“the man said, then spat chaw-juice onto his own boot. He glared at it with disapproval. “Played some music, and left. Then the clerk jumped over the counter and beat the victim to death? Just like that?” “Just like that,” the man agreed. He squinted at Helms’ badge again, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “So what did this man look like?” Helms asked, not looking up from her notebook. “Like some sort of communist hippy liberal pussy. Or something. I don’t know, I can tell you... he didn’t vote for The Gipper, that’s for damn sure.” Helms glanced up from her notes and fixed the witness, one Jeremy Boont, with a questioning stare. Boont winced a little, spat more chaw, and stared off at his truck like he thought that description should suffice. “How tall was he?” Helms prompted. “I don’t know. Not very.” “What color was his hair? His eyes?” Boont leaned in close to Helms, his gut pushing her notepad back into her writing hand.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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