Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

last night, he would have had to pass the intersection where the accident occurred in order to get home.
    “What time did he leave?” I ask.
    “’Bout seven-thirty, give or take.”
    “What was he driving?”
    “Don’t know about that.”
    I pull a ten-dollar bill from my wallet and lay it on the bar. “Behave yourself, Jimmie.”
    “Hey, don’t forget about me if this pans out,” he says.
    I don’t look back as I start toward the exit.
    *   *   *
    Leland Dull and his wife, Gail, live on a tree-lined street of circa 1960 bungalows that might have been quaint if not for the tumbling-down chain-link fences and yards trampled to dirt. The neighborhood would have been redeemable if not for the railroad tracks fifty yards from their front doors and the freight trains that rattle by four times a day.
    I asked my second shift dispatcher, Jodie, to run his name for outstanding warrants. He comes back clean, but I discover a twelve-year-old conviction for vehicular manslaughter. According to police records, he was driving home late one night, missed a curve in the road, and drove through a house, killing the homeowner, a seventy-year-old woman. The county attorney dropped the charges down from vehicular homicide to vehicular manslaughter, and Dull pled guilty. He was sentenced to two years at the Mansfield Correctional Institution, but ended up doing nine months.
    Chances are Leland Dull wasn’t involved in this particular accident. But considering his history of drinking and driving, his proximity to the scene on the night in question—and the fact that he drives a truck—I’m obliged to check him out.
    I find the house with no problem and park in the driveway, behind an old Dodge pickup. I can’t see the front end of the truck from where I’m sitting. I hail dispatch, let them know I’m 10-23, get out and start toward the vehicle. A quick walk around reveals no damage.
    “Ain’t you going to kick the tires?”
    I glance up to see Leland Dull standing a few feet away, glaring at me as if I’m about to steal his truck.
    “Or maybe you ought to whip out one of them CSI Q-tips and swab the hood for blood. Hell, break out the shovel. Maybe I got a fuckin’ body buried in the backyard.”
    He’s sixty years old with a full head of white hair that’s gone yellow and hasn’t seen a decent cut in a couple of decades. The stubble on his chin tells me he hasn’t shaved for a few days, and I’m pretty sure the smell wafting over to me isn’t from the aging mutt at his feet.
    I pull out my badge and show it to him. “You’re not confessing to anything, are you, Leland?”
    “What are you doing on my property?”
    “I just want to ask you a few questions.”
    He’s looking at me as if he’s thinking about traversing the space between us and slugging me in the mouth. Leland Dull is a vicious drunk and a woman-beating son of a bitch. There’s a small, angry part of me that wishes he’d take his best shot.
    I gesture toward the Dodge. “That your truck?”
    “It’s parked in my driveway. Who the hell else would it belong to?”
    “You got any other vehicles?”
    “I got a Corolla. Wife drives it.”
    “Any other trucks?”
    “Nope.”
    “Where were you last night?”
    “Here.”
    “You make any stops on your way home from work?”
    “Nope.”
    “Leland.” My lips curve, but the smile feels nasty on my face. “You know it’s against the law to lie to the police, don’t you?”
    “I swung by the Brass Rail after work.”
    “What time was that?”
    “A little after five.”
    “What time did you leave the bar?”
    “I ain’t sure. Seven thirty or so.” His eyes narrow. “What’s this all about, anyway?”
    “What route did you take home?”
    “Same route I always—” He cuts the words short. “Oh, for shit’s sake. You don’t think I’m the one killed them Amish, do you?”
    “I’m asking you a simple question.”
    “You’re looking for an escape goat is what you’re doing. Well, you’re sniffing up the wrong ass.”
    I puzzle over both of those statements a moment and make an effort not to laugh. “I’d appreciate it if you just answered the question.”
    “I took CR 14 to the highway, damn it.”
    I walk to his truck, make a show of looking at the front end. “Were you drunk?”
    “On fuckin’ apple juice.”
    I turn my back and walk to the detached garage, peer through the window. The glass is grimy, but I can see there’s no vehicle inside. Just an old