The Guilty - Jason Pinter [31]
barrel or two?"
"I don't know! I've never seen a real gun before in my life,
now please leave me alone."
Just then a cop seemed to take notice and jogged over to
us. He separated me, whispered, "Get the fuck out of here,
scum." Then he said, "Miss, did you see the shooter?"
As I walked away, I looked over my shoulder long enough
to see her nod and then collapse in his arms.
Ten feet from the carnage, a man clicked open his cell
phone. Sweat was streaming down his face. He'd thankfully
skipped lunch. Breathing heavy, he pressed Redial and waited
for an answer.
"Hello?"
"Miss Cole?" He mopped at his brow with a shirtsleeve.
"It's James Keach. You'll never believe what just happened."
17
I arrived home tired to the bone. After spending hours writing
my piece on the Jeffrey Lourdes murder, my fingers ached, and
my head throbbed. I'd had enough death for a lifetime, and I
was growing tired of seeing it up close. I tossed my wallet and
keys on the table, fell into the couch next to Amanda. She put
her hand on mine. I squeezed it with whatever energy I had left.
We sat there. Tried to talk. Conversation came in bits and
pieces. Amanda had ordered dinner for both of us. I wasn't
hungry, just watched her poke at a salad. I stirred my pasta
with a disinterested fork. All I could think about was Jeffrey
Lourdes, and how ironic it was that the first time I ever saw
him in person, his most recognizable feature had been
reduced to blood and bone.
Betty Grable's words still rang in my ears. Between what
Curt Sheffield told me about the ammunition used to kill both
Athena Paradis and Joe Mauser, and her description of the
weapon used to kill Jeffrey Lourdes, there was no doubt in
my mind that the killer was using a rifle that took magnum
bullets, and he was using that weapon for a reason. And
somehow I had to find that reason, and use that to find the
killer.
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Jason Pinter
"How's work?" I asked Amanda. It was just a conversation starter, something to break the mood. Death was an inevitable part of reporting, but it had no place at the dinner
table.
"The judge is still being a dick on the Mary Westin case,"
she said. "Three abuse complaints from the neighbors, two
cigarette burns and Judge Jellyfish still doesn't realize it's in
Mary's best interest to be taken the hell away from her sickass parents."
I nodded, picked at a piece of penne. On many nights I'd
told Amanda how proud I was of her--both her work ethic
and choice of profession. After graduation, Amanda had
passed her bar exam and achieved high enough marks to
warrant a position in the Juvenile Rights Division of the New
York Legal Aid Society. The caseload for lawyers working for
the Legal Aid Society had increased nearly a hundred percent
in the last few years, mainly due to some high-profile cases
of child abuse and neglect that resulted in the horrific death
of children who had slipped through the cracks. The Legal
Aid Society had taken a beating in the press for their alleged
inability to protect children whose parents were already the
recipients of numerous abuse complaints. Because of this
they were looking for fresh blood, cowboys and cowgirls
who wouldn't stand for red tape.
Amanda worked long hours, alongside several other lawyers
who were appointed "law guardians" by the court. It was incredibly enriching work for her, I knew. But spending all day
every day around troubled and abused children took its toll.
Sometimes she would come home, crawl into bed and appear
on the verge of tears. She was too strong for that, though. She
knew her tears were trivial compared to the reality of the situation. And her energy was better focused outward than in.
The Guilty
99
"You know, I sit there sometimes," she continued, "and I
want to scream. Not that I really hate the guys I work for, but
in these cases you need to throw the book against the wall and
just holler. Right and wrong doesn't stem from legal precedent."
I felt her staring at me, waiting for a response. I didn't
want to talk about