Chapter 35
Cutter felt like he’d just wrestled shoes onto a dozen rank horses by five p.m. when they got Ricky Pink into interrogation at the Sheriff’s Office.
Layers of sweat and grime had long since dried, leaving Cutter filthy and exhausted.
The room was small, nine-by-nine feet, just large enough for a metal table and four chairs.
Unlike the movies, there was no soundproofing, no fancy two-way mirror.
The walls were painted a depressingly dark brown to about waist level.
Above that they were a sort of medium avocado green.
Chief Smith told everyone he’d read somewhere these particular colors were supposed to calm people down.
Cutter suspected he’d found the paint at a price county commissioners could live with.
The room was wired for sound. Interviews could be taped, and the brass could stand outside in the hallway and listen if they wanted to.
The smell of boiling potatoes and something Cutter guessed was chipped beef on toast carried in from the jail kitchen, close enough to hear the trustees banging around with pots and pans.
Cutter cuffed the kid to an I-bolt on one side of the metal table, putting his back to the door, and then slid one of the metal chairs hard against the bend of his legs—an unspoken order to sit.
Lafayette Johnson leaned over the end of the table working the tape recorder.
He propped up the cigar-sized microphone on a plastic stand just out of the outlaw’s reach, then looked up.
Cutter gave him a nod, and he pressed Record.
Cutter dropped a manila file folder on his side of the table and then pulled out the chair across from the kid.
Searing pain shot through his injured ribs with every breath and blink, but he pasted a benign look on his face and sat, gritting his teeth.
Pink stared at his hands, locked in his own little world.
If he noticed Cutter’s discomfort, he didn’t react to it.
Cutter plunked a piece of cottonwood root the size of his fist on top of the manila folder, and then twisted enough to fish the Barlow knife out of his front pocket.
His injuries made the action take a surprising amount of effort.
Sweat rolled down his spine by the time he tipped back his chair against the wall and began to work on his carving.
Dosed with as much Tylenol and ibuprofen as the ER docs would allow, Cutter was able to achieve a relatively pain free posture as long as he didn’t bend or twist … or breathe enough to fill up his lungs.
“You’re a big ol’ boy,” he said without looking up.
He wanted to say a good deal more, but he kept his thoughts to himself, partially because of the tapes—but mainly because most humans abhorred silence.
He could sit and whittle for as long as it took.
The kid would eventually say something, even if it was just to cuss him.
For a time, Ricky Pink appeared to be just fine with silence, too.
If Cutter’s mind started to wander, he’d move just enough to drive an excruciating spike through his side.
Then, focused again, he’d relax and return to his carving.
This particular piece of cottonwood already had the lines of a bird, probably a cardinal, complete with tufted top knot.
Once he figured that out, all he had to do was carve away all the stuff that wasn’t bird.
He planned to do essentially the same thing in building an airtight criminal case against Duvall and the kid—carve away all the lies so a jury could see the truth.
“How long?” Pink said after a full ten minutes of silence. He’d never looked up from his hands, even to see what Cutter was doing with the pocketknife.
“I have all night, Ricky,” Cutter said. “We can stay here as long as we need to.”
Now Pink’s head snapped up. He was grinning. “I’m talking about your old lady.” He smirked. “How long’s she got before she turns tits up.” Pink cocked his head to one side and made a gurgling sound. “How long?”
Cutter kept whittling while he spoke, his voice low and steady.
“You poor kid,” he said. “You have no idea what a whirlwind of shit is about to spin you out of control. Oh, you think you know, but you are miles off in your assessment. What you said back there at Sunshine Lake, you were right about that. I didn’t want to shoot an unarmed teenager.
Well, sir, things change once you’re in jail.
Considering the gravity of your crimes, you’ll stand trial as an adult.
I have zero doubt of that. There’s a better-than-average chance the district attorney will go for the death penalty. ”
Pink sat there and stared, seething but saying nothing.
“You think your partner’s going to cover for you?
” Cutter asked. “Allen Duvall is a man falling off a cliff, clawing at thin air trying to save himself. He’s probably dropping you in the grease right now.
” Cutter let his chair tip forward and drove his index finger into the table to make his point, grimacing at the pain in his ribs.
“He will do anything and everything he can think of to keep from having a date with Old Sparky.”
“You want us both dead,” Pink said.
Cutter sighed. “I don’t not want you dead.”
Pink’s face twisted into a smirk. “That would work out really great for you, wouldn’t it?
Anyone who knows anything about what you done, dead and buried.
” He leaned forward, eyes locked on Cutter, massive shoulders slightly hunched, as if he was about to shuck off the restraints and pounce.
“I’m gonna outlive your tired old wife. I can guarantee you th—”
LJ slammed a hand down on the table.
“You shut your piehole!”
It was the first sound he’d made since the click of hitting the Record button. Even Pink was taken aback.
Cutter gave the other deputy a wan smile and then gestured at Pink with the tip of his pocketknife. “It’s okay, LJ. He’s just a stupid kid.”
That seemed to touch Pink off more than anything.
He tried to stand, rattling the chain on his handcuffs against the eyebolt in the table.
“You’re the one ended up with the diamonds!
You!” Spittle flew from his mouth. “Either you stole them from Millner when you murdered him or …” He nodded emphatically, as if a better idea had just occurred to him.
“… or … or … I don’t know for sure how, but you have them.
I know that for a fact!” Pink fell back in his chair, relaxing his hands and shaking his head.
“You’re crooked. More crooked than me. At least I admit what I am.
You’re making people think you’re some kind of hero with your poor sick wife.
Well boohoo-hoo.” He hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat it on the table in disgust. “You killed my friend.”
“I did.” Cutter sighed. “Killed him graveyard dead. And with what you’ve just told me, I believe we can make a case that gets the State of Texas to do the same for you and Allen Duvall.”