anything useful. She was flanked by her lawyer, Zetella, a neighbor friend whose name was Marge, and her father, whom she called "Powzie." The family name was Cripliver. Powzie Cripliver was one of those elderly men who wear baseball caps with their suits and florid ties. His eyes brimmed with tears and he clung to his daughter's hand.
Rita was still sedated, slow on the uptake, prone to looking around the shady yard with wide vacant eyes. Clearly she hadn't accepted the fact that anything bad had happened because of, or to, her son Jimmy.
Gruvver was able to get in a few questions when she paused in her ramble of reminiscences, questions Matt Ronyak thought were a further waste of time.
"Mrs. Nixon, did Jimmy say much about his trip to Las Vegas this summer?"
". . . I guess so. Las Vegas. I don't remember."
"He saw a show; I believe it was Lincoln Grayle?"
"Oh. The magician. Yes. He enjoyed the show very much. And meeting Mr. Grayle afterward. You see, Jimmy was a Lucky Ticket holder."
"So Jimmy was interested in magic?"
"Well. Not that I recall. He likes sports." Rita Nixon took a long breath. Her right hand trembled. "Jimmy doesn't like to talk about himself."
"He's not a talker, but he is a doer," her father said. "Whatever you ask of him, Jimmy gets the job done. You never hear a whine out of Jimmy, like so many kids these days. Nothing's ever good enough for 'em."
Gruvver kept his eyes on Rita Nixon. "Do you know if Jimmy was ever hypnotized? At a party, or—"
"What are you getting at, Officer?" Zetella interrupted.
"Detective. Mrs. Nixon?"
". . . Hypnotized? I don't know. I don't think so. Would anyone like more lemonade? Marge made it. I love you, Marge. I love you too, Powzie. Everything's going to be all right, I know it. Because otherwise. Simply can't. Bear it." She began breathing rapidly, too rapidly. Bloodless nostrils pinching in.
"Oh, darling," Marge said.
Matt Ronyak cleared his throat. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Nixon. I'm sure that'll be all." He looked at Gruvver, who was looking at some tall hollyhocks that grew near the patio.
T he detectives had lunch at a Hardee's where Memorial Drive passed under 285, the Interstate highway that circled Atlanta.
For the better part of their meal Lew Gruvver was silent, a finger lightly brushing the underside of his chin when he was in deep-think mode. Ronyak did his usual monologue about his missed opportunities in the business world.
"Six-seven years ago we could've taken out a second on the house and used some of that money Easter Belle's mama left her. Bought us that bankrupt AM station in Douglas County, reformatted it Hispanic. We'd have been the first in the Atlanta broadcast area. Hell, I seen it comin'. The construction trades brought 'em north. Now there's at least a quarter-million Hispanics live up here, a Mex restaurant in every shopping center, and half a dozen Spanish-language stations, all making good money. They even do the Braves games in Spanish now."
"Uh-huh."
Ronyak watched Gruvver and muffled a few belches with the back of his hand. The farts would come next. Lately he ate like a dog; chewing hurt his gums.
"Where did you think you were going with that notion about hypnosis? I believe it's common knowledge you can't hypnotize people to do something that's against their will, murder included."
"Uh-huh."
"So?"
Gruvver returned from his reverie with a heavy sigh, drank from his lukewarm glass of raspberry tea.
"Hypnosis seems innocent enough as a party game, but amateurs without meanin' to can surely mess up a mind that's on the edge of overload anyhow. And Jimmy might have had a high level of suggestibility."
"You think Jimmy Nixon was in a fuckin' trance when he killed Skeldon?"
"It could be more complicated than that. I majored in cultural anthropology, did my senior thesis on pathologies of communication—"
"Oh, no shit?" Ronyak said with a smile.
"—Took parallel courses in population genetics,
Rita was still sedated, slow on the uptake, prone to looking around the shady yard with wide vacant eyes. Clearly she hadn't accepted the fact that anything bad had happened because of, or to, her son Jimmy.
Gruvver was able to get in a few questions when she paused in her ramble of reminiscences, questions Matt Ronyak thought were a further waste of time.
"Mrs. Nixon, did Jimmy say much about his trip to Las Vegas this summer?"
". . . I guess so. Las Vegas. I don't remember."
"He saw a show; I believe it was Lincoln Grayle?"
"Oh. The magician. Yes. He enjoyed the show very much. And meeting Mr. Grayle afterward. You see, Jimmy was a Lucky Ticket holder."
"So Jimmy was interested in magic?"
"Well. Not that I recall. He likes sports." Rita Nixon took a long breath. Her right hand trembled. "Jimmy doesn't like to talk about himself."
"He's not a talker, but he is a doer," her father said. "Whatever you ask of him, Jimmy gets the job done. You never hear a whine out of Jimmy, like so many kids these days. Nothing's ever good enough for 'em."
Gruvver kept his eyes on Rita Nixon. "Do you know if Jimmy was ever hypnotized? At a party, or—"
"What are you getting at, Officer?" Zetella interrupted.
"Detective. Mrs. Nixon?"
". . . Hypnotized? I don't know. I don't think so. Would anyone like more lemonade? Marge made it. I love you, Marge. I love you too, Powzie. Everything's going to be all right, I know it. Because otherwise. Simply can't. Bear it." She began breathing rapidly, too rapidly. Bloodless nostrils pinching in.
"Oh, darling," Marge said.
Matt Ronyak cleared his throat. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Nixon. I'm sure that'll be all." He looked at Gruvver, who was looking at some tall hollyhocks that grew near the patio.
T he detectives had lunch at a Hardee's where Memorial Drive passed under 285, the Interstate highway that circled Atlanta.
For the better part of their meal Lew Gruvver was silent, a finger lightly brushing the underside of his chin when he was in deep-think mode. Ronyak did his usual monologue about his missed opportunities in the business world.
"Six-seven years ago we could've taken out a second on the house and used some of that money Easter Belle's mama left her. Bought us that bankrupt AM station in Douglas County, reformatted it Hispanic. We'd have been the first in the Atlanta broadcast area. Hell, I seen it comin'. The construction trades brought 'em north. Now there's at least a quarter-million Hispanics live up here, a Mex restaurant in every shopping center, and half a dozen Spanish-language stations, all making good money. They even do the Braves games in Spanish now."
"Uh-huh."
Ronyak watched Gruvver and muffled a few belches with the back of his hand. The farts would come next. Lately he ate like a dog; chewing hurt his gums.
"Where did you think you were going with that notion about hypnosis? I believe it's common knowledge you can't hypnotize people to do something that's against their will, murder included."
"Uh-huh."
"So?"
Gruvver returned from his reverie with a heavy sigh, drank from his lukewarm glass of raspberry tea.
"Hypnosis seems innocent enough as a party game, but amateurs without meanin' to can surely mess up a mind that's on the edge of overload anyhow. And Jimmy might have had a high level of suggestibility."
"You think Jimmy Nixon was in a fuckin' trance when he killed Skeldon?"
"It could be more complicated than that. I majored in cultural anthropology, did my senior thesis on pathologies of communication—"
"Oh, no shit?" Ronyak said with a smile.
"—Took parallel courses in population genetics,
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