She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,96

knew many people who did, and their kids all started walking around a year old, maybe a year and a half.

Walking! The letter said.

Just started walking, in 1978.

That would make her about sixteen or seventeen now.

About the same age as Jack Thatch.

You get it. You’ve got a boy.

About the same age as this girl in the poster.

My best to Katy and your boy.

Definitely Jack’s parents.

Stay safe—Richard Nettleton.

Who the hell was Richard Nettleton?

Faustino made a pot of coffee—he’d be here awhile.

7

They raided Dunk’s apartment while I was still in the hospital, while Dunk was in his third surgery. They were able to remove the bullets from his chest and gut, repair the damage to the tissue and muscle. They set the broken rib bones. The bullet at his shoulder went straight through. That was good. The two in his left leg turned out to be the most problematic—one grazed dangerously close to his femoral artery and severely damaged the femoral nerve, the other shattered his femur. He wasn’t in danger of losing the leg, but he’d never walk the same, if he walked at all. A doctor came in and updated me on all this a few minutes after the detectives left.

I heard about half of what he said.

As they were leaving, Detective Brier asked me who the man in the black GTO was. Said he’d been seen at my building, was at the funeral, too.

I told him I had no idea.

Brier left the letter. He took my pants and sweatshirt in his paper bag. Evidence, he said.

Detective Brier’s partner, Joy Fogel, led the raid on Dunk’s apartment. They tore the place apart. Nothing incriminated Dunk, though. Whatever might have tied him to Crocket’s business had been kept elsewhere.

They found Dunk’s father dead on the couch, a dirty heroin needle still sticking out of his arm. He had been there at least a day, maybe longer.

When they picked up Alonzo Seppala, he said Dunk had nothing to do with the hit on Crocket. He hung himself in his cell that same night—used his pants.

They kept me in the hospital for two days for treatment and observation, although I didn’t much care for the latter and had no need for the former—Brier was right; I didn’t have a single scratch on me. Not a bump, bruise, or lingering cough.

I wouldn’t get the chance to talk to Dunk about any of this for nearly three weeks. The ache in my stomach grew with each passing day.

Log 05/20/1993—

Subject “D” within expected parameters.

Audio/video recording.

“Where’s Warren tonight, Carl?”

Carl stared at the monitor, at the boy looking back at him. He reached for the microphone button, hesitated, then pulled his hand away.

“It’s not often you and I get to spend time alone, Carl. We have a lot of catching up to do. Did Warren call in sick, or did they finally nail him to the wall for the Great Toilet Paper Caper?”

Carl pressed the button. “Shut your face, shit knocker.”

The thirty-second delay elapsed. “The last time I was alone with Warren, he was kind enough to read me all the newspaper headlines, even a few of the stories. Do you think you could do that? It really does help to pass the time. You have a copy of the paper there, don’t you?”

Carl glanced down at the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette sitting on the console. He leaned back in his chair and said to nobody in particular, “For the record, I have no idea how the kid does that, but it creeps me the fuck out. Like he’s got eyes and ears in here. For my friends at corporate—how about putting a little something extra in the budget so we can keep a backup on call for days like today when someone does call in sick? Third time this year for Warren, not that I’m counting. I shouldn’t be alone with our little buddy, here. Nobody should. If we had a union, they’d be all over this.”

Subject ‘D’ stood from his bed, crossed the room, and looked directly into the camera. “There’s no harm in keeping up with current events, right? How about you just read the first page to me?”

Carl pressed the microphone button. “When your dad did that to your face, it must have hurt like a son of a bitch. Wish I could have heard it, you little shit. I bet you squealed like a stuck pig. I can’t imagine what you said to him to bring that on, for a father to do that, for