Drop Shot

Chapter 47

Myron didn't wait for an invitation. He pushed past her. Again he was struck by the impersonal feel of this house. Not one picture. Not one remembrance. But now he understood why. The TV was tuned on the te

Dea

"It must torture you," he said.

"What?"

"Watching Duane on TV. Instead of in person."

"It was just a fling," she said in a monotone. "It didn't mean anything."

"Duane was just a one-nighter?"

"Something like that."

"I don't think so," Myron said. "Duane Richwood is your son."

"What are you talking about? I only had one son."

"That's true."

"And he's dead. They killed him, remember?"

"That's not true. Errol Swade was killed. Not Curtis.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. But there wasn't much conviction in her voice. She sounded tired, like she was going through the motions – or maybe she just realized that Myron was beyond buying the lies.

"I know now." Myron showed her the book in his hand. "Do you know what this is?"

She looked at the book, her face blank.

"It's the yearbook from Curtis's high school. I just got it from Lucinda Elright."

Dea

Dea

"Curtis was a great athlete," Myron continued, fingering through the pages. "He was only a sophomore, but he was already starting varsity football and basketball. The high school he went to didn't have a te

Dea

"You see, from the begi

Dea

"Unfortunately Alexander Cross and his buddies were outside getting high," Myron went on. "They heard Curtis and Errol. What happened next is not exactly clear, but I think we can probably take Senator Cross's word on this one. Alexander, high as a kite, created a conflict Maybe he didn't like the idea of a couple of black kids playing on his court Or maybe he really thought they were there to rob the club. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that Errol Swade took out a knife and killed him. It might have been self-defense, but I doubt it"

"He just reacted," Dea

Myron nodded. "They ran away then, but Curtis got tackled in the bushes by Valerie Simpson. They struggled. Valerie got a good look at Curtis. A very good look. When you are fighting with someone you believed killed your fiancé, you don't forget the face. Curtis managed to break away. He and Errol jumped the fence and ran down the block. They found a car in a driveway. Errol had been arrested several times already for stealing cars. Breaking in and hot-wiring one was no problem for him. That's what first gave it to me. I talked to the officer who supposedly shot your son. His name is Jimmy Blaine. Jimmy said he shot the driver of the car, not the passenger. But Curtis wouldn't have been driving. That wouldn't make any sense. The driver was the experienced thief, not the good kid. So then it dawned on me: Jimmy Blaine didn't shoot Curtis Yeller. He shot Errol Swade."

Dea

"The bullet bit Errol in the ribs. With Curtis's help they managed to round the corner and crawl in through the fire escape. They made their way to your apartment By now sirens were sounding all over the place. They were closing in on all of you. Errol and Curtis were probably in a state of panic. It was pandemonium. They told you what happened. You knew what this meant – a rich white boy shot at a fancy rich white club. Your son was doomed. Even if Curtis had only been standing there – even if Errol told the police that it was all his fault – Curtis was finished."

"I knew more than that," Dea

"And," Myron continued, "you knew Errol had a long record. You knew it was his fault. You knew he was going away for good this time. Errol's life was over, and he had no one to blame but himself. But Curtis was i

Dea

"No," Myron said. "I guess I can't What you did next probably didn't take much thought You'd heard the police fire two bullets. You saw only one in Errol. Most important Curtis didn't have a record. His mug shot wasn't on file. His description wasn't on file." He stopped. Her eyes were clear and on him. "Whose gun was it Dea

"Errol's."

"He had it with him?"

She nodded.

"So you took the gun. You pressed it against Errol's cheek. And you fired."

She nodded again.

"You blew his face right off," Myron continued. "I wondered about that too. Why would someone shoot him up close in the face? Why not in the back of the head or the heart? The answer is, you didn't want anyone to see his face. You wanted him to be an unrecognizable lump. Then you put on your big act You cradled him in your arms and cried while the police and the senator's hoods came crashing in. It was so simple really. I asked the medical examiner how they identified Curtis's body. She scoffed at such a ridiculous question. The usual way, she told me. The next of kin. You, Dea

"As for Curtis, his escape was easy. A nationwide manhunt began for Errol Swade, a six-foot four-inch man who looked nothing like your son. No one was looking for Curtis Yeller. He was dead."