The Informant Read Free Page B

for automatic recording of calls to the new 911 service, let alone to the sheriff’s office. “Fetch me my Dictaphone,” he barked.
    Barbara scrambled across the room to his desk, rifled through a drawer full of pens, pencils, and crumpled 16
    James Grippando
    candy bar wrappers, and came up with the Dictaphone.
    She hustled back to the sheriff, who picked up the receiver and switched on the Dictaphone, holding it by the earpiece. He cleared the nervous tickle from his throat and pushed the blinking button on the telephone. “Hello, this is Sheriff John Dutton. Who am I speaking to?”
    “Prince Charles of Wales,” came the sarcastic reply.
    “I’m not about to tell you who I am, fool.”
    “Okay, no problem. No problem at all.” He spoke in the even, understanding tone that had kept dozens of domestic disturbances from turning into bloodbaths. “I hear there’s an incident you want to report.”
    “It’s no incident. It’s a homicide.”
    “You want to tell me about it?”
    “What do you want to hear, Sheriff? How she begged me not to do it? Or how she screamed when I did?”
    He drew a deep breath, forcing himself to show no emotion. “So the victim’s a woman, I take it.”
    “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
    “Who is she?” He closed his eyes and waited, fearing he might know her.
    “Name’s Gerty. Lives over in Hainesville.”
    He brought his hand to his forehead, grimacing with anguish. Hainesville had but one Gerty; the world knew but one Gerty. He bit back his anger and forced himself to maintain a congenial tone—anything to keep the guy talking. “You sure you don’t wanna tell me who you are now, pardner?”
    “Sure thing. I’m your next-door neighbor, asshole.
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    THE INFORMANT
    I’m the guy standing behind you in the checkout line at the Piggly Wiggly.”
    “You got a name?”
    “One more stupid question, Sheriff, and I’m going to have to ask you to put the girl back on the line.”
    “Fair enough. Just stay on the line, okay?” He took a sip of cold coffee from Barbara’s Styrofoam cup, ignoring the lipstick on the rim. “Tell me this much: Did you know Gerty—or did she know you?”
    “Never met her before. Never even laid eyes on her.”
    “Then why in the world would you kill her?”
    “Because I’m a bad person.”
    “Well, you must have some kind of reason. You don’t just kill somebody for no reason.”
    “You’re thinking way too logically, Sheriff.”
    “I just want to know why you did it. That’s all.”
    “All right. I’ll tell you why.” The voice tightened with anger. His speech became slow and deliberate, with eerie pauses between words, as if some other part of him were answering: “Because…I… felt like it.”
    The sheriff winced. It sounded like he meant it—the guy just felt like it. “Where’s she now? Where’s the body?”
    The man sighed, then there was silence. Precious seconds passed. The sheriff felt his throat going dry. He feared he was losing him. “Come on, pardner. Let’s not play games. Where’d you put the body?”
    “I didn’t put her anywhere. I can’t believe you hick-town cops haven’t gotten over there yet. Shit, man, if I had to sit around waiting for you and Barney Fife to find her, no one would ever recognize my work.”
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    James Grippando
    “Why? How long ago did you kill her? Just tell me that.”
    “Two days ago.”
    “Why’d you wait so long to call us?”
    “I wasn’t through with her.”
    “What does that mean?”
    He let out a deep, sarcastic sigh of boredom. “It means that now I am through with her.”
    “You son of a bitch. What did you do to her !” He was on the edge of his seat, his face flushed with anger.
    “Sorry, Sheriff,” he said coolly. “That was your final stupid question.”
    The line clicked, and then came the dial tone.
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    Chapter 3
    t wo rapes, nine robberies and a fatal drive-by shooting.
    After thirteen years with the Miami Tribune, Mike Posten had seen enough