Chapter 19
All truths that are kept silent become poisonous.
-Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, 1883-5
Tuesday, June 9, 1999
Jim Phelps awoke to a pounding on his hollow, bedroom door. He wrapped a sheet around his naked body as the door opened.
"Jim," his mother said. "There are some officers downstairs who want to talk to you."
"Huh," said Jim, still half-asleep. "What time is it?"
"It's almost ten," she said.
"Ten," he said as he stood. "Wow, I've been sleeping a lot lately."
"Is everything okay, Jim?"
"Sure, Mom," he said, looking over his mother's wrinkled face and light green eyes as if something may be wrong with her. "I just can't believe how much I've been sleeping since school let out. Why do you ask?"
"Because," his mother raised her voice then quieted herself. "Because, I tell you that I've just served coffee to two plain clothes detectives and you ask me what time it is, like this is no big deal."
"Mom," he said as he took a pair of jeans from his messy floor and put them on. "I'm sure this is just another aspect of their investigation into the murders or the LSD incident or something. It's nothing aimed at me."
Jim pulled a black T-shirt over his lean Torso, reached onto his dresser and put on his eyeglasses, then walked directly passed his mother, down the stairs, into his kitchen where two plainclothes detectives, one pudgy and stocky, the other thin and wiry, sat drinking gourmet coffee at his dinner table.
Remain calm, Jim told himself. They won't catch you.
"Is there something I can help you with officers?"
Both men stood and shook Jim's hand as they introduced themselves.
"We sure hope you can help us," said Sergeant Davison as he flipped open a leather notebook.
"Where were you on the night of Saturday, April 24, 1999?"
"The night of the bonfire party?"
"Yes," said Davison.
"Well, I was at the party."
"At what time did you leave the party?" Davison had removed his glasses and chewed on one end of one stem.
"About midnight, before the killing."
"What did you do afterwards?"
"I went home and went to bed."
Sergeant Davison put his glasses back on his face. Detective Lamartina spoke.
"Were any of your friends at the party?"
"No, that's why I left."
"Did anyone notice you there?"
"I don't think so, Detective Lamartina. I stayed in the background. I was supposed to meet my friend Steven Carter there, but he never showed up-at the party I mean."
"So," said Davison, as he casually waved his eyeglasses in the air. "You were friends with the alleged murderer."
"I went to his funeral, instead of the others', if that's what you mean."
"Why," asked Lamartina, now standing. "Would you go to the funeral of an accused killer?"
"He was the only one killed who happened to be my friend," Jim said with honest strength. "I can't help that he may have gone crazy."
Detective Lamartina shot a glance at Sergeant Davison, who nodded, then spoke, "We received two anonymous phone calls Sunday, in which it was relayed that you were the killer in the tree."
"That's ridiculous," said Phelps, as if angered by the possible accusation.
"You are pretty good with rifles, are you not?" asked Lamartina.
"Yeah, I'm good with guns. So what? I don't kill people, just deer, and only when they're in season."
Jim did his best to come off offended and hurt at the mere thought of such an accusation.
"No one is accusing you of anything, Mr. Phelps. We're just trying to fill one small hole in our case against Steven Carter."
"Which is?"
"How the hell a kid with no experience shooting guns could be so effective with a personally restored, seventeen year old Winchester thirty ought six caliber rifle. Someone restored that gun, added a sight and knew precisely how to use it for long range killing," said Sergeant Davison, before yielding to Detective Lamartina.
"Whoever restored that gun knew what they were doing, and whoever fired it had fired rifles before. Steven Carter had never gone hunting in his life and yet there was a brand new deer stand in those trees. Even with deer season a few months away, it seems impossible that anyone would have a deer stand aimed towards private property?"
"What does all this mean?" asked Jim, now the only one sitting down.
"It means, we think Steven Carter had help," said Sergeant Davison. "We think someone taught him how to shoot, restored his gun and maybe even built him a deer stand. We know from interviews that he couldn't have possibly done this himself."
"I never believed he did it," said Jim. "I still don't believe he did it."
"Who do you think did it?" asked Lamartina.
"I don't know. For all I know, Steven Carter did it all by himself. I don't believe Steven Carter did it, but the only thing I know for sure is that I didn't do it."
"Then why did we receive these calls?" asked Lamartina.
Phelps shrugged. "Probably some graduation prank," he muttered.
Both Detectives sat down at the table.
"You weren't very popular in school, were you?" asked Lamartina.
"No. I was an honors student. I guess I was kind of a geek to many people."
"Did you know Ethan Lee?" asked Lamartina
"I saw him in class."
"Was he friends with Steven Carter?" asked Lamartina.
"Ethan was nice to everyone. He was a total socialite. He never wanted anyone to hate him."
"Perhaps that's why the killer let him live."
"I don't know," Jim shrugged.
"Can I offer you more coffee," Jim rose from the table and poured himself a cup.
"No thank you Jim; you've been more than helpful."
Helpful Jim Phelps walked the two detectives to the door.
"I wish you guys the best of luck catching the killer."
"We'll do our best," said Lamartina.
After they left, Jim's mother came downstairs.
"What did they want?" she asked.
"They wanted to know if I taught Steven Carter how to shoot."
"Did you?"
"No mother," Jim said, sipping his gourmet coffee. "I certainly did not."