“Again you were lucky.”

“Don’t think I don’t know it. It wasn’t until a couple of days later that I heard about Dr. Little. I wasn’t in school no more, so I didn’t get the lowdown until after the fact-the carjacking and the Mercedes being left at Clearwater Park. Leroy was in big trouble, and I was probably in trouble by extension. We met and we got a story together in case the cops came to us.”

“And you never asked him what happened?”

“I didn’t want to know, especially if the cops were coming after me and they was gonna give me a lie detector test…I wanted to pass.”

“So what was your story for the cops?”

“We’d be each other’s alibi. Before I left to pick up Leroy, my mom asked me where I was going. I told her to hang out with Leroy. She was talking to the minister and he heard me say it. She’d never imagine that I traveled twenty-five miles to pick up Leroy. I didn’t have a car. Leroy didn’t have a car. And why would we be there? Besides, why would we hurt Dr. Ben? We were never his special boys like Darnell. In North Valley High, we were invisible.”

“But you were interviewed about the murder.”

“Yeah, of course. Because of Darnell and the drug charges and we were his friends and were black. No one could believe that a white boy would hurt Dr. Ben. I was interviewed by some white cop named Vitton who came to my house. He talked to me. He talked to my mom. He talked to my minister. After that, he never spoke to me again.”

“And Leroy?”

“His grandmother said that Leroy and me was home with her. She must have been about ninety at the time-deaf and blind. She didn’t know if Leroy was home or not, but she wasn’t gonna say anything to a bunch of cops.”

He paused to reorganize his thoughts.

“About six months after Dr. Ben’s murder, Leroy calls me out of the blue and tells me he’s got some good news. He found some rock star who liked my songs and wanted to hear more of them.”

Marge was quiet.

“Now’s the time for Primo Ekerling.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

Wenderhole gave her a fleeting smile. “Primo had been into the punk scene, but it was wearing thin. He was having trouble with the band, and he really wanted to be more behind the scenes. He liked my songs. We did a demo tape. Leroy somehow managed to get the tape played at a few of the alternative stations. I didn’t make a dime off it, but, man, hearing yourself over the squawk box. It got me women. It got Leroy women. It got us welcome at all the clubs. Problem is, if you run around with shit, you get your hands dirty. And that’s exactly what happened.”

He patted the wheelchair.

“We were partying just like we always did, except one night some hyped-up bro went crazy and started peeling off rounds. Leroy caught it in the chest and head. I caught it in the back. When I woke up, I couldn’t move my legs. I couldn’t even feel my legs.”

Wenderhole’s jaw clenched as tightly as his fists.

“I wasn’t allowed to feel that sorry for myself because at least I was alive. Leroy…he didn’t have a chance.” A beat. “It wasn’t a wake-up call, it was a fuckin’ time bomb going off in my brain. For the first time in my life, I could be on drugs legally because the pain was so unbelievable.”

“It must have been hell.”

“If there was something worse than hell, I was in it. I swore that I was going to clean up my act and do something. It took me years, but finally I joined the human race. I started trying to better myself. I talked to other paraplegics. I realized that I was luckier than most because my dick still worked. I eventually did get some feeling back in my legs and toes. For a while, I could even manage on crutches. But you get older, it don’t get better. I finally got tired enough to admit I needed a little more help. I can still swim like a fish, but I’ve been using a wheelchair for the last three years.”

Wenderhole waited long enough for Marge to feel that it was okay to ask questions.

“Did you talk to Ekerling after you got shot?”

“I think Primo visited me a couple of times, then nothing. No market for a rapper in a wheelchair, and there was lots of others writing rap. He didn’t have any use for me anymore.”

“Did you think that Leroy’s connection to Ekerling had something to do with Bennett Little’s murder?”

“Why would I think that? Ekerling didn’t come into the picture until way later.”

“And you never questioned Leroy about Bennett Little’s murder?”

“No. I didn’t want to know nothing.”

“And your only involvement in the incident was picking Leroy up from the park.”

“That was it. You want me to make a statement about that, I will. That is part of recovery. I lied to the police. I fully admit it.”

“When you heard about Ekerling’s death-his car being jacked, the body being stuffed into a trunk and shot execution style-did you make a connection between his murder and Bennett Little’s murder?”

“I thought about it only after I read about the two moronic dick brains that the police hauled in for the crime-that one of them was an aspiring rapper. That set off bells. That was me and Leroy fifteen years ago.”

Marge was writing furiously. “Why would someone have wanted to shoot Bennett Little?”

“I don’t know, Sergeant; I barely even knew the man.”

“How do you think Leroy got involved with his murder?”

“I don’t know if he was.”

Marge said, “From what you’ve told me, there had to be other players in Little’s murder besides Leroy. Any ideas who might have set the thing up?”

“No.”

“What about Darnell? Could he have called the shots? He had a reason to hate Little.”

Wenderhole was circumspect. “Darnell was angry, but I can’t see him being angry enough to arrange a hit. And where would he get that kind of money?”

“He might have saved up something from running drugs.”

Wenderhole smiled bitterly. “You’ve never been a runner. All you get is pocket change. Everything you make goes in your mouth, up your nose, or into your lungs. Darnell didn’t have money to pay Leroy.”

“And you have no idea who paid Leroy to murder Little?”

Wenderhole hedged. “I don’t know if Leroy killed Little or not.”

Marge tried a different tactic. “When you worked with Ekerling, did you meet any of his former bandmates?”

Wenderhole thought for a minute without speaking. Then he went into his file, pulled out a folder, and began to rummage through it. “Here is my former life as A-Tack: old clippings, PR pieces, and the few reviews that I got. I saved them all.”

“Can I see them? They might be helpful to the investigation.”

“In a minute…” He pulled out a yellowed piece of newspaper print. “Here…” He handed it to Marge. “Once I opened for Primo’s group-the Doodoo Sluts. I think it was their last concert together. It was at a club in Hollywood. The place was packed, but not because of me. It was a bunch of white punkasses. I got through two numbers before they started throwing shit at me.”

Marge read the review. The critic had good things to say about A-Tack but called the Sluts sell-out hacks. “Your two numbers must have been impressive.”

“Sergeant, all I remember is trying to escape without being lynched. I was pissed off at Primo for setting me up like that.”

“Do you think he did it on purpose?”

“No, not on purpose. Maybe he thought he was doing me a favor…giving me exposure. But a producer should know the audience for his performer.”

“If you opened for the Doodoo Sluts, you must have known the members of the band.”

“I didn’t know them. I met them before the show. I liked the Irishman on the drums. And the guitarist was real good. I forget his name.”

“Ryan Goldberg.”

“That’s right. Ryan. He was a big guy. Kinda weird, too, but friendly in that Lurch sort of way.”

“What about Rudy Banks?”

“Rudy Banks…” Wenderhole paused. “I remember him best of all because he knew I’d gone to North Valley High. I asked him how he knew that and he told me that Darnell Arlington used to run drugs for him in North Valley. If that’s true, I was running drugs for him, too, because I ran drugs for Darnell.”