Bad Blood

talk to Bob Tripp’s folks, like right now.”
    “And a newspaper reporter,” Virgil added. “And Flood’s wife.”

    SHE WENT to make phone calls, and Virgil kicked back and thought about Bob Tripp. And he thought, Why did he wait this long?
    If Baker had told Tripp that she was being sexually abused, and he killed Flood out of a misplaced sense of justice, why did he wait more than a year? One possibility was that Tripp had been afraid to do it, and that suddenly having access to Flood at the grain elevator had triggered him. Maybe that was why he wanted to talk to the reporter—he’d confided in the reporter, in an effort to get something done, and the reporter hadn’t been able to help.
    Virgil preferred a second possibility: that Tripp had only recently learned something that triggered the murder of Flood. If that was true, then there was a way into the case, a source of information, if he could find it. If Tripp had learned something, then Virgil could find it.
    Coakley came back and said, “We’re in luck. Everybody’s around. We’ll do the Tripps first, and then run over to the Dispatch . The reporter’s name is Pat Sullivan. Sully. I hate to say it, but he’s usually pretty accurate. Flood’s wife works in Jackson, but her father says she’s due home at six o’clock.”
     
     
    THE TRIPPS, George and Irma, lived in a fifties ranch-style single-story house, yellow, with a two-car garage at one end, arborvitae poking out of the snow along the driveway and under the picture window. George Tripp was standing behind the picture window, with his hands in his pockets, when they pulled into the driveway.
    “The big issue here,” Coakley said on the way over, “is that we haven’t released Bobby’s body yet, and they are getting pretty upset about it. They want to have a funeral, get him in the ground.”
    “When are you going to release him?” Virgil asked.
    “Ike Patras says he doesn’t think he can get anything more off the body, so I’m going to okay the release tomorrow morning. I’ll tell George as soon as we’re in the house. Maybe that’ll loosen them up a little.”
    “You said you guys were friends.”
    “Friendly. Not friends,” Coakley said. “We didn’t see each other socially or anything, but we’d stop to talk on the sidewalk. They’ve been pretty unhappy with me since Bobby’s arrest, and then his death—like I betrayed them.”
     
     
    GEORGE TRIPP WAITED until they were halfway up the walk before he left the window and opened the front door. He said, “Sheriff,” with a nod, and a cold chill in his voice; he backed away from the door, his hands back in his pockets. Not going to shake with the law. Irma Tripp came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. The house was neatly kept, with family photos in frames, and wildlife art on the walls; it smelled of chili and wood cleaner. Virgil thought the Tripps were probably in their middle forties, Irma a bit younger than her husband.
    Coakley said, “We have some news for you, George, Irma. We’ll release Bobby tomorrow morning, so you can get on with a service.”
    “’ Bout time,” George Tripp said. He was looking at Virgil. “Who would this be?”
    “Virgil Flowers, he’s an agent with the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension,” Coakley said. “He works the southern part of the state.”
    Irma said, “I thought we were all done with investigation.”
    Virgil shook his head. “No, no. We do have some more news for you. Could we sit down? We really do need to talk.”
    They sat in a conversation group, a couch on one side of a wood-and-glass coffee table, two overstuffed chairs on the other side. Virgil leaned forward and said, “I really want to express my sympathy over the death of your son. It’s an awful thing.”
    “How would you know?” Irma asked.
    “Because I see a lot of awful things, and I’m pretty much like you folks. I grew up in Marshall, and my father is a minister. When a kid died, half the time the service would be in our church, and I’d know him. Know the family. I’ve been through it a lot.”
    Irma nodded: “He was the best thing we had. He was our only child.”
    Virgil glanced at Coakley, who nodded at him, and Virgil turned back to the Tripps. “We need to tell you that we no longer think that your son committed suicide. We’ve developed evidence that he may have been murdered by Jim Crocker, the sheriff’s deputy who was on duty that