The Guilty - Jason Pinter [107]
consciously.
Linda Fredrickson was Joe Mauser's sister. Her husband,
John, had died from a gunshot wound after I confronted him.
If John had never met me, Linda would still have a husband.
After it was revealed that John Fredrickson was a dirty cop
and I was exonerated of the murder charges, I attempted to
contact Linda. At that point I wasn't really thinking about
whether or not she would forgive me. It just seemed like the
right thing to do.
A year ago I had come to this very apartment building,
gone upstairs and knocked on her door. She opened it and
stared at me with a befuddled look, the kind you might give
a Jehovah's Witness who simply won't stop soliciting you. I
told her I was sorry. She slapped me hard across the face. She
slammed the door and I left.
For uncertain reasons, tonight I felt I had to speak to Linda.
If anyone could understand what was happening, she could.
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Mya was in the hospital. I had to cut Amanda from my life
before she got hurt. I had nobody to turn to.
But this wasn't about me. Linda had her own life. She was
still grieving over the loss of her brother.
I stood in front of the awning, debating whether to call on
Linda Fredrickson. The doorman sighed and walked over to
me. He knew I didn't live there. His eyes were raised as if to
say either come in, or get the hell out of here.
"May I ask who you're here to visit?" He wore a red
uniform and a square hat with gold tassles. I could see several
newspapers littering his tiny counter; the flicker on the glass
told me he kept a small television set to pass the time.
"Nobody," I said. "Just walking around the neighborhood."
"All right then," he said, with a suspicious tone. He left
me and went back inside, immediately picking up the newspaper. He raised the cover and for a moment I had a terrible
sense of deja vu. On the cover was a police sketch of William
Henry Roberts. It looked both exactly like him and nothing
like him. He was a young man. Like thousands of others in
this city. Like me.
I wondered if the doorman had been paranoid, thought I
could be the killer.
I hurried away.
The entire city was being combed for William Henry
Roberts. Yet as the noose tightened, the picture was becoming
clearer. I knew Roberts thought he was the great-grandson of
Billy the Kid. I knew he'd killed his entire family. The
problem was I had no proof. The proof had been reduced to
ashes four years ago.
I begged Wallace to let me run the story, knowing full well
my claims couldn't be fully supported by facts. They were unsubstantiated, and I offered to provide full disclaimers and
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editorialize much more than usual. In the end Wallace nixed
it. And rightly so. But that didn't mean I couldn't try to print
it elsewhere. Or let someone else print it.
I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the one number I
swore I would never call again.
The phone rang and the operator picked up.
"This is the New York Dispatch, how may I direct your call?"
"I'd like Paulina Cole's desk."
"One moment."
I held my breath, waited for the call to go through. Paulina
screened her calls. One of the benefits of having worked
beside her for a few months. Unsurprisingly it went to voice
mail.
"This is Cole. Leave a message."
"Paulina, this is Henry Parker. Meet me at Ollie's diner in
an hour. I have a story for you. No tricks, just business."
I hung up and began walking toward the diner.
51
I was in the middle of chewing a ham-and-cheese sandwich
when Paulina burst through the door. I'd been inside just
ten minutes, but decided to order without waiting. This
wasn't a date.
Paulina's hair was disheveled, her makeup ready to
cascade down her face at any moment, and her purse clung
to her shoulder by one overworked strap. She perused the
diner until she saw me. Then she took an enormous deep
breath and came over. I leaned across the table and pushed
the seat out for her. I was nothing if not a gentleman.
"Henry," she said, placing her bag on the floor, then
thinking better of it