'You called it. He knew your old man. But I don't know what difference it makes,' he said.
'I think he's got some kind of obsession with my father.'
'So what? Jack the Ripper was probably a surgeon or a Mason or the queen's grandson. The bottom line is he eviscerated hookers.'
'You're really a breath of fresh air, Marvin. You ought to get a Roman collar and start counseling people,' I said.
'This isn't Mexico. You stay away from Moon, Billy Bob.'
'You want to spell that out?'
'We don't have free-fire zones in Deaf Smith. You get into any of that Ranger-danger dogshit here, you're going to be in front of a grand jury yourself.'
I picked up the photos of my father from his desk blotter and put them in my shirt pocket.
'Sammy Mace is in town. Hanging with Jack Vanzandt and this Felix Ringo character. I'd give it my attention,' I said, and didn't bother to close the door when I left.
That afternoon I was staring down from my office window into the street, wondering if I would ever extricate Lucas from the legal process that was about to eat him alive, when a Mexican kid on a Harley pulled to the curb and walked into the archway on the first floor. A minute later my secretary buzzed me and I opened the door of my inner office.
'You're Virgil Morales?' I said.
He was tall, his bare arms clean of jailhouse or biker art, his Indian-black hair curly on the back of his neck. His face could have been that of a male model's, except for one eye that had a lazy drift in it.
'How'd you know?' he asked.
'Oh, you hear things.' I grinned. 'Why'd you decide to come see me?'
He looked at the glass-encased guns of my great-grandfather on the wall.
'I want to do the right thing,' he replied.
'Good for the conscience, I guess.'
'They re-filed some old charges against me in San Antone. Mr Ringo says he can square it.'
'What charges?'
'Holding some reefer and a few whites. I'm on probation, see, and my PO can stick me back in county. I might get consecutive time, too.'
'It all makes sense,' I said.
'They get you in the system, they jam you up. It's like they only got so many names in the computer and these are the guys they keep jamming up.'
'What have you got for me, Virgil?'
He wore a sleeveless purple T-shirt and jeans and shined, half-topped leather boots. He sat down and rubbed his hands up and down his forearms.
'The night Roseanne got killed? I stopped in that picnic ground,' he said. 'Lucas was passed out drunk in his truck. Roseanne wanted me to drive her home. I wish I had. But there ain't no way Lucas killed her.'
'Anybody else see this?'
'Yeah, some college girl from Austin. She was on my bike. That's why I couldn't give Roseanne a ride. Maybe you can find her.'
I nodded while he talked. His eyes wandered around the office; occasionally he squeezed the inside of his thigh, high up by his scrotum. I had the feeling he could eat a hot cigarette and not miss a beat.
'Why didn't you tell someone this earlier?' I asked.
'I was in county.'