Page 95 of Nowhere Good

“Shit, you don’t know anything, do you?”

“Why don’t you enlighten me.” Seth tried not to show how much this was pissing him off, but he had a feeling his face was betraying him.

Ron crossed his arms and sank in the seat. “All right, well, his real name’s Trevor Gautreau, for starters. You can go ahead and look this up yourself, but there was a murder-suicide over in Biggs Township—that’s a little blip on the map forty minutes due west of here. Steven Gautreau, that’d be Trevor’s real daddy, went ahead and shot his wife’s brains out then turned the gun on himself. All while a three-year-old Trevor was playin’ with blocks in his playpen. That’s one twisted way to make an orphan, amiright?

“Anyway, kid went straight into the foster system, but there weren’t a lot of options around, ’specially at that time, and the Sloanes took in a lot of abandoned kids. They wanted me to adopt Trevor, so they’d left out his history for a long time, but I was never lookin’ to adopt for real, and eventually, they spilled the truth. By this point, he was thirteen years old, showin’ interest in real farm work, and I cared about ’im well enough, so I took ’im in full-time, kept ’im for another three years, but I guess his no-good daddy’s DNA had been lyin’ dormant till puberty. That’s when I realized he was no good to have around my girls.”

“Why? What did he do?”

Ron huffed like this was exhausting him. It probably was—having to sift through his own half-truths. “It wasn’t any one thing he did, Detective, he just became a burden. He’d fight with other boys on the farm and get all emotional in the way teenage boys do. And truthfully, he was no good at the farmwork, so forgive me if I didn’t see much point in keepin’ ’im around. I still felt bad for the kid, though, and he had nowhere else to go, so I did my research and found Belleville. Thought it seemed perfect.”

“And you left him there. You paid for his board. Must’ve been expensive.”

“Hell yes it was expensive, but I cared enough to keep it goin’. I’d visit ’im over the years, see how he was doin’, and he’d be in good spirits. Doctors said he had all sorts of anxiety disorders and what not, things I know nothin’ about. He was better off there.”

“But six months ago, you stopped paying and stopped visiting him. Why?”

“’Cause my grandson was born and I realized all that money I was funneling into this other kid, who was now a full-grown adult and wasn’t even related to me, was a waste. Sullivan needs that money for his future. I became a granddad—I had to reevaluate my priorities in life.”

“Did you say goodbye to Trevor? Did you tell him you were going to stop visiting?”

“No, I did not. Guess I figured I’d given ’im enough of my life. Didn’t owe any more. How was I supposed to know he’d snap and go on a killin’ spree? Psychopath didn’t even come knock on my door an’ ask for closure.”

Seth tried to relax, but tension worked through his back, locking up his traps and giving him a headache. Ron’s explanations were clear and made sense. They lined up with the timeline perfectly.

Still not buying it.

“Maybe because you, yourself, knew he had violence in his history,” Seth said. “You never thought to mention there was someone like this in your farm’s past?”

“Christ, man, like I said, I had no idea it could be him. Sure, the kid came from violence, but he wasn’t violent himself. Aside from some wrestlin’ with the other boys, he was a squeamish little twerp. Couldn’t even snap a chicken’s neck ’cause he hated the sound of bones breaking. I didn’t want ’im around anymore ’cause of his emotional outbursts—I never thought he’d turn violent.”

“I played you two recordings of his voice. You’ve been visiting him for the past twelve years and you didn’t recognize it?”

“No, I didn’t. He was never that… stilted when I’d visit ’im. He was a happy guy. Not all there, but happy. That voice on the recording sounded nothin’ like ’im.”

That could line up with someone who’d entered a state of psychosis. A voice change wasn’t unheard of.

Seth grit his teeth. Ron couldn’t actually be telling the truth. There was no way.

“What about the mention of your wife’s body? Trevor knew her when she was alive. His victims looked like her. You never made that connection?”

“That’s your job, son, not mine. I ain’t trained to understand the innerworkings of the criminal mind.”

They stared at each other. Ron, with his smug indifference, and Seth, not buying it, but also not able to prove it.

“What about this?” He stood up, dug an image out of his manila folder, and slapped it on the table. The dime bag. He pressed his palms to the table and stared down at Ron, the only time he was ever elevated above him. “Why would Trevor leave this dime bag in two of the victims’ pockets?”

Ron took his time looking at the photo, drawing it out before he leaned back in his chair. “Now that, I have no idea about. Was he takin’ drugs too? Mixin’ crazy and drugs together is a bad combo, boy, that’ll do it. Bet that’s what made ’im go postal.”

“He was fixated on you, Ron. Everything he did was about you.” He tapped on the photo. “Take another look. Maybe you’re familiar with this dime bag.”

He did take another look. Then stared at Seth with an apathetic, yet somehow pompous expression. He thinks he’s untouchable. “Nope. Don’t know anythin’ about it.”

Seth tucked the image away. His anger was rising, getting the better of him, and it threatened his professionalism. He needed to wrap this up before he said something he’d regret.

Before he snapped at Ron and told him that he knew he was an abusive, vainglorious, tyrannical criminal who’d abused those boys—Trevor included—and had abused his daughters too, and it was only a matter of time before Seth found something to lock him up for.

“Were you ever violent with Trevor?” Seth asked, his voice clipped.