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“I’m here to figure out who the stalker is,” I said in my calmest tone. “That’s what I’m hoping you can help me out with.” It wasn’t an answer to his question, and he seemed to pick up on it.
“I’m not a stalker. Like what the actual fuck?” He stayed standing. I allowed him to posture, to get whatever anger out now before it bottled up and turned into something worse later. “Why would you even think that?”
“Honey? Everything okay out here?” Walter’s mother stood holding the dewy pitcher of lemonade, eyes bouncing between her son and me.
“This guy thinks I’m a stalker.”
“A stalker? My baby?”
Fucking great. Now the mom was involved. She looked like she was a few seconds away from dumping that entire pitcher over my head. This interview had jumped off the rails much quicker than I had anticipated it would.
I stood, needing to regain control of the situation before it spiraled and I left without any answers. That couldn’t happen. This case landed way too close to home, especially since my client had basically taken up residence inside my home. “I’m sorry, I should have explained things better. I don’t think your son is the stalker—” I just highly suspect he is. “—but I do think he can provide some answers. Walter, it’s undeniable that you’ve been to almost every one of Elijah’s shows. I’m not saying that proves or disproves anything, but I do wonder if you ever saw anything at one of the shows. You might be the most vital witness I have in this case.”
That seemed to do something. “Is that true?” she asked him. “Is that where you’ve been going all this time?”
Walter kicked around a rock, hair falling like a curtain over his face. “Yes. It’s the only time during the day I feel good. Elijah’s shows are better than the pills I’m on. I randomly went to his first one and never stopped going. I didn’t think that was a crime.”
“It’s not,” I reassured him. “And I get it. I recently saw Elijah perform for the first time and was just as hypnotized. There’s something about it. I agree, trust me.”
His mom, still suspicious, grunted something and left the lemonade on a rusty round table before she took her son’s head in her hands. She gave him a kiss on the forehead and whispered something in his ear. “Do I need to call a lawyer?” she asked me before leaving back into the house.
“No, not at all,” I said. Not yet, at least.
Walter sat back down, the fuse on this bomb fizzing out. With the explosion averted (so far), I got to asking Walter some basics, wanting to lower the defenses again. He didn’t seem totally out of the ordinary: twenty-six with a bachelor’s degree in Philosophy and having a difficult time finding work; he was living with his parents and studying to try and get into a grad program. He and his family moved to Blue Creek about five years ago, when his dad got relocated for a management job at the grocery chain. That was how he had originally heard of Elijah, who had asked permission to promote his first show at the grocery store.
“And at these shows, did you ever see anything that struck you as odd? Someone going backstage when it didn’t seem like they were supposed to?”
Walter took a moment to answer, drinking his lemonade, swishing it around like mouthwash before swallowing. “Not that I can remember. They’re really strict about who goes backstage. Random people can’t just walk up there. They’d need to be brought by a queen.”
“Did that happen often? Backstage tours?”
Walter shrugged. “Yeah, it did. Never with me, though.”
“Did you ever try and get Elijah’s attention?”
He shook his head. I could sense the tension that stiffened his neck and curled his fingers. “No, I didn’t care about going backstage. I’m telling you, I just loved watching Elijah perform. It was my way of escaping all the bullshit in my life. I just can’t believe he thought I’m a stalker.”
“It’s hard, Walter. I don’t think he would have ever thought that if he wasn’t going through the shit he’s going through. He’s suspicious of everyone, and rightly so. This could be a case of messed-up timing. You discovered him the first night he was ever in drag, and so did his stalker.”
“Well… it’s fucked-up.”
“It is,” I said, agreeing with Walter. My instincts were starting to tell me that I was barking up the wrong tree here. He might not have been the cleanest suspect, but he had solid answers for my questions and sounded as if he were telling the full truth.
I still had to dig a little deeper, even if that meant hitting a nerve. “Walter, where were you two weeks ago?” I gave him the exact date of the night when the stalker left the CD and tried to analyze every micro-expression his face might have made. A twitch in the eyebrow, a scrunch in the eyelids, a quirk in the lower lip.
