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“Okay, Thornton already called me, so you can just ditch the story about doing a documentary on political assassins.”
“We weren’t very good at that anyway,” said Michelle. “And the truth is just a lot easier, isn’t it?” she bluntly shot back.
Kate’s gaze shifted to King, who looked back at her nervously. He had, after all, killed the woman’s father. What was he supposed to say? I’m sorry?
The young woman said, “You’ve aged pretty well. Looks like the years have been good to you.”
“Not recently. That’s why we’re here, Kate. I can call you Kate, can’t I?”
The young woman sat back. “It is my name, Sean.”
“I know this is incredibly awkward.”
She cut in. “My father made choices. He killed the man you were guarding. You really had no choice.” She paused and drew a long breath. “It’s been eight years. I won’t lie to you and say I didn’t hate you back then. I was a girl of fourteen, and you’d taken my father away.”
“But now,” said Michelle.
Kate’s gaze remained on King. “Now I’m a grown woman and things are a lot clearer. You did what you had to do. And so have I.”
“I guess you didn’t have much choice in the matter either,” commented King.
She leaned forward and started moving things around on her desk. King noted that she placed the pieces—a pencil, a ruler and other objects—at ninety-degree angles, then started over again. Her hands just kept moving, even as her gaze remained on King and Michelle.
“Thornton said there was new evidence indicating my father hadn’t acted alone. What new evidence?”
“We can’t tell you,” said Michelle.
“Oh, that’s great. You can’t tell me, but you expect me to talk to you.”
“If there was someone else involved that day, Kate, it’s important we know who it was,” said King. “I’d think you’d want that too.”
“Why? It’s not like it’ll change the facts. My father shot Clyde Ritter. There were a hundred eyewitnesses.”
“That’s true,” said Michelle, “but now we believe there’s more to it.”
Kate leaned back in her chair. “So what exactly do you want from me?”
“Anything you can tell us about the events leading up to your father’s assassinating Clyde Ritter,” said Michelle.
“He didn’t suddenly come in one day and announce he was going to become a killer, if that’s what you’re wondering. I was only a kid at the time, but I still would have called someone about that.”
“Would you?” said King.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
King shrugged. “He was your father. Dr. Jorst said you loved him. Maybe you wouldn’t have called anybody.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have,” Kate said casually, then started shifting the pencil and ruler around again.
“Okay, let’s assume he didn’t announce his intentions. How about anything else? Did your father say anything that seemed suspicious or out of the ordinary?”
“My father had the veneer of a brilliant college professor but underneath was an unreformed radical still living in the sixties.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“That he was prone to saying outrageous things that could be construed as suspicious.”
“Okay, let’s get down to something more tangible. Any idea where he got the gun he used to shoot Ritter with? That was never traced.”
