail of regret.

It was the summer of my junior year in high school. The college girls were back home for their annual break. A small pack of them adopted me as their pet nerd. I was in awe of their worldliness and sophistication.

One muggy night in July, they invited me to tag along with them to explore the excitement on Sixth Street in Austin. I felt honored. I lied to my mother and joined the merry band of revelers.

The seven blocks running from Interstate 35 to Congress Avenue were a lively blend of bars and other live entertainment venues along with a diverse offering of restaurants, art galleries, tattoo parlors and funky shops.

On weekend nights, Sixth Street throbbed to the beat of every rhythm from hip-hop to country. The people walking the streets were just as eclectic—crowds bobbed with cowboy hats, corners flashed with transvestites and purple hair was so common only the tourists bothered to stare.

We bounced from club to club up and down the street. Waiters always brought a soft drink to the table for me but the more potent beverages ordered by the older girls were within easy reach.

The conversation turned to tattoos. By the glow of a tiny keychain flashlight, they displayed their body decorations to one another in a dark corner of the club. A heart on the swell of a breast. A dragon in the small of one back. A ring of ivy encircling an upper arm. But the one that most intrigued me was on the basketball star. On her arm, just below her shoulder, a basketball swished through a hoop.

I wanted a tat, too. I wanted a unique one that spoke of my passion. I wanted a lab beaker of bubbling liquid emitting chemical fumes. The vision was so clear in my mind. And so cool.

At first they tried to discourage me. Then one girl mentioned a friend who had an older brother doing tattoos just a few blocks from here. By the time we arrived at his seedy unlicensed studio, we were too intoxicated to care when she added that he learned his craft in prison. By the time he got to work, none of us was sober enough to focus on his work.

It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized my frothing fluid-filled beaker looked more like a fresh, steaming cow-pie than anything ever seen in a chemistry lab. I should have had it removed long ago but I feared it would hurt more coming off than it did going on. Instead, I never wore a sleeveless blouse again.

Every time I tried to force my mind off of that unfortunate memory, my thoughts traveled the circuit again. Bobby, Tim. My life. My tattoo. It was hopeless. If I encountered a serious situation, I would not have been much help to anyone.

The next morning I left home early again. This time, however, I didn’t go straight to the station. I paid a visit to Thelma Wiggins. I turned into the street where I grew up and memories rolled in like fog. I never knew Mr. Wiggins, but I did remember what the older kids said about him. Their graphic descriptions of his demise were designed to gross me out as well as keep their own demons at bay.

Mr. Wiggins, it was said, went into the shed in the backyard with a revolver and blew his brains out all over the lawnmower. More than once, I was goaded into peering through the fence looking for pieces of Mr. Wiggins on the mower while Bobby pushed it around the yard. Looking back, it was, in all likelihood, not the same mower, but when kids were in a ghoulish frame of mind, there was no room for logic.

All my life, I knew a dour Mrs. Wiggins who never smiled. She was never mean or ugly to me—often gave me cookies and milk and other treats. But she looked and acted as if she’d escaped from the
American Gothic
canvas and wanted nothing more than to return to that unchangeable two-dimensional world.

My mom told me that she was different years ago. Before Bobby was born. Before Mr. Wiggins died. Before living beat the life out of her. At one time, Thelma Wiggins was a lively, vivacious young woman with a ready smile and a bellowing laugh. All that was left was the shell of that woman—a shadow who seldom peered over the wall she built around her heart.

When I lost my husband, I tried to reach out to her. We had something in common after my Charlie’s death, but my efforts were wasted; it never brought us any closer.

I parked in front of my old house out of habit and walked cater-corner across the street to the Wigginses’ home. I thought I was being paranoid when I felt eyes crawling on my skin as I traversed the sidewalk and climbed the three steps to the porch. But the second I raised my hand to rap on the wooden screen, the inside door flew open and there stood Thelma Wiggins.

Anxiety dug into her face like a putty knife gouging deep furrows of sorrow and worry. Her watery blue eyes looked vacant as we stared at each other through the mesh screen. I waited for an invitation to come inside. When one didn’t come, I swallowed hard and spoke. “Mrs. Wiggins? You remember me, right? From across the street?”

Her mouth compressed tighter than a new rosebud and a spark of anger resurrected the life in her eyes. “What do you want now?”

“
Mrs. Wiggins, I came by to see if I could be of any help.”

“
Haven’t you people done enough? I’ve told you everything I know. I told you Bobby did not, could not, would not do this. What more do you want from me?”

I realized too late that it was a mistake to come here on my way to work. In my uniform, I’d been transformed into the enemy. “Mrs. Wiggins, I am not here in an official capacity. I’m here as a family friend. I don’t believe Bobby did this. I want to help.”

Her shoulders sagged and the anger fled her eyes. “Molly, you’re one of them. You can’t be of any help to me. I can’t trust you, and my lawyer says I can’t talk to anybody connected to law enforcement or the district attorney’s office. Why, he even told me to do my grocery shopping at odd hours to avoid running into any of you all. I can’t talk to you anymore, Molly.” She pushed on the door as she said my name.

Before she could close it all the way, I blurted out, “Wait, Mrs. Wiggins.”

She peered around the edge of the door, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Molly.”

“
Lawyer? Did you say you’ve got a lawyer?”

“
Yes. Dale Travis.”

I couldn’t have heard her right. “Dale Travis of Foster, Travis and Crum over in Houston?”

“
Yes, Molly. Goodbye.” The door clicked shut.

Dale Travis? One of the most high-powered—and high-priced—criminal attorneys in Texas. How did Thelma Wiggins pull that off? How could she even dream of raising the retainer? Nothing about this case was making any sense.

I went down the steps and sidewalk and swung open the gate. I turned back to look at the house. A curtain was pulled back in the window to the left of the door. As soon as I zeroed in on it, it twitched, then fell closed.

Thelma hated turning away from Molly—she was one of the rare real friends Bobby’d ever had. By the time Molly was eight years old, she had become a regular visitor at the Wigginses’ house. By then, Bobby was eighteen by the calendar, but by any measure of maturity, Molly was racing past him at high speed.