I continue, “Do people ever ask for that kind of news? Whether you know what brought people to Rockton?”
Devon’s nose scrunches. “Yeah. Oh, they always have an excuse. They just started seeing someone or they switched jobs or moved into a new apartment, and is there anything they should know about their new girlfriend, coworker, neighbor? I shut that down fast. I remind them that no one’s here because they did anything dangerous so…” He pauses and glances my way. “Well, that’s what I did tell them. Not so sure that’s the truth anymore.”
He says it in a level tone. No accusation. I still feel the accusation, because it’s legitimate. People came here to escape something, often violence, and now they need to worry that others have come here to escape the consequences of committing violence?
I don’t answer. He doesn’t seem to expect one, just checks the progress of the coffee.
Then he continues, “You’re also going to ask whether I’ve heard any of those stories—what brought people here. Sometimes, yes. There are people who don’t hide their reason. There are people who drop enough hints that they might as well scream ‘I embezzled company funds.’ There are people who get drunk and confess that they double-crossed their drug dealer. Line the locals up, and I could make an educated guess at stories for a quarter of them.”
“None of those ever suggested violence?”
He pauses. Then he sighs. “Not many, but some, and no, I didn’t automatically dismiss my suspicions while wearing my Pollyanna rose-tinted glasses and chanting ‘no one here has done anything bad.’ I know we have rotten apples, whether they snuck in or bought their way in. I also know Will isn’t one of those rotten apples. If he did this, well…” Devon shrugs. “I won’t pretend I’m not salivating for the full story, but I’ll reserve judgment until I get it.”
“Have you ever heard anyone talk about why Will’s here?”
“Never. You guys are different.”
I frown. “Different how?”
Devon shrugs. “You’ve come to do a job. Like people who go to work on the oil rigs for two years and take home a pot of cash for it. We figure that applies to all the professionals—you, your sister, Will, Isabel, all the essential-services workers. Even Mathias. Everyone grumbles about why he gets a chalet when he’s only the butcher.” Devon snorts. “Only the butcher. Right. Guy’s obviously a shrink watching the rest of us for signs of isolation-induced mental breakdowns. So, no, people don’t ask what Will’s here for. They figure he’s just doing a job.”
I nod, and he can interpret that however he likes. Then we chat a little more before I steal a thermos of coffee and head off to find Dalton.
* * *
Down south, I was one of those annoying people who showed up for a 2:00 P.M. meeting at 1:55 and expected it to start by two. I have no patience with those who think “two o’clock meeting” actually means you start hauling your ass out of your desk chair at two and maybe take a bathroom break on the way to the meeting. It’s a matter of training people. If they know it never starts on time, they have no incentive for arriving on time.
Today, I’m climbing that podium a couple of minutes early, as if we can somehow zoom through before the late arrivals make it.
You snooze, you lose.
Except the only thing they’ll lose is the chance to hear the story firsthand. The version they get will be the warped one, several iterations down the telephone line. I don’t want that. So while I’m up there early, I wait until exactly eight before I begin.
If there’s one advantage to the town shutting down, it’s that fewer incoming residents means less time spent explaining protocol for new arrivals. No one has arrived since the last two meetings, so I can launch straight in without mentioning the coffee and pastries or asking people to hold questions or reminding them that they won’t be counted as late for their shifts.
I go straight into the story of what happened last night. Someone posted a sign right here on the movie screen, and this is that sign.
Hold up the paper. Read the paper. Make damn sure no one can later claim they couldn’t see it themselves.
When I’m done, I turn the podium over to Anders.
He doesn’t waste a moment on preamble. “You all want to know whether I did what it says on that sign. Whether I shot my commanding officer. The short answer is yes.”
He waits for the inevitable exclamation to subside. It does, quickly, because everyone knows this isn’t the end of the story, and they don’t want to miss a word.
“I would be happier ending my confession there,” he says. “Yes, I did it. Now let’s deal with that. But if I do, Casey will get back up here and fill in the rest. Eric will remind me that it is my duty, as law enforcement, to take your concerns seriously and therefore provide the entire story. Since I’d rather not have them defend me…”
He takes a deep breath. “Here’s the story. These aren’t excuses. There are none. The gist of what that sign says is true. I killed my CO. As for the mental breakdown part, yes, I was having trouble coping with the stress. I was on medication. It was causing side effects that concerned me.”
He catches my eye. “Casey will want me to point out that I mentioned those concerns to my doctor. I should have stopped taking the medication but…”
He shrugs. “As Eric always says, I’m a good soldier. I do as I’m told, and I trust those in charge. I took the medication despite my concerns. One night I dreamed I shot my commanding officer. As you can guess, it wasn’t a dream. I sleepwalked in and shot him in what the doctors called a fugue state.”
Someone grumbles, and someone else snorts. Dalton and I both turn sharply, visually identifying the offenders and mentally noting names. Anders only glances their way and shrugs.
“Yep, that sounds like an excuse,” he says. “Which is why I’m uncomfortable giving it.”
“Mental illness is never an excuse,” Isabel calls from her porch. “It’s an explanation, and anyone who cares for a mini-lecture on what Will is describing can join me at the Roc an hour before opening. I’ll even throw in a free drink.” She pauses. “One free drink.”
A chuckle ripples through the crowd as people relax.
“The point,” Anders says, “is that I did kill a commanding officer, and I had no motivation for doing so. This wasn’t a movie, where I heroically shot a tyrant. I temporarily lost my mind.”
“Lost your mind because of medication,” Isabel says. “Which has not been a concern since that time.”
I catch her eye and shake my head. I know she’s trying to help, but Anders has asked us to stand down. Everyone knows we’re Anders’s friends, and having any of us defend him doesn’t help. We need to trust residents to work this out for themselves.
“That’s the sum of it,” Anders says. “Now I’m sure you have questions…”
“Let me get this straight,” Conrad says, moving forward. “You were a soldier who murdered his CO and fled to Rockton? Escaped justice?”