Free Done for a Dime by David Corbett

will never bring the old man back to life or wash away this taint. You’ll feel filthy, soiled by your own shame, forever.
    “I was thinking,” he whispered, “just before you came in.…” His voice trailed off, his words suddenly unwieldy. He couldn’t make sense of how to continue. Glancing up, he saw a momentary hardening in the detective’s eyes, a shadow so fleeting he wondered if it had really been there. Regardless, something hungry, almost pitiless, revealed itself. It shocked him out of his phony guilt. He sat up straight.
    “Thinking what, Toby?”
    “Nothing. I’m sorry. You asked about my father.”
    “Toby, don’t do this to yourself.”
    “I lived with my mother and stepfather till I was ten.”
    “Toby—”
    “They separated, and Mom needed help. I’ve got two stepsisters; three kids is a lot. Pops took me in a few years. Went back to my mother’s for high school so I could study in the jazz program at Berkeley. I’ve been staying here again the past two months. My father had surgery.”
    Murchison sat back a little, his eyes blank. Two seconds passed, five. Ten. “A kidney removed,” he said finally.
    “Yes.” Toby felt caught in the man’s stare. “He’d just been up and half his old self.” His voice quavered.
    Murchison leaned forward again. Their heads almost touched. “I can’t help you, Toby, without the truth.”
    “I’m telling you the truth.”
    “The victim kept a gun in his bed stand, Toby. He was scared.”
    Toby laughed, looked away, thinking, The victim. “Scared? That’d be something.”
    “He had reason, or thought he had reason, to think he was in danger. Any enemies you know of? Scores to settle, old or new? Debts? Women he’d broken off with who took it hard?”
    Toby felt relieved at this turning away of the detective’s scrutiny. And yet, in response to the question, he found himself addressing a void. There was either too much to tell, or too little.
    “Not recent, not that I know of.”
    “What about Felicia?”
    That stopped Toby cold. “What about her?”
    “She’s—?”
    “My mother. Have you spoken to her? Does she know what happened?”
    Murchison sat motionless, as though he didn’t hear. His brow knit almost imperceptibly, then smoothed again. Another long silence. “Your mother get along with the victim?”
    “Get along?” Toby let loose a harsh chuckle, shook his head, thinking, There it is again. The victim. Could be just some cop way of talking. “My father wanted nothing so much as to get back with my mother. My mother wanted peace.”
    “Peace?”
    “Shortest path to my father’s heart was through his ego. Not my mother’s style, pampering a man’s vanity. And he had a temper. He never backed down, never, not from anyone.”
    “Not even you.”
    Toby laughed, nervous. “Especially not me.”
    “And when he got in your face, your mother’s face, you stood your ground. Defended your mother.”
    “I don’t recall saying my father got in anybody’s face.”
    “Sure you did. Plain as day.”
    Toby bristled at the accusation. At the same time, he feared what the man said was true.
    “It’s hard, Toby, when you’re caught in the middle. I understand that, I do. The victim, your mother, all those years, him wanting to be with her, your mother keeping her distance. And with his temper, I’m sure it got rough. I’m sure you got punished for things you had no part of.”
    “Detective—”
    “And then you try to do the decent thing. He’s sick, alone in that house, you come up here to lend a hand. It’s a generous offer. A sacrifice.”
    Murchison edged in closer.
    “You know, Toby, my father, he’s old, he’s sick. Needs me more than ever. Still treats me like dirt. He’s proud, he’s depressed, and sometimes he’s just a little crazy. And it’s hard, it’s damn hard, to do what you’ve got to do, do what you know is right, when all it earns you is abuse.”
    “I didn’t say—”
    “So, you see, Toby,