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“Sheriff?” A husky, smoker’s voice.
“Yes. May I help you?”
“I need to speak with you.”
“I keep office hours. If you don’t mind-”
“Away from the office,” the woman said, interrupting. “A friend knew where you lived. I’m sorry about this.”
He motioned her inside, and then to the couch. He offered her something to drink, hoping she wouldn’t accept and she asked for coffee-“Any kind of coffee. Instant’s all right.”
He used his coffee press to make two cups and served her in a Simpsons mug. His was a State Farm.
Beatrice combat-crawled across the floor to the woman’s feet and sighed to make sure to be noticed. The woman bent down and petted her and Bea set up camp, climbing to a sitting position and placing just her jaw onto the edge of the couch for convenience.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, “but it’s wrong of me to come here. But I can’t be seen at your office, or at least I don’t want to be seen at your office.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“It’s about the man. The dead man.”
Walt kept his outward appearance calm, though his insides were anything but.
“Martel Gale.”
“Martel, yes. I didn’t know his last name at the time.”
“You knew him,” Walt said. He sipped the hot coffee in part to maintain the image of nonchalance.
“Sheriff, I’m a member of NA-Narcotics Anonymous. The whole idea is anonymity, so my being here is radically wrong. But when I saw the story in the paper. When they ran the photograph of him-that football one-I felt an obligation to come forward.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“He visited our group last Tuesday night. It was a speaker night so there wasn’t a lot of sharing, but he stuck around for coffee at the end and I talked to him. We get a lot of guests and like them to feel welcome.”
Walt wondered if Martel Gale’s good looks had had anything to do with her welcome.
“He stuck around awhile,” she continued, “and we got to talking and though he didn’t come right out and say it, I think he was here in Sun Valley for the ninth step.”
“You know, I’m familiar with twelve-step programs-AA most of all-and believe me, we appreciate their success, but I’m not familiar with the particular steps.”
“You might call it atonement,” she said. “ ‘We make direct amends to such people wherever possible except when to do so would injure them or others.’ Basically, it’s our chance to remove excess baggage and clear the way for our full recovery.”
“I realize there is the assumption of anonymity,” Walt said, choosing his words carefully, “but with Mr. Gale dead I’m hoping we can look beyond that and you can tell me as much as you know.”
“And I would, except the last part of the step kind of prevents that. I mean, I have no way of knowing who such information might injure, and it’s wrong for me to come here and talk about this in the first place, much less accidentally harm or injure someone by doing so. That’s for the addict to decide. I’m not about to play Higher Power.”
“Let’s back up a moment,” Walt said. He kept all urgency out of his voice, found his professional self, no matter how odd it felt to engage inside his own house. “He came to your meeting. You two met after the meeting. Did you happen to go somewhere? Did this all take place at the meeting itself?”
“We might have gone for a cup of coffee. At Tully’s.”
“And from what he told you, you came to believe he was here in town for the ninth step.”
“Yes.”
“So he would have been meeting with someone,” Walt said.
“More than one,” she blurted out before squinting at him accusingly.
“The point is,” Walt said, “we don’t harm or injure people…”
“Ellen.”
“Ellen. We… the sheriff’s office… our job is just the opposite. We protect people. In this case it’s too late to protect Mr. Gale. Our job-my job-becomes explaining his death. And as you can imagine, that can often be a tall order, as it is in this case, given Mr. Gale’s status as a visitor to our valley and something of an unknown. Add to that his celebrity status as a sports figure, and it gets more complicated.”
“Which is one of the reasons I couldn’t come to your office. I do not want my name or face on the news. No one knows I used, Sheriff. Not my boss, not my family. NA saved my life, but if I’m outed-”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“You’d be surprised how easily it does happen.”
“You are safe here.”
“Until I find some reporter was camped in the bushes.”
She was right. Reporters occasionally hounded his home. Her anonymity wasn’t perfectly safe anywhere.
“I thought about calling,” she said. “But it seemed like the cowardly thing to do. Not that I expect that to make any sense to anyone but me. The point being: I’m here, but I don’t think I can help all that much.”
“What gave you the impression he was here for the ninth step?” Walt asked, afraid he was already losing her.
“I’ve said too much.”
“Did he mention names?”
“No! Of course not.”
“But he did say something.”
“He said he was here to fix things, and we talked about a couple of the other steps and I pretty much could figure he was here for the ninth.”
“Did he ask your help in finding someone?”
“How could you possibly know that?” she asked.
“Most everyone has post office boxes. Getting a real address can be tricky.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “I’m saying a lot more than I intended to.” She placed the coffee down and gave Bea another pat on the head. “I should probably go.”
He had nothing to go on. A first name. Might not even be her real name. He couldn’t let her go.
“Was his mood angry or vengeful?”
“Him? No. Just the opposite. Are you kidding? He was contrite. We’re all contrite by the ninth. When you’re using, you walk all over the people you care about the most. Steal from them. Lie to them. Cheat on them. Do whatever it takes to stay high. Use getting high as an excuse to do whatever you feel like. Drugs are incredibly convenient in that way, Sheriff. You can do basically whatever you want and it’s always the drug’s fault, never yours. And doing all that makes you feel shitty-pardon my French-so you get high to forget about it, and around and around we go.”
“But I imagine some grudges build up along the way. Jealousies, or anger at those who stop helping or call you out.”
“You’ve been around it,” she said. “I can tell.”
“We see just a little bit of substance abuse in my line of work.” She laughed and rubbed Bea out of nervousness. “I guess that’s right,” she said uncomfortably.
“But not Martel Gale,” he said.
“He was a recovering addict. He had his proverbial shit together as far as I could tell. Long way to come to make amends. Most people write a letter. Some dare to make a phone call-and believe me, that’s not easy. Traveling halfway across the country to do it in person? That’s someone you care about. Trust me. Or someones I guess, in his case. He was all fucked up when he was using: steroids and HGH and any kind of performance enhancer out there. Massive quantities, to hear him tell it. Totally raged. Poisoned by it. A maniac. Testosterone overdose. Put his fist through car windows. Shit like that. Incredible Hulk stuff. A real terror.”
“You’d think that might carry some anger with it,” he said, thinking of Vince Wy
“He wouldn’t have come here if that was still lingering. Doesn’t make sense. Just the opposite. He didn’t come here to blame, believe me. He came here to take the heat, even if it should be shared. He came here to make it right.”
“And someone didn’t want to hear him?”
“How should I know?”
“Did he express any concern, any reservations?”
“We all have reservations, Sheriff. It’s terrifying to expose yourself like that, to go up to another human being and admit your shortcomings and take responsibility for the wrongs you’ve committed.”