Page 161 of Hello, Summer
“Yes,” she said, sitting down.
He winced.
“You owe me,” she told the sheriff.
“How do you figure?”
“You hired a psychopath as a law enforcement officer. A mentally unbalanced bully who stalked and harassed and ultimately attempted to kill me.”
“First off, I didn’t hire Poppell. I inherited him from my predecessor. I was in the process of trying to fire him the first time you encountered him,” Goggins said.
“Did you know he had a juvenile record? Of violent sexual assault?”
Goggins rubbed his chin nervously. “You know juvenile records are sealed in this state. The first I heard of this was when I read that story in theBeacon’s digital edition this morning.”
“Poppell blamed me for getting fired,” Conley said. “What was the cause?”
“Dereliction of duty was the official cause. Unofficially, it was chronic laziness and general dumb-assery.”
“My sister, who is a lawyer, says we should sue you, individually, and the county,” Conley said, crossing and uncrossing her legs.
“Christ,” Goggins muttered. “The county attorney would have my ass if he knew I was talking to you right now.” He got up and paced around the small office, stopping to wipe an invisible speck of dust from one of the picture frames. “I told that kid reporter, Torpy, I told him to tell you I feel terrible about Poppell. What he did to you. I’ve got a daughter. She’s only fifteen, but if something like that happened to her?” He shook his head. “But that’s all I can say about this mess. You understand? If the lawyers get involved, it’ll be real bad.”
“I don’t want to sue you,” Conley said.
“No? You don’t want your pound of flesh?”
“I don’t want to spend years hashing it over, talking about it and reliving the worst night of my life,” Conley said. “Poppell’s dead. And I guess I believe you when you say you didn’t know about his history.”
Goggins raised his right hand, palm out. “Swear to God, I’d have fired him my first day in office if I’d known what a sick bastard he was. So if you don’t want to sue, why are you here?”
“Just doing my job,” Conley said lightly. “I need to know where you are with the Robinette investigation. You said at the funeral that the medical examiner found a toxic combination of fentanyl and alcohol in his system. Does that mean you suspect foul play?”
“You think you’re gonna bargain information in return for a promise not to sue me?” Goggins asked, chuckling. “Like this is some kind of bartering situation?”
“Not at all. I’m a journalist. You’re in law enforcement. Congressman Robinette’s death is a matter of public interest. Now what’s the story?”
“Off the record?”
“I’d prefer to be on the record.”
He shrugged. “Then it’s still under investigation.”
“Okay, tell me what’s not under investigation.”
“He had a shitload of fentanyl in his system. But he was being treated for terminal cancer, and he had a transdermal pain patch, which was prescribed by his doctor.”
“Not news,” Conley said. “You already told me he was dead when he hit the deer. And that he had a blood alcohol level of .06.”
“It’s in the medical examiner’s report, but that still hasn’t been released yet, so you can’t say I was the source,” Goggins cautioned.
“Where’d he get the booze at that hour of the night?” Conley asked. “I thought Vanessa was keeping him on a pretty tight rein. His neighbor said Symmes had to sneak over to his house just to have a beer.”
“Vanessa Robinette was adamant that she’d gotten rid of all the booze in the house. She said Symmes was pretty mad about it, but his doctors told her he couldn’t drink. Not while he was wearing that patch,” Goggins said.
“I bet the first Mrs. Robinette was more than happy to play bartender to the old man,” Conley said. “Toddie never would tell me if he was at the farm that night.”
“She didn’t want to tell us, either,” Goggins said. “But we’ve got proof that he was there.”
