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you didn’t kill her but is it possible that she could have said something to you that night that made you so angry you could have killed her?”
    Rudy could feel the pressure—it was causing his chest to burn.
    “I don’t know what you’re asking me, Mr. Brume. Woulda, coulda, shoulda—I didn’t get angry at Lucy that night.” Rudy was shouting now.
    “I know you didn’t, Rudy. And you didn’t kill Lucy either. I know that. But you could get angry enough to kill somebody who killed or raped your mother and you could get angry enough to kill somebody who killed Lucy if she was your wife. What I want to know is, could Lucy or anyone say something that would make you so angry you could kill them?”
    Rudy immediately returned in his mind to his classmates taunting him. He closed his eyes thinking back, picturing them. He stayed there for more than a minute.
    “I guess so,” he said without opening his eyes. His voice was again calm.
    “So Lucy theoretically could have said something that night that could have made you so angry you could have killed her?”
    “I guess so.” The eyes were still closed. He was tired now, confused. He just wanted to go home.
    “Do you forget things sometimes when you’re angry?”
    “I guess so.” The eyes were still closed. Rudy had a headache now. He wanted it to stop.
    “If theoretically you got angry at Lucy that night and did something, you might not remember it?”
    “I don’t know, I guess so. I don’t even know what you’re talking about anymore.”
    The Grunt took a moment to write in his pad. “She might have made him angry enough to kill her. He could have killed her. He doesn’t remember.” It was time to wrap it up.
    “All right, Rudy, you can go now. Someone’s going to come in and take some blood from you. It will only take a second. Do you need a ride home?”
    “No, I’ll walk.” He needed the fresh air.
    Rudy was glad it was over. He had no idea his nightmare was just about to begin.
    The Grunt stepped towards the door but then turned back. “One more question, Rudy. Do you own any knives?”
    “Sure.”
    “How about a serrated knife—do you own a serrated knife?”
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “You know, the kind with the little grooves along the blade.”
    “I might have one. One of the guests in the hotel gave me an old tackle box once and it had a few knives in it I think one of them had that kind of blade.” The one question had become several.
    “Where do you keep that tackle box?”
    “In my room, under my bed. Why?”
    “No reason.” Wes walked out of the room.

Six
    Austin Reaves was a rakish old coot. He was a transplanted Yankee whose parents had moved to Fort Lauderdale many years ago when he was only sixteen, but forty years later he was still considered a Yankee in Bass Creek. Those who knew him well called him something far worse—a carpetbagger. He was an attorney specializing in wills and trusts, hardly a lucrative practice in Cobb County, but the work was fairly easy, it paid the bills, and it left Austin free to pursue his true vocations—fishing and drinking good booze. He was a big, wide man with thick reddish brown hair that didn’t have a hint of gray. No worries, he would reply when people would remark about the robust color of his hair. The rest of him fit well with his age.
    Every weekend and every Wednesday, Austin was on his boat out on the lake. Every afternoon promptly at the stroke of three, he could be found placing his generous rump on his favorite barstool at the Bass Creek Hotel. Drinks at the Bass Creek were a little more expensive than at the local dives around town, but Austin wouldn’t go anywhere else. He loved the old bar: the thick Southern atmosphere that hung from the old oak walls like Spanish moss, that called to him and cradled and comforted him in his time of need—which was every day at three. He was not unique in that regard. Many well-to-do inebriates called the Bass Creek