“The picnics,” Thatcher said, bringing Driscoll’s attention back to him. “The ones you and Mrs. Driscoll went on at Pointer’s Gap.”
“That’s absurd. First of all, I hate picnics. Where did you even get a crazy idea like that?”
Thatcher waited a beat, then said quietly, “From Bernie Croft.”
The doctor looked like he’d been struck with a two-by-four right between the eyes. He gaped at Thatcher for a ten count, then took several short, shallow breaths. “Bernie told you that?”
Closely monitoring Driscoll’s every reaction, Thatcher left it to Bill to explain how they’d come to hear about Pointer’s Gap, when and where their seemingly casual conversation with the mayor had taken place. “To aid us in our investigation into the assault on Miss Blanchard, Bernie felt compelled to mention your affair with her, and then your earnest attempt to atone for it by paying more attention to your wife.”
Gabe was swallowing convulsively.
Bill went on. “His offhanded mention of Pointer’s Gap—”
“It wasn’t offhanded,” Driscoll blurted. He slumped forward against the bars, clutching two of them to help himself remain upright. “It was his idea.”
“What was his idea?”
He remained silent and gave a mournful shake of his head.
“It was Bernie
’s idea to do what, Gabe? Say it.”
“I can’t. He’ll kill me.”
Thatcher leaned in and whispered to him, “If you betray Croft, he may very well kill you. But if you don’t come clean, you have me to be scared of.”
Gabe looked at him with fright. Thatcher gazed back, unblinking. The doctor was quick to yield. He turned to Bill and stammered, “B…Bernie took care of the body for me. He had men meet me at Lefty’s. They took Mila.”
“Was she dead, Gabe?”
He nodded.
“You killed her?”
“Yes.” He lowered his head and began to cry.
Thatcher backed away from the bars separating them. He exchanged a glance with Bill. They’d gotten the confession they’d been after, but having Mila Driscoll’s fate confirmed was a dismal triumph.
“How’d you kill her, Gabe?” Bill asked softly.
Just then Scotty came barging through the door at the end of the corridor. “Sheriff?”
“Not now,” Bill said.
“It’s—”
“Not now!”
“It’s Mrs. Amos.”
Bill spun around to his deputy. Scotty spoke so hastily, he tripped over his words. “Her friend Mrs. Cantor called, says Mrs. Amos is in pain something awful. Her stomach. Said it might’ve been, uh…whiskey. Said she caught her with a bottle of bourbon half empty.”
“Jesus.” Bill looked at Thatcher. “I have to go.”
“And the Rangers are back,” Scotty added.
“Screw them. Stay with Driscoll,” Bill said to Thatcher. “Get it all on paper. Have him sign—”