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“He had to kill his best friend.”
Tom’s breath caught. “Excuse me?”
“There was a shooting downtown, the first one we ever had in Raven Springs. Two men got into an argument and one of them pulled a gun. Sam Davis was police chief here, and he was closer than any of his men to the scene of the disturbance. He got out of his squad car and only saw the back of the man with the gun. He yelled for the man to put the gun down and put his hands over his head. Except the man, who was on drugs, whirled and started to fire at Sam. He returned fire and he was an expert shot.” He grimaced. “The man turned out to be his best friend. Sam knew that he smoked an occasional joint, but he didn’t realize that his friend had gone on to hard drugs. Never used them around Sam, so Sam didn’t know. They had to tranquillize Sam afterwards, and he stayed drunk for a week. He never got over it. He started drinking and then he couldn’t stop.”
“Well, it doesn’t excuse him, but it does explain him,” Tom had to admit. “I’ve seen guys like that on the job in law enforcement. Some get into situations where they’re forced to kill friends or even family. Some become suicidal, some drink.
“Most professions that require guns sometimes require you to use them,” Tom finished quietly.
“I’ve been lucky,” Ralston said. “I wounded a man once or twice. Never had to kill one. Although my deputy did. Perp had me by the throat after I pumped a nine-millimeter pistol into him. My deputy came along with his .45 just in the nick of time. Saved my life.” He sighed. “Then he got drunk for a week, but I went out to see him, and the Methodist minister and I talked him down. He’s sober as a judge these days and a hell of an investigator.”
Tom didn’t reply. He’d killed men in combat. It wasn’t something he liked to remember. And then there was the one man he’d shot in Chicago, who later died. That one had soured him on life. He was still trying to get past the memory. It had been a homeless man, a Vietnam veteran, trying to hold up a convenience store with a toy gun—but it hadn’t looked like a toy gun. He’d turned and pointed it at Tom and Tom had fired. The man, when Tom got to him and realized what he’d done, was forgiving even then. He was tired of living, he managed to say as they waited for the ambulance. He had no family, nobody who cared about him, no money, no job, no nothing. Dying wasn’t the horror people thought it was. His whole squad had died in Vietnam except for him. He drank to forget. He couldn’t stop. He told Tom not to be sorry, it was an honest mistake. He told the investigating officers the same thing. Tom stayed with him in the hospital until he died. It had torn him up. He considered how Annalisa would have behaved had she been there. She’d have crawled into his lap and kissed him and cuddled him and tried to remind him that life had a purpose and a plan, and some things that happened were not under anyone’s control.
“Those are real homemade french fries,” Ralston said, breaking into Tom’s thoughts and indicating the untouched portion of his companion’s plate. “Nothing frozen or fast food about them.”
“Really?” Tom picked one up and bit into it. “Oh, my,” he said and sighed.
“Great, aren’t they? It’s why we eat here. Oh, and there’s fresh catfish on Friday, grilled or fried.”
“That’s about my favorite food,” he replied. “I like catfish. I used to go out on the river late in the afternoon when I was a kid. Best time to catch them is late in the day,” he recalled with a smile.
“In Chicago?”
He shook his head. “I moved there when I went with the Bureau. I was born in a little town just south of Wilmington, Delaware,” he recalled. “Good fishing in the state park nearby, and plenty of tourist attractions, including the largest formal French gardens in North America at the Nemours Estate.”
“Did you live there a long time?” Ralston asked conversationally.
“Until I was twelve,” he replied. “Then our parents moved to a town outside Chicago.”
“You have siblings?”
“I had a sister but she was killed in a car wreck,” Tom told him. He studied Ralston. “Have you traveled much?”
“Just to Denver on cases,” was the bland reply. “I’ve never been out of my state since I was born.” He chuckled.
“Good Lord,” Tom said, shocked.
“I guess you FBI guys travel a lot.”
“Yes,” Tom replied. “Maybe too much. I didn’t worry about it when I was younger, but you don’t put down roots when you’re on the road all the time.” He studied the dregs of his coffee. “It’s a lonely life.”
“I know that feeling,” the other man said with a sigh. “I always thought I’d marry a hometown girl and settle down, but most of the women around here are married or involved or too young or too old.” He chuckled.
Tom just smiled.
* * *
He stopped by Downing’s house after phoning first. He wanted to talk to May Strickland. She was about to leave the house when he got there, and she looked flushed and guilty when he asked to speak with her.
“But I don’t know anything about how Julie died,” she blurted out.
“That’s not why I want to speak to you,” he said pleasantly. “I want to know about the late Mrs. Downing. You nursed her until her death, I believe?”
“Oh!” She calmed down. “Well, yes, I did. I’m a practical nurse.”
“Is there someplace we can sit?” he asked.
“Certainly. Mr. Downing went to Denver today to talk to some people about a new investment. We can speak in the living room.” She led him into the house. “Alice, the FBI man is here, could we have coffee, please?” she asked the maid as they passed.
