Matters of Doubt Read Online Free PDF Page A

information over and done some preliminary follow-up, if it’s needed. After that, if we decide to keep at it, we’ll come up with a fair price. How does that sound?”
    â€œOkay, I guess. Aren’t I supposed to give you a retainer or something?”
    I smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “How much you got on you?”
    He took out his wallet and opened it. “Uh, two bucks.”
    â€œGive me a dollar, then, and we’ll call it a deal.” We shook on it. I said, “One more thing. I know you’re sure about who killed your mom, but I’m not going to start with any preconceived notions. You okay with that?”
    Picasso face tightened as if preparing to argue. But he must have thought better of it. He nodded. “Fair enough.”

Chapter Five
    I had a lot more questions for Picasso, but he was anxious to get back to work, and I had another errand to run. We decided to get back together at the end of the day. I swung back to the clinic around five, and we threw his bike in my trunk since he lived several miles north, on the east side of the Willamette. Before we left he went into the clinic and brought out an old Dell laptop that must have been three inches thick. “Almost forgot this,” he said as he slid into the seat next to me. “I charge it up here so I can use it at night. There’s no electricity where I live.”
    As we pulled away, I said, “I thought you lived around here.”
    â€œUsed to, but I kept getting my stuff ripped off so I decided to move. Old Town’s still where I hang out, though, where my friends are.”
    â€œWhere did you live after your mom was killed?” I asked, curious if he’d tell the truth about being homeless.
    â€œAround,” was all he gave me. Then he pointed up ahead. “Turn left at the light. I want to show you something.” After we passed an acupuncture and medicinal herb shop called the Mystic Circle in the middle of the next block, he said, “Pull over and look back.”
    A huge mural covered most of the side wall of the building. I sat there taking it in for a few moments, then got out of the car for a better look. A man and woman stood next to an open grave. The man’s head was turned toward the woman, a hand resting on her shoulder. Holding the photograph of a beautiful young girl, the woman looked straight ahead. As I approached, her eyes seemed to lock on mine, stopping me in mid-stride. Her eyes were clear and bright but filled with pathos, anger, and something else…accusation? Yes, that was it. Accusation. She was so deftly rendered that I half expected to see her chest heave and nostrils flare as she took a breath. To her left, Death stood in his hooded black robe, smiling with garish teeth, his familiar sickle replaced with an assault rifle sporting a large banana clip. In the background, tombstones dotted a grassy knoll with names etched on them—Columbine, Springfield, Aurora, Virginia Tech…and scattered between the tombstones were other groups of mourners. Like the woman, they stared out at me with the same haunting, accusatory look.
    I stood there in stunned silence. Aside from the pictures of the murals in Northern Ireland, I’d never seen anything like it. Picasso had come up behind me. I dropped my voice to a whisper, “Beautiful work. Powerful.” I shook my head. “Makes me ashamed to be an adult in this country.”
    Picasso nodded. “Thanks. I, uh, guess I’ll have to add another tombstone now.” Sandy Hook. He didn’t have to say it. We fell silent for several moments before he continued. “Some of the best art in the world’s going up on the sides of buildings, man. I started out with a spray can, but once I saw Malik’s work, I knew what I wanted to do with my life.”
    â€œYou used to do graffiti?”
    â€œYeah. I mean, a lot of guys started out that way. It’s not all bad, you