The Guilty Part 17

I stared at the weak metal fence which contained three graves resting side-by-side, one of which belonged to the outlaw known as Billy the Kid. The fence was in the middle of a large patch of dirt, surrounded by piles of flowers, photographs and even bullets. Never had I seen such gestures for such a shoddy excuse for a tomb.

A headstone sat behind the graves, three names engraved on it. The stone looked fairly well-maintained, as opposed to the rest of the mausoleum.

"The headstone's been stolen three times since 1940," Rex said. "At some point they figured it cost more to guard the darn thing than it did to throw up a new headstone. That's why you see here a gate my eight-year-old niece could pry apart."

"Kind of like the security system in your museum," I said, with more than a hint of sarcasm. Inside the cage were three burial mounds, side by side. At the far end of the enclosure was one large headstone engraved with three epitaphs.

"That's Tom O'Folliard and Charlie Bowdre, on the ends,"

Rex said. "Friends of the Kid. Billy, he's in the middle grave."

A marker sat in front of the graves. It was carved in bronze, about two feet tall, with a triangular top. It read: 168.

THE KID.

Born Nov. 23, 1860 Killed July 14, 1881 BANDIT KING.

HE DIED AS HE HAD LIVED.

Quarters were sprinkled atop the earth. "Tributes," Rex said. On the headstone was chiseled one word, Pals. Pals. Above Above the headstone was a garish yellow sign that read Replica. Replica.

And according to dozens of signs, brochures and tourist bureaus, this was the grave site of Henry McCarty, also known as William Antrim, also known as William H. Bonney, also known as Billy the Kid.

"This grave site's pretty much the only thing keeping old Fort Sumner alive," Rex said. "State legislature made us put that 'replica' sign up there, but once a year or so the cops come out here to arrest some hooligans looking to steal the d.a.m.n thing. I swear, ain't nothin' sacred anymore, they could buy their own sign for a buck ninety-five."

"But it wouldn't have been inside Billy the Kid's grave,"

I said. "There's a mystique to him. Just like to a murderer, there's a mystique to using his gun."

Rex scratched at his neck. I could tell he'd long ago given in to the lore and myth of this town. I didn't know a whole lot about Billy the Kid, only what movies or books pa.s.sed down through their own lenses. I knew Billy was a celebrity in the southwest during the late 1800s, had allegedly murdered over twenty people before his twenty-first birthday, and was eventually killed by Pat Garrett, a newly appointed deputy who used to ride with the Kid. I remembered reading somewhere that other than Count Dracula, no 169.

other figure in popular culture had been immortalized so often on page or screen. He was a legend, plain and simple.

"If you used to have Billy the Kid's actual Winchester, the one he used to kill," I said, "why wouldn't you advertise the h.e.l.l out of it? Why display it as a regular Winchester 1873 when it could be the highlight of your museum?"

"We did, for a while," Rex said. "Then it got stolen, and we didn't want to take the chance. n.o.body knows who the h.e.l.l John Chisum is, but everyone wants a piece of the Kid.

Besides, people visit old Fort Sumner to see this grave site.

They come to our museum for side trips, before they spend their money on souvenirs and lunch."

"And n.o.body cared that it suddenly was gone?"

"Anyone who asked, I told 'em some rich collector bought it."

I asked, "How long ago was it stolen?"

Rex stared at the ground.

"You know Billy built this town," he said, nodding at the grave site. "That man was a G.o.dd.a.m.n hero. Most don't look at it like that. But he fought for good."

"I bet the twenty-some-odd people he killed would disagree."

"Any war, man, you have to spill blood to do what's right."

"Said like a true patriot," I said, biting.

"You don't understand."

"Enlighten me."

"When he was young, Billy was hired by an Englishman named John Tunstall. Tunstall was a rancher, in a territorial feud with two men named Lawrence Murphy and James Dolan. John Tunstall aimed to take Billy under his wing, turn a troubled youth into a good man. John Tunstall was murdered by Dolan and Murphy, who'd paid Sheriff William Brady to 170.

carry out the crime. After that, Billy and his boys united to form a band called the Regulators. The Regulators killed Brady, and because of that, the governor of New Mexico sccked the hounds of h.e.l.l on Billy and his gang. But somewhere along the line, the Regulators traded places with the devil. The Regulators wanted to kill those who'd done wrong, folks who were contaminating everything that was good."

"There's a man in New York," I said, "using Billy's gun to kill people. There's no doubt in my mind he stole that gun from your museum. A witness said the killer looked young, in his early to midtwenties."

"Just like the Kid," Rex said. Then he c.o.c.ked his head.

"How old are you, Henry?" I looked at him. And didn't answer.

"Someone is looking to carry on Billy's legacy," I said.

"You say Billy meant to create order. He wanted to kill those who'd done wrong."

"That's right." Rex thought for a moment. "You reckon this killer of yours is some screwed-up kid, wants to play cowboys and Indians?"

"I doubt it. This isn't just some kid who wasn't loved enough by his mommy and daddy," I said. "This guy has a motive. He thinks he's doing good."

We stood there in silence, staring at the grave site of one of the most legendary murderers in history. A man who died at the age of twenty-one, having ended one life for each of his years. And yet over the years the Kid had become immortalized as a hero. An icon worthy of legend. How could a murderer incite such pa.s.sion? How could a man seemingly deputized by the devil himself be remembered as an angel?

A beeping sound broke the silence. I plucked my cell phone from my pocket, opened it. It was a text message from Jack.

It was two sentences. When I read them, my blood ran cold.

171.

There's been another murder. It's David Loverne.

I couldn't speak. Mya's father.

The last time I saw him was at his daughter's side at the hospital, where...

I called you, Henry. I remembered Mya's voice on that I remembered Mya's voice on that terrible day.

"I have to go," I said to Rex, shutting the phone. "I need to get home right away. I appreciate the help."

"You gonna be, you know, telling the police about this?"

"Yes, I am."

"Figures. Anyway, you'll want to look at Brushy Bill.

Dollars to dineros if it's Billy's legacy you're investigating, it's something to do with ol' Brushy."

I nodded at Rex, then half-walked, dazed, back to the hotel. I threw everything in my duffel, jumped in the rental car and headed toward Albuquerque.

The drive seemed to last for days. Visions in my mind reminded me of that night, seeing Mya's father there, holding her hand. Me not being able to apologize because words were useless. Knowing Mya had been hurt, and that I hadn't been there for her.

Athena Paradis, Joe Mauser, Jeffrey Lourdes and now David Loverne. Somehow Mya's father fit in the killer's demented pattern. But how?

I'd heard rumblings about David Loverne's misdeeds. That his marriage wasn't as rock-solid as the facade he put on in public. Many felt that at some point scandal would hit, and hit hard. It was only a matter of time. I thought of Mya, how she was so damaged, how she'd been reaching out to me and I'd been slapping her hand away. If she ever needed a friend, 172.

someone who used to know her better than anyone, now was the time for me to be there for her.

I tried Mya's cell phone. It went right to voice mail. I couldn't leave a message. I had to see her. Then I remembered her text message.

I'm sorry. Forgive me.

I was numb when I arrived at the airport. They charged a hundred bucks to change my flight. I paid it in cash.

I called Amanda and left her a message. Then I called Jack and told him I would get to the office that night. He told me to read the Gazette Gazette and the and the Dispatch Dispatch before I saw anybody in before I saw anybody in New York. His voice had both an urgency and sadness to it.

My stomach turned over.

On my way to the terminal, I stopped by a news kiosk. I grabbed a bottle of orange juice and went to the newspaper rack. Thankfully they carried both the Dispatch Dispatch and the and the Gazette. I paid for the drink and papers and took them to the I paid for the drink and papers and took them to the gate. Sitting down, I took a long gulp of juice and then laid the papers out on my lap.

The Gazette' Gazette' s headline read: s headline read: Ballistics Sheds New Light On Murders Killer possibly using "Gun that won the West"

by Jack O'Donnell with additional reporting by Henry Parker Then I looked at the Dispatch. Dispatch. There were two stories There were two stories competing for dominance. The first headline read: 173.

Athena Paradis's Greek Boy Toy Speaks Out Tells why murdered heiress was second to none in the bedroom Then I read the second headline. I didn't hear the juice bottle hit the ground when I dropped it. Or the announcement that my plane was boarding. All I could see was that headline: "He Left Me Bleeding On The Street"

Mya Loverne, David's daughter, comes clean about the relations.h.i.+p that nearly ended her life by Paulina Cole

27.

Just months ago, voters looked at congressional candidate David Loverne as a man who held family above all else.

A beautiful wife, Cindy. An ambitious daughter, Mya.

But all this is gone after a series of revelations that have shocked New Yorkers and destroyed a family that seemed indestructible.

David Loverne is being accused of perpetuating a long affair with a former aide, Esther Margolis. Ms.

Margolis claims she is pregnant with Loverne's child, and that Mr. Loverne paid her sums totaling nearly ten thousand dollars in order to keep quiet and raise the child alone. Mr. Loverne refused comment for this article, but Ms. Margolis said, "I couldn't face looking at my son years from now and lying to him about who his father is."

I read the rest of the article, my heart hammering, hands shaking. Then I came to a line that nearly had me shouting in anger. It read: Yet David and Cindy Loverne are not the only Yet David and Cindy Loverne are not the only members of the Loverne family whose world has been shat- tered.

175.

Mya. Paulina was going to exploit Mya's fragility to sell newspapers. I read on, rage building inside me.

When you first look at Mya Loverne, you see a woman br.i.m.m.i.n.g with potential. Young, with strong green eyes, a confidence and solidarity that tells you she's taken on everything the world has thrown at her.

At first glance you would think the world is this young woman's oyster.

But that isn't the case. In fact, far from it.

In the last eighteen months, Mya Loverne has been attacked. She's had her bones broken by an attempted rapist. And she's been abandoned by the one person who promised to be there for her.

For Mya Loverne, the wine has grown warm, the roses wilted. The one person to whom this misery can be pinned is Gazette Gazette reporter Henry Parker, with whom reporter Henry Parker, with whom Mya ended a three-year relations.h.i.+p last summer. The relations.h.i.+p was halted in the most disgusting, careless way possible, when Henry dumped Ms. Loverne for another woman. This was prior to Mr. Parker being accused of murder, a charge that was not pursued, despite a nationwide manhunt that left several dead.

"We shared our bed and our lives for almost three years," Mya told me when we met yesterday at a coffee shop near her apartment. "Do you know what it's like to have someone know every intimate detail of your life and then not even return your phone calls?"

The original sin, however, was the night last year when Mya was attacked while on her way home from a party.

"A man pulled me into an alley," Mya told me, the 176.

pain from that night still evident in her eyes so many months later. "He wanted to rape me. He told me he was going to hurt me."

In an effort to call for help, Mya pressed the redial b.u.t.ton on her cellular phone. It dialed the last number she'd called. Her boyfriend, Henry Parker.

"I called him while this man was on top of me," Mya said. "And Henry hung up."

Thankfully Mya, ever resourceful, was able to get a shot of pepper spray off, deterring her attacker from committing the heinous crime of rape. It did not, however, prevent him from breaking Mya's jaw in retaliation. Henry Parker, though, did not see Mya until the next day, when after a frantic night of phone calls from Mya's parents they were unable to locate him. The reason they couldn't find Henry?

"He told me," said Mya, "that after he hung up he turned his cell phone off."

We all know how Henry Parker has destroyed the family of his former pursuer Officer Joseph Mauser, deceased, John Fredrickson, deceased, and Linda Fredrickson, widowed. We have seen the careless havoc he has wrought upon the lives of good and decent people like Mya Loverne. And yet he is allowed to cover the news for this city's "esteemed" newspaper, the Gazette. Gazette.

Well, readers, if this is the kind of human being they have reporting the news, the kind of human being Harvey Hillerman and Wallace Langston claim is qualified to enter your your lives every morning, I must say this is a dark lives every morning, I must say this is a dark day in the history of journalism, and for humanity itself.

The question is, fellow citizens, will you stand for men like David Loverne and Henry Parker occupying 177.

prestigious roles in our society? If you're like me, the answer is obvious. Rise up, and demand more from our newsmen and our leaders. Demand they be held accountable for their actions. Demand that they not be allowed to harm one more innocent life.

I put the paper down. Noticed the newsprint smudged on my fingers. Didn't bother to wipe it off. My hand trembled as I laid it down. In an article about the infidelity of David Loverne, Paulina had stooped to a level lower than I imagined possible.

Mya.