Don't Leave Me by James Scott Bell

think you’ll find it to be important.”
    Royce stepped between them. “Can’t you give him a break here, detective?”
    “And you are?” Epperson asked.
    “A friend,” Royce said.
    “Would you mind waiting for a few minutes?”
    Royce turned to Chuck. “You don’t have to do this.”
    No, and Chuck didn’t want to, either. Yet there was something in Epperson’s face. She didn’t look like a detective out to set traps. And as long as his lawyer was there . . .
    “All right,” Chuck said.
    “I’ll be right here waiting for you,” Royce said.

Chapter 22

    “I am recording this interview,” Detective Epperson said within the confines of Carrie Stratton’s cubicle. Epperson placed a digital recorder on the corner of Carrie’s desk. “It is 10:43 a.m., and Charles Samson is present with his attorney, Carrie Stratton of the Los Angeles County Public Defender’s Office. Mr. Samson, how much do you know about Edward Hillary?”
    The name was a spike to Chuck’s chest. It was a name he’d been trying to forget for seven months. “I know he was the guy who killed my wife.
    Epperson opened the file folder sitting on the desk. “A retired cop. Clean record.”
    “So they say. What do––”
    “Moved to Beaman a year and a half ago.”
    “And I should care about this why?”
    Epperson scanned the sheets. “His blood alcohol level, according to the toxicology report, was point-two-two at the time of the hit-and-run. That’s a lot of alcohol.”
    “Yeah it is, but what’s all this got to do with what I’m charged with?”
    “Bear with me. I’ve been looking over the accident report. The local police questioned a bartender at a place called the Tall T. He said Hillary came into the bar that night at approximately 7:15, and left at approximately 9:30. The accident happened at or around 10:12.”
    Chuck said nothing.
    “The bartender also said he served Hillary three beers while he was at the bar. Hillary spoke to the bartender, a man named Renner, and other patrons.”
    “Detective, please get to the point of all this.”
    Carrie Stratton put her hand on Chuck’s arm. She had a look on her face that indicated he should be patient. Like she knew where this was leading.
    “Just a few more facts, Mr. Samson,” Epperson said. “Edward Hillary was six feet, three inches tall, and weighed two-hundred-and-sixty pounds. He was not a small man. There is no way that three beers in the span of two hours-plus could have given him a point-two-two, even if he came into the bar with some drinks in him. So the question is, how did he get so tanked before the accident?”
    Chuck looked at her a long moment. “What are you saying?”
    “I’m just asking questions,” Epperson said.
    “Well I don’t have any answers.” He was starting to feel tongs gripping his temples. “Just tell me why you’re talking to me.”
    “What was your wife doing in Beaman?” Epperson asked.
    “I told you, some stupid alligator farm story.”
    “I find that strange,” Epperson said. “I checked. There aren’t any alligator farms in Beaman. Never have been.”
    Little sparklers snapped at the corners of Chuck’s vision. He closed his eyes and tried to shake them away.
    “Are you all right, Mr. Samson?”
    “Do I look all right? What the hell are you saying to me? That my wife was lying to me?”
    “I’m trying, believe it or not, to help you, and help myself,” Epperson said, her voice calm yet firm. “I have a murder on my hands, Grant Nunn. The man who killed him may be the same man who threatened you with the knife. There’s probably a connection. And when I started looking into your background, I found your wife’s death, and this report, and now I have more questions. I want to know what you’re into, Mr. Samson. And maybe it’s not something you started. But here you are.”
    Carrie Stratton said, “You don’t have to say anything else. I advise you not to.”
    Chuck looked back and forth between his