Hog's Haze

When I settled in that crisp autumn morning, I leaned back in my chair and thought about cleaning and organizing some of the files on my desk. The smell of stale paper and dust was beginning to bother me. And while a productive idea, I knew the thought of cleaning and organizing had crept into my mind as a distraction from the more pressing issue—Oliver’s case. I had finished the investigation, and I was left with the hardest part of the job: calling Oliver to tell him that his wife of fifteen years was cheating on him with the Portuguese plumber who lived on 51 Arnold Place. 

I always warn my clients that when they go looking for something, they’re likely to find it. Most of the time their response is to break down or break things. It’s not easy relaying that kind of information. Knowledge is a powerful thing, but it can be problematic. More troubling, however, is the certainty by which one claims to know what they don’t. This is an affliction beyond the scope of reason. I call it unintended ignorance. Ignorance that comes not by choice but by circumstance. So, when my clients choose to look, they wilfully push beyond the bounds of ignorance, and they’re not always ready to see what awaits. 

I flipped open Oliver’s file and reached for the phone to make the call when my office door swung open and in came a lean Black man followed closely by Eunice, my secretary. He was well dressed, handsome, and he moved with a refined sense of class,“Ma’am, please, this is a dire issue,” he told Eunice, with a calm yet stern tone. 

“As I’ve already explained, Mr. Kriger is not ready to see clients yet,” Eunice responded as she attempted to wrestle him back out to the reception area. 

“Oh, it’s alright, Eunice. I’ll talk to him,” I said. Reassured by my welcoming smile, she left the two of us alone, although I could tell she wasn’t too happy about it. I wouldn’t have hesitated to kick the fella out but I welcomed the interruption, because now, Oliver’s case didn’t seem as pressing. 

“Thank you sir. May I have a seat?” he asked.

“Of course.” He reached over to shake my hand. He had a firm grip but his hands were soft. 

“My name is Nathaniel Gascon. I am here on behalf of my friend, Jack Douglas who is being accused of murdering Ian Penbrook.”

“Ah, yes, the pig head incident,” I said. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No thank you.” 

“Your friend is facing quite a bit of trouble, isn't he?” 

“Not if we prove he is innocent?” he said confidently. 

“We?” 

“You can find the person that did it,” he said, “I come from a good family, so rest assured you will be fairly compensated.” 

“Might I ask: why not put all your chips on a lawyer then?”

“My family’s lawyers are working the case, but my business with you is on the nature of truth. I have a sense you are the kind of man that is interested in truth.”

“Hmm. Unfortunately, I specialize in more, how shall I put it—domestic affairs. This kind of investigation is best left to the police.” 

“The police. They have already made their verdict.” He paused for a moment gathering his thoughts. “Jack was recognized as one of the brightest mathematicians of his generation. Least to say, he’s without a doubt one of the most intelligent people in this town.”

“Are you saying smart people don’t commit crimes?” 

“No, but a man of his intellect, would not do something as foolish as leaving incriminating evidence at the scene of the crime.” 

“So he’s a mathematician.” 

“Yes,” he replied. 

“But not an expert in murder,”  

“What are you implying?”

“I’m saying a person can make mistakes when doing something he’s never done before—like murder. Especially in crimes of passion, but what’s more troubling, Mr. Gascon, is the thought that just because your friend is intelligent he ought to know how to properly kill someone and get away with it,” I said. He stared at me with an unwavering gaze for a brief moment. 

“I fear you misunderstood, I am solely arguing that the police could care less about who the real murderer is, and I can assure you that my Friend is innocent. I’m certain of it. Will you speak with him before making a decision?” he asked. I couldn’t say that I wasn’t moved by the loyalty he had for his friend. I thought about it for a brief moment, and then, I looked down at my desk and closed Oliver’s file. 

I figured Jack would be held up in North Adams, but Mr. Gascon assured me he was still here in Williamstown. The police station—if it could even be called that—had been converted from an old fraternity house. Appropriate for our safe community where things rarely happen, but people snap every so often, making the need for something more adequate.

I was greeted at the door by Sheriff Neumann. He was of average height, a bit rounded at the waist. Our wives volunteered together at St. Francis, so you could say we were friendly by association. “What do you need, Krager?” he asked. 

“I wanna have a chat with Jack Douglass.” Neumann sighed and pointed me toward the basement. 

“Be quick, we're moving him to Adams today,” he said as I crossed the hall and started down steps. There were two holding cells that resembled both the rundown look and the musky smell of my old high school locker room. The linoleum floors still read “Phi Gamma Delta,” and one of the ceiling lights had a continuous flicker. I stared into the second cell and saw Jack in the fetal position resting on the cot. I tapped on one of the bars with my wedding band. He looked up at me, and I thought it strange how much resemblance he bore to Mr. Gascon.  

“Who are you?” he asked. 

“Your Friend sent me down here to have a talk.”

“About what? I already told the lawyer everything, but it doesn't matter.”

“Now, why would you think that?”

“Because I can see in their eyes. All of them. They look at me like I’m guilty.” I was intrigued. He had no reason to give me pity. He had no idea who I was, nor of the reason for my visit. I sensed he was accepting his fate. A man that can accept his fate, is a man of honor in my books.  

“If it doesn’t matter, then you shouldn’t have a problem telling me what happened.” He hesitated and then came around. He stood up off the cot. He must’ve been at least six feet tall. He explained that he and Pembrook had a close relationship. Jack was a visiting professor at Williams College, and he and Pembrook had maintained a correspondence related to Mathematics before his visit. 

“Ian is the only reason I came to Williams. You know I actually cared for him and you could say I sort of looked out for him. I came as a favor,” he said. 

“What kind of favor?”

“He had been having issues with a couple of proofs and he always appreciated my feedback.” 

“So, what happened that night?”

“I wish I knew. We were at the Purple Pub arguing over the Riemann Hypothesis. It’s a mathematical theory that… well, I won’t bore you with the details. But I made the comment that he was underestimating the complexity of the problem he was working on, and he snapped.” 

“Snapped?”

“He was upset because I compared him to Takeda. He’s another Math professor at Williams that had also overestimated himself with the same problem but that time it was Ian that found the mistake in the proof. Takeda pulled his paper from an important journal but not before enough people had spotted the error. It would’ve been a career-ending mistake. Anyway, Ian didn’t like the comparison and had had one too many drinks that night, so he swung a beer bottle at me. Clipped me right here.” Jack gestured at a scabbing wound over his right eyebrow. “And as soon as I threw the pig head at him we were escorted out.” 

“Where the hell did you get a pig’s head?”

“The guys from Delta Upsilon roasted a pig, and one of the pledges was tasked with carrying the head around as some type of hazing. He was sitting next to me with the pig’s head on a platter so I grabbed it and threw it at Ian.” 

“And outside, what happened?”

“Nothing. I headed back to my dorm and I don’t know where Ian went. Then, at eleven the next morning, I woke up to the police barging into my room. Now I’m here and the lawyer working my case says I’ll be lucky to get a plea bargain. So I’ll say it again. It’s not like it matters.” 

We had talked for some time and he gave me more or less the information I needed to start the investigation, but before I could begin working, I had to stop at the Barn Dinner to flesh out the details of my service with Mr. Gascon. I found him sitting in the booth nearest to the kitchen entrance. It was far enough that we didn’t have to whisper. 

“Do you believe he is innocent?”

“I have a feeling he didn’t do it, but what good are feelings if you can’t prove a damn thing with them.” 

“Give me a number.” He said as he slid the napkin across the table surface. I wrote my typical rate and slid it back. There was no need to raise my rate. The work is the same after all. 

“I might incur some additional expenses. Items, supplies, things I may need—coffee.”

“Save the receipts,” he said as he got to work on my check.  

“Before I forget. Did you drive or fly?” I asked.

“Why does it matter?” 

“They’re moving him to North Adams later today. In case you need a ride,  I can drop you off at a hotel.” 

“Oh, no need. I drove. Got here yesterday afternoon,” he said, sliding my check over for the full amount I wrote on the napkin. He thanked me, stood up and placed a twenty dollar bill on the table before walking out. I thought it was bizarre since the tab ran us no more than three dollars and eighty cents. I knew he was well off but the need to throw money around like that was not necessary. At least I didn’t think so. 

According to Jack, Professor Pembrok had a good friend and colleague at the College. His name was Lars Holm, a philosophy professor. Jack said I could find him at Stetson Hall and that his class ended around four. I arrived at his class with time to spare and listened to the last fifteen minutes of Holm’s lecture. I sat at the bench right outside the classroom. 

After about fifteen minutes, his students began to pour out of the class and I waited until the last one was gone to go in. 

“Can I help you?” asked Holm. He was close to albino with thin strands of long silver hair that receded at the temples. He was a very thin man and he spoke with an accent that I couldn’t quite pin. 

“Interesting lecture. I can’t say I understood every detail but it was interesting nonetheless. I’m Dan Kriger.” I shook his hand. He had a firm and calloused grip which I found to be odd given his profession and appearance. “You lift weights?” I asked. 

“I’m a woodworker. How can I help you Mr. Kriger.”

“I’m here on behalf of Jack Douglass. I’m investigating the unfortunate events that have unraveled within the last forty-eight hours in our small-peaceful town.” It seemed that I had reminded him of the reality we were living. He looked down at the desk and began to gather his belongings. 

“This is something I cannot help you with.”

“Do you think Jack did it?”

“Like I said, I don't have anything for you. I was out of town when all this happened. Now if you will excuse me, I must prepare for my next class, so unless your next question is about possibility or necessity, I’m of no use to you.” He started toward the exit and I tried one last time. 

“What is the possibility that there exists a world where an innocent young man will pay for something he didn’t do while the guilty party roams the streets free?” He stopped.

“Unfortunately, the possibilities are too many to count. I don’t think you’re going to find the easy answer you are looking for.” 

“Do you think he did it?” I asked. 

“It is not my place to make a judgment on a crime which I did not witness. But I can say romantic relationships at times may result in crimes of passion.” He paused and pondered on something. “But crimes sometimes come from those we least expect.” He looked off into space almost in a trance-like state and said, “I wonder how the weather is in Japan this time of year?” and with that, he left. 

I stayed around the campus for a bit to take in the cold fall air and on the walk back to the parking lot I stopped to use a payphone. I called Eunice and told her to not wait up for me and to lock up the office. The day was beginning to wear on me and I felt as if I hadn’t made any progress besides talking to Holm. I rarely talk to people anymore, it’s mostly observation, so I was feeling a little rusty in my methods. 

I stopped at Purple Pub since it was on the way home. I couldn’t even enjoy my whiskey the same since technically I was there on business. I called Danny Florentine over. He was a bartender at the pub that grew up in Williamstown–a good looking kid. He was one hell of a quarterback, even drafted by the University of Southern California. Unfortunately, he blew out his knee in what the local paper called a pre-season training accident. 

A couple years ago I asked him about it, and he said it was far from an accident, but if it hadn’t been a physical injury that ended his career, it would’ve been a psychological one because it’s just the fate all star quarterbacks face. He said, “We leave our small town as hotshots thinking we can take on the world just because we had great high school stats. We overestimate our skill and that’s the end of us. Most of us never realize we weren’t as good as we thought we were. I don’t know what’s worse, blowing out a knee and getting the message, or going through life never realizing you just weren’t good enough.” 

When I called him over, he walked with a slight limp. “The usual.” I said and he swiftly prepared a whiskey on the rocks for me and slid it over. “Thank you.”

“Weekday drinking? Are you celebrating something?” He asked. 

“Actually, I’m here to see you. I heard about the incident two nights ago.”

“The pig thing? What about it?” Danny’s attention was hijacked by a happy fella two barstools down. “Excuse me for a second.” Danny walked over and gave the guy a bottle of Guiness. “Last one alright.” The man nodded and Danny walked back toward me.

“What did you see?” I asked. 

“Well, it started out as a simple fuss. I could tell they were just going back and forth. Both of them were a few beers in and it got aggressive when the black guy mentioned something. I’m not sure if it was a name or what.”

“What did it sound like?”

“Tah… Tah something.”

“Takeda?”

“Yeah that’s it. Long story short I turned around and the black guy’s got blood all over his face. He grabs the pig head and starts beating the white guy with it. When they pulled them apart, he threw the pig's head straight at the guy’s face.” 

“What happened to the pig’s head?”

“I bagged it and tossed it out back.” 

“Notice anything else out of the ordinary that night?”

“Besides seeing someone beat another person with a roasted pig head—nope. Can’t say that I did. That’s about the wildest thing I’ve seen working here.” I thanked Danny for his time, finished my drink, and headed home. 

When I pulled into my driveway, I parked, and just sat in the silence of my car. I was unsure of what I was going to find, or worse, if I could find anything at all. As an investigator, I tend to stick with what I know, and I can pretty much figure out if a man is cheating on his wife simply by observing. I was beginning to fear that this murder was out of my domain. 

“Susy called this afternoon.” My wife said as she sat down at the dinner table. 

“Really? She say anything interesting?” I asked although I already had an idea.

“That you went and talked to a killer. What business do you have with a killer?” She asked. 

“His Friend hired me to find the real killer.” It was the answer she feared. 

“Dan.” She said in that scolding tone she likes to use to remind me of my incompetence. 

“It’s not like last time,” I said, which seemed to make it worse. 

“You haven’t done anything like this in five years.”

“I think the kid is innocent.” There was hesitation in my voice and she could tell. I tried to reassure her about the whole thing but all she said was that I should start carrying my gun. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea.

The next morning I drove out to North Adams to see Jack. When I arrived at the police station. I bumped into Jose Fernandez, I hadn’t seen him since our time at BPD. 

“Dan, is that you?” He asked. “What brings you here?”

“It’s been a while! What happened to Boston?”

“Burnt out in Boston. Been here about a year now. Hey you’re gonna get a kick out of this one, a few days ago some guy killed a professor and left a Pig’s head on him. Apparently there was a scuffle in the bar and he beat the professor with the pig’s head before he later killed him outside with it. How about that? Using a pig head as a murder weapon.”

“You worked that case?”

“No, he’s a transfer from Williamstown. The boys over there just gave us the rundown.” 

“Well I’m here to clear his name.” Jose’s upbeat attitude changed. Something about what I said had struck him the wrong way. 

“Oh, listen.” He stepped a little closer and whispered,“From what I heard there were witnesses who saw him.” I felt foolish. Why didn’t I know about the witnesses? 

“Did you find anything?” Jack asked as soon as he saw me. “Nathaniel said you would find the murderer.” 

“Uh, I spoke with professor Holm and he seems to think you’re not capable of murder.” 

“Did he say anything else? Maybe a lead?” 

“Possibly, but I have a question. There were a couple witnesses who claim to have seen you killing Pembrook. What do you make of that?”

“Lies.”

“Don’t bullshit me. Alright, I want the details. If I’m risking not just my reputation but my neck, I need the honest truth, so tell me if I’m wasting my time and Mr. Gascon’s money?” I snapped at him and that changed his attitude some. There was a little fear in his eyes with the realization that I’m not just here to cash a check. But there was also disappointment. 

“Let me guess they saw a dark figure,” he said. I could tell he had lost a sense of trust in me. 

“ Look, kid. You’re smart but I need to know every detail even if you think it’s insignificant. I believe you didn’t do it, but I have to prove it and that’s hard because the real killer is out there might even be in plain sight.” We talked some more and he told me about how appreciative he is with Mr. Gascon for helping him. He finally told me that he and Pembrook did have a romantic relationship. I didn’t particularly care about Jack’s sexual orientation but what did bother me was the fact that now I was second guessing myself. For all I know this was all a crime of passion. And just before I left, I asked, “When I spoke to Holm yesterday, he said that he wonders what the weather in Japan is like this time of year? Does that mean anything to you?” 

“Are you serious! It was Takeda! Takeda killed Ian.” 

“Settle down,” I said. 

“It was Takeda, Dan. You have to find him.”

“Of course, where can I find this professor?” 

“I don’t know. I just know he teaches the morning classes from what I can remember.”

I located Takeda’s office. He shared the space with an odd fella that told me that I could probably still catch him as he had just decided to go home early. I thanked him and headed back down the corridor. Outside the math building, I saw a man, short statured, carrying a briefcase and heading toward the parking lot. When I caught up to him in the parking lot he was already driving out in his 1989 Buick. I tailed him for a few blocks before he made a quick stop at Mike’s Hardware store. I got a better look at him. He had a pale-white complexion and his hair was black, short, and combed over. 

When he walked out of the Mike’s he was carrying a black bag and was nearly hit by a car backing out of a parking space. Although he was startled, he quickly returned to his lost expression. I thought about getting out and confronting him but I decided to just keep tailing him.  

I followed him all the way to his house on 33 Haley Street. I parked a few houses down and surveyed the area before I got out. I figured he would be settled in now and it would be a good time to bother him for a word. 

When I reached his door, I knocked but I got no answer. His car was still in the driveway and I knocked again. “Mr. Takeda!” And still, no answer. The house, as typical in the area, didn’t have but a small indent signaling the property line. He didn't have a fence to his backyard and so I walked around. Toys were scattered throughout the yard. A swing set and a couple bikes and scooters that had been battered by the elements. Most everything in the backyard appeared to be getting swallowed by the grass and wild weeds.

I reached a cloudy window and wiped the dust away with my sleeve, and when I got a good look into the kitchen I saw him dangling from a noose. I kicked the kitchen door open and grabbed onto his legs and held him up. I was able to loosen him from the noose before he lost consciousness. I made sure he was breathing. He must’ve been there less than 30 seconds but enough to be slightly disoriented. 

“Who… who are you?” Asked Takeda. 

“Did you murder Ian Pembrook?” 

“What?” 

“Don’t act a  fool. You were on that rope for less than a minute,” I said through my teeth. I felt as if I was getting desperate and I needed to extract the truth out of this man.  

“No, why are you here? Who are you?” 

“I was told you might have had something to do with Pembrook’s death, and by the looks of it, I’d say you’re looking to escape your guilt, but that’s not gonna cut it. Just tell me the truth.” He moved slowly toward his kitchen table and grabbed a hold of the chair that he had kicked over in his failed attempt. He dragged a chair over and hoisted himself onto it. 

“You are mistaken, sir. I didn’t have anything to do with Ian’s death, but you’re right about one thing. I am a fool! I’m a worthless pathetic fool and Ian–”

“He saw you for the fraud you were. Ian is the reason why your colleagues see you as a failed and pathetic excuse for a scholar.” 

“You’re wrong.” He said calmly. “You have no idea who I am nor what my relationship with Ian was, you are just coming to conclusions which merit no factual premises. Ian had–”

“But he stopped the publication of your paper.”

“Precisely, and if he hadn’t, I would’ve faced the ridicule you assume, but no. Ian saved me.” He convinced me. 

“But why suicide?” I asked. 

“Why not.” He responded as if my rescue had simply been but a minor setback in his plans. “It’s not because of Ian, look around. Do you think this is the place of a murderer? My wife left me. She took the kids. I don’t even have my work to fall back on anymore.” He said. Tears filled his eyes and a great shame sunk his head. I stood before a man that had lost purpose. 

Twenty minutes later, the first responders flooded the front yard of the house. I now waited outside by the ambulance as the paramedics hoisted Takeda up on the gurney and wheeled him into the ambulance. 

“I don’t need this.” Said Takeda. I had made the call because I knew I couldn’t leave him alone but I also couldn’t babysit him all day to ensure he didn’t try to do something stupid again. 

“Looking for trouble aren’t we?” Said Sheriff Neumann as the paramedics shut the door on the ambulance. 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t have the full picture, Kriger. Let me save you the trouble. The boy is guilty.” 

“I disagree.” 

“Goddamnit Kriger, we have two eyewitness accounts that both identified him as the perpetrator. If you had asked me yesterday I could've saved you some time. So how about you go and ruin a marriage somewhere.” 

“What and let you bunch fuck it all up by sending an innocent kid to prison?” 

“That kid is gonna rot in a cell.” He said, sinking into his patrol vehicle. I was afraid he was right. Takeda was my last suspect and I had nothing. 

Later that evening I spoke with Mr. Gascon outside the police station in North Adams. I gave him my news and it didn’t surprise him. He was indifferent about it and I figured he was beginning to accept his Friend’s fate. 

“Do you have receipts for me?” He asked. 

“Huh?”

“Receipts. You said you would incur expenses.” 

“Oh, yes give me a minute.” I walked to my car and pulled the receipts out of my leather folio kit that I carried in my glove compartment. One receipt was for a large coffee from Cafe Cuba and the two from the Purple Pub. 

I handed him the receipts. He tucked them in his coat pocket and gave me a 100 dollar bill. 

“Now, wait a minute, those receipts don’t add up to more than twenty-five dollars. I can’t take this.” 

“Don’t worry about it. Thanks for your help. I appreciate it. Now if you will excuse me I'm going to talk with the attorney.” He walked away and I stood there confused and sort of wishing I had kicked him out of my office the day he barged in. 

The following Monday, I walked into work to find Oliver Patiently waiting for me. 

“Good morning, Dan. Do you have an update for me?”

“Yeah, of course. Come on in.” I greeted Eunice as we made our way into my office. He had a seat. His folder was still on my desk which was still a mess. 

“Well Oliver.”

“I know.”

“What do you mean you know?”

“She’s been seeing that damn plumber over in North Adams. But I don’t care.” 

“Huh, usually the news is received with anger or sadness.”

“I suppose those men are usually hoping to not find what they’re looking for, but when I hired you I just needed the proof.” He said. I handed over a set of pictures I had taken. He looked at them and didn’t react. “My lawyer’s gonna love these.”

“What will you do now?”

“I’m done with this town. As soon as I step out of the office I’m out of here. In five hours I’ll be in New York.” He said and that’s where it hit me. I knew who the killer was. I knew. 

When Oliver left, I called Mr. Gascon and told him to meet me at St. Patrick’s Parish. It was the halfway point between Williamstown and North Adams. A cold rain started as I made the twenty minute drive over to St. Patrick’s and when I arrived the rain continued. 

I was in such a hurry that when I entered the church I had forgotten the sign of the cross. Mr. Gascon was sitting in the front pew taking in our humble little Parrish. I approached him quietly. 

“I quite enjoy the peace of churches,” he said softly. “I don’t practice any religion, but I do consider myself a man of God.” He stood up from the bench and made eye contact with me. “You have urgent information I suppose?” 

“I know who killed Pembrook. Until last Friday, I was convinced it was Takeda. I had my suspicions about Holm, but he was out of town that night. It was the witnesses that made it difficult.” 

“So you no longer think Jack is innocent? Is that what you came here to tell me?” he asked. 

“Jack is innocent. I just have a couple questions before I tell you who the killer is.” 

“Ask away.”

“How did Jack’s relationship with Pembrook make you feel?” I asked. He averted his gaze to Christ on the cross above the altar. Then looked back at me with that condescending stare. 

“I’m here to help an old friend.”

“Cut the shit. You’re here to help your ex-lover?”

“I… This is a sick game you’re playing at Mr. Kriger,” he said and started toward the exit but I grabbed him by the arm. 

“You were upset it was a romantic relationship,” I said letting him know that I knew he was the killer. He went cold and stood still processing it. He reached for his gun and before he could point it at me I had already drawn mine and had a better chance of hitting him if I so desired, but I waited.

“You imbecile!” he cried. 

“You tried to use me to cover your tracks didn’t you?” I said as we both now inched our way toward the altar holding our aim and waiting. “Flaunting your money as if you cared about Jack. Acting as if you were desperate to find the true killer. Who would ever look to question the rich man that stepped in to save his Friend. You had no intention of me finding the killer, you just wanted to spin a web of confusion.” 

That’s when Sheriff Neuman rushed in with two deputies, the three quickly drew their pistols ready to shoot and in seconds this had turned into the climactic ending of a spaghetti western. 

“Guns down boys!” Yelled Neuman from the entrance. 

“Yes, I did it. Is that what you want to hear? Are you happy you pathetic little man? You solved the case. It was me who killed Pembrook!” Sheriff and I made eye contact, and when Mr. Gascon followed my gaze to Sheriff Neuman, I let him have it: BANG! BANG! I put two bullets in his right shoulder sending him back and down. 

The bullets went through his shoulder. It was enough to restrain the pretty boy, and he would make a fast recovery. I saw Fernandez the day they let Jack free and he asked me about the case. I told him that I had overlooked the time and distance of travel. Mr. Gascon claimed to have arrived around noon when Jack was booked at around the same time. I had called Neuman to verify and he assured me that Mr. Gascon was there at the exact time they brought Jack in. 

I owed it to Oliver since he mentioned the five hour drive from here to New York. Jack did owe his freedom to Mr. Gascon who had arrived the previous night with the intention to kill Pembrook. According to Jack Gascon at one time had indeed been his romantic partner and was jealous of Pembrook, but he never thought he would be capable of such a thing and it was Jack’s close resemblance to Mr. Gascon the reason why he was arrested. The witnesses saw Mr. Gascon killed Pembrook but confused him with Jack. Mr. Gascon had seen scuffle in the bar and dug the Pig head out of the trash. 

Jack thanked me and said he was happy to be free and although he was sad about Nathaniel’s actions he did say that it doesn’t compare to the pain he felt about losing Pembrook. He said that Nathaniel is a smart man and he’ll make a life in prison worthy of his standards. The next day when I sat in my office I finally decided to start cleaning my desk. 

The End