Presumption of Guilt by Archer Mayor

the warmth of a weak spring sun. The most distant cabin was his destination, one of its doors numbered 3 .
    It was midday, in the middle of the week. Not a good time—most would imagine—to find anyone at home. Cops in Vermont, however, rarely paid heed to such conventions, since their primary clientele didn’t either.
    Sure enough, as he approached the door in question, it opened to reveal a heavy, middle-aged bearded man in a T-shirt and jeans.
    â€œWho’re you?” he asked, neither friendly nor hostile. He looked vaguely as if he’d just woken up, although Willy suspected the effect was permanent.
    â€œI’m a cop,” Willy told him, not bothering to show his badge. “That okay?”
    â€œDepends. What’ve I done?”
    â€œNothing I know about.”
    The man pointed his chin at Willy’s left side. “What’s wrong with your arm? You okay?”
    What was it with this family? Willy wondered, but he was impressed by the care he heard in the question. “Yeah,” he said. “Old injury. Thanks for asking.”
    â€œNo biggie. What’s up?”
    â€œAre you Greg Mitchell?”
    â€œYeah.”
    Willy considered his options and chose to go straight to the point. “You talk with your mother lately?”
    The man’s mouth opened slightly. “She all right?”
    â€œFine. Perfect. I just wanted to know if you’d talked.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen I guess I’ve got some news for you. Not sure if you’d call it bad, exactly, since it’s kind of ancient, but you might find it helpful.”
    The man instinctively touched the doorframe, as if for possible support. “What is it?”
    â€œWe found a body a couple of days ago. You mighta heard about it in the news. It was your father.”
    The tradition among cops was to add, “Sorry for your loss,” but Willy didn’t truck with that. He wasn’t sorry, and he wasn’t always sure when a survivor might not agree with him.
    So he stayed silent, as did Greg Mitchell, who continued staring at him for several seconds before asking, “My mom know?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œAnd Julie?”
    â€œYeah. Your mother told her, but she didn’t know how to reach you. Julie gave me this address.”
    Greg dropped his chin to look at the dirt patch between them. “Yeah. Things’ve slid a little between me and Mom.”
    â€œBad feelings?” Willy asked.
    â€œNot really. More disappointment,” Mitchell acknowledged. “I been a letdown to her my whole life. I figured maybe I’d just … I don’t know … drift away somehow.”
    â€œYou chose a good spot for it.”
    Willy let the silence swell between them—an old interviewer’s gambit.
    â€œYou wanna come in?” Mitchell finally asked. “I got coffee.”
    â€œSure.”
    The cabin’s interior came as a surprise, given Willy’s knowledge of Mitchell’s previous digs. Blond pine walls and vaulted ceiling; broad, double-glass doors overlooking a small deck—all of it flooded with sunlight. It was modern, bright, cheery, and in startling contrast to its hulking slow-moving denizen. It made Willy think of a local bear breaking in and calling it home—Goldilocks in reverse.
    It was tiny—a single room, half of it filled with a bed, the other half by a kitchenette and a closet. A small bathroom was at the end. There were about as many possessions lying about as in a standard abandoned motel room. Greg Mitchell was not making a big dent on the world.
    â€œNice place,” Willy complimented him, as Mitchell led him to the counter holding a coffeemaker and poured him a mug taken from an overhead cabinet in which only two mugs resided. “How can you afford it?”
    Mitchell didn’t take umbrage. “I cleaned up,” he said with a ready frankness common to many twelve-step program