hadn’t questioned him yet, they soon would, which I’d been fretting about because Levi frightened so easily.
“That’s the man who rode with me in the truck,” I said when I heard Ransler come up behind me. “I told you about him.”
“The mentally retarded guy, yeah. Billy picked him up yesterday afternoon, but he took it easy on him.” In response to my questioning look, he added, “I
promised
he would, didn’t I?” Then explained, “Look, Hannah, it doesn’t matter how long you’ve known . . . what’s his name again?”
I told him.
“Well, it doesn’t matter if you think the poor guy likes you. The detectives still had to check him out. Thurloe knew where you were headed Friday afternoon. He knew you were alone. Billy doesn’t think the guy’s smart enough to fence stolen property, and he has no priors. But that’s the way law enforcement works. Keep eliminating suspects until you have your man.” Ransler watched Levi disappear around the corner of the house before saying, “Holy cripes, he’s a big one, isn’t he? My advice is, avoid all contact because you never know what’s going on in the mind of someone like that.”
“Kids used to pick on Levi,” I said. “Never once did I see him stand up for himself.”
Ransler was nodding his empathy when I added, “You’re welcome to change clothes in the boat. I’ll be back in a minute after I check on something.”
“We’ll need bug spray,” he said as I started away. “I’d like to see the Helms property from the water, then maybe get out and have a look around.”
It stopped me. Before I could ask, though, the special prosecutor tried to put me at ease, saying, “I don’t want to see the pond where the woman died, don’t worry. This has to do with an old murder case. I brought along the file so I can orient myself.”
“You mean her husband?” I said. “Dwight Helms’s murder, is that the one?” As I asked, Alice Candor vanished into the house, too, so I’d missed my opportunity to flash her a nasty look or maybe even say something when I got close enough.
“Yeah, killed by person or persons unknown,” Ransler said. “Do you remember the details? It was a long time ago—almost twenty years.”
“I don’t remember much about Mr. Helms, just that he looked like a giant to me. Wore a big cowboy hat. And that they never found the man who shot him.”
The prosecutor had stepped off the dock and was opening his car but looked up when I asked, “Joel? Is it a coincidence you’re reopening the case?”
“Unsolved murders are never closed,” he began, then stopped and puzzled over something. After a moment, he asked, “Did you say
shot
? Is that what people around here believe?”
Now I was confused. “Yes, by drug dealers, outsiders supposedly. Shot once or twice in the back of the head. If the killer was caught, I never heard about it—”
“That’s not what I’m saying, Hannah. Parents . . . Yeah, I can see why they wouldn’t want their kids to know the details. This many years later, when locals talk about the murder, I’m surprised they don’t . . .” The man paused to reconsidered. “
There’s
the explanation. It happened so long ago, old-timers don’t discuss it.”
“That’s true,” I said, still confused. “No one’s proud of something like that. But are you telling me Dwight Helms
wasn’t
shot by drug dealers?”
Ransler’s tone became dismissive as he opened the trunk of his Audi and reached in. “Forensic science wasn’t very good in those days, that’s why I’m bringing the file along. Until I see for myself, though”—he stepped away from the car, holding an open briefcase—“let’s talk about that job I offered you.”
Job?
I had guessed right, but now he got down to details, explaining, “My office has a budget to hire outside help—Tallahassee money earmarked to track consumer fraud. That’s how big the problem is. Here, does this look familiar?”
He
“That’s the man who rode with me in the truck,” I said when I heard Ransler come up behind me. “I told you about him.”
“The mentally retarded guy, yeah. Billy picked him up yesterday afternoon, but he took it easy on him.” In response to my questioning look, he added, “I
promised
he would, didn’t I?” Then explained, “Look, Hannah, it doesn’t matter how long you’ve known . . . what’s his name again?”
I told him.
“Well, it doesn’t matter if you think the poor guy likes you. The detectives still had to check him out. Thurloe knew where you were headed Friday afternoon. He knew you were alone. Billy doesn’t think the guy’s smart enough to fence stolen property, and he has no priors. But that’s the way law enforcement works. Keep eliminating suspects until you have your man.” Ransler watched Levi disappear around the corner of the house before saying, “Holy cripes, he’s a big one, isn’t he? My advice is, avoid all contact because you never know what’s going on in the mind of someone like that.”
“Kids used to pick on Levi,” I said. “Never once did I see him stand up for himself.”
Ransler was nodding his empathy when I added, “You’re welcome to change clothes in the boat. I’ll be back in a minute after I check on something.”
“We’ll need bug spray,” he said as I started away. “I’d like to see the Helms property from the water, then maybe get out and have a look around.”
It stopped me. Before I could ask, though, the special prosecutor tried to put me at ease, saying, “I don’t want to see the pond where the woman died, don’t worry. This has to do with an old murder case. I brought along the file so I can orient myself.”
“You mean her husband?” I said. “Dwight Helms’s murder, is that the one?” As I asked, Alice Candor vanished into the house, too, so I’d missed my opportunity to flash her a nasty look or maybe even say something when I got close enough.
“Yeah, killed by person or persons unknown,” Ransler said. “Do you remember the details? It was a long time ago—almost twenty years.”
“I don’t remember much about Mr. Helms, just that he looked like a giant to me. Wore a big cowboy hat. And that they never found the man who shot him.”
The prosecutor had stepped off the dock and was opening his car but looked up when I asked, “Joel? Is it a coincidence you’re reopening the case?”
“Unsolved murders are never closed,” he began, then stopped and puzzled over something. After a moment, he asked, “Did you say
shot
? Is that what people around here believe?”
Now I was confused. “Yes, by drug dealers, outsiders supposedly. Shot once or twice in the back of the head. If the killer was caught, I never heard about it—”
“That’s not what I’m saying, Hannah. Parents . . . Yeah, I can see why they wouldn’t want their kids to know the details. This many years later, when locals talk about the murder, I’m surprised they don’t . . .” The man paused to reconsidered. “
There’s
the explanation. It happened so long ago, old-timers don’t discuss it.”
“That’s true,” I said, still confused. “No one’s proud of something like that. But are you telling me Dwight Helms
wasn’t
shot by drug dealers?”
Ransler’s tone became dismissive as he opened the trunk of his Audi and reached in. “Forensic science wasn’t very good in those days, that’s why I’m bringing the file along. Until I see for myself, though”—he stepped away from the car, holding an open briefcase—“let’s talk about that job I offered you.”
Job?
I had guessed right, but now he got down to details, explaining, “My office has a budget to hire outside help—Tallahassee money earmarked to track consumer fraud. That’s how big the problem is. Here, does this look familiar?”
He
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