The Guilty hp-2 Read online

  The first article I came across was from the Austin Chroni cle, a story about one Judge Bob Hefner who, in 1986, published a booklet claiming Brushy Bill had in reality been the real Billy the Kid. The booklet gained notoriety when it was picked up by the Dallas Morning News. According to

  Hefner's story, "Brushy Bill had no children and was at the end of his life. Fame and fortune were not a consideration for the old man."

  Hefner continued, saying that Roberts desired only to be granted the pardon promised by Governor Lewis Wallace to the Kid years before. Hefner claimed that Pat Garrett had actually killed a friend of Billy the Kid's that night in 1881, solely for the purpose of collecting the five-hundred-dollar bounty on Bonney's head.

  It seemed strange that Brushy Bill Roberts would suddenly decide, after years in hiding, that he wanted to be pardoned for crimes committed in the 1880s. I noted that Hefner currently ran the Billy the Kid museum in Hico, making it two different states with two different museums claiming to be the final resting place for Billy the Kid. Of course he had financial motivation for keeping the theory alive. But that didn't make him a liar.

  I then found an article published by the New York Times in

  1950, concerning the spectacle surrounding a man who claimed to be the real-life Jesse James. James had been assumed murdered by two brothers named Bob and Charley

  Ford back in 1882, but in 1950 a man named J. Frank Dalton claimed to be the real James. After a media carnival descended upon the 102-year-old man during a hospital stay,

  Dalton died. Yet the rumors persisted. Finally in 1995, the body of Jesse James was exhumed from its grave in Missouri and the DNA was found to match 99.7 to that of James's family. Supporters of the Dalton theory did not give up hope, and in 2000 a court order was granted to exhume the body of

  J. Frank Dalton to end the speculation. Unfortunately the wrong body was exhumed, and attempts to discredit Dalton were halted. Dalton's actual body was never exhumed nor tested. I wondered if this botched exhumation was part of the reason Largo Vance was unable to do the same for William

  H. Bonney.

  The article was accompanied by a photo of an elderly man with a long, scruffy beard lying in a hospital bed with two men standing by his side. When I saw the attribution given to the second of the two men, my heart nearly skipped a beat. He was wearing a leather jacket and bore a look of concern on his face. He was identified as one Brushy Bill Roberts, ninety years old, at the deathbed of J. Frank Dalton. The man thought to be the real Billy the Kid next to the man suspected of being the real Jesse James.

  I ran another search, this time to determine whether Jesse

  James and William H. Bonney knew each other. According to news reports, Jesse James and Billy the Kid had met only once, at the Old Adobe Springs Hotel near Las Vegas in July of 1879. The two were seen having dinner by an associate of

  Bonney's, though the witness's story was widely discredited.

  People simply couldn't believe history's two most famous outlaws had ever crossed paths, let alone met for a friendly dinner.

  The Austin Chronicle, in a later story, said this "chance" meeting was even more unlikely considering James's daughter had been born merely ten days earlier.

  I kept searching, and soon discovered another photograph, dated 1942, again of Brushy Bill Roberts and J. Frank Dalton, this time of the two men standing side by side. The picture clearly identified the two men by the names they went by at the time-Brushy Bill and Frank Dalton. According to records, it was not until after Dalton's one hundred and second birthday that he claimed to be Jesse James. Additionally, Roberts denied that he was Billy the Kid at first, only admitting to it after being confronted.

  There were a slew of websites and conspiracy theory pamphlets printed and posted on the web, many claiming that Roberts and Dalton were two con artists looking to make a buck and gain notoriety. What made no sense is why the two men would wait until their deathbeds to claim this "notoriety."

  Both Roberts and Dalton died within a few years of their confessions, and neither made any sort of profit from their claims.

  According to another report, a man named Homer Overton claimed that Pat Garrett's widow told him that the Kid's death was a sham, a ruse concocted by Garrett and the Kid to allow the outlaw safe passage into Mexico. Overton's testimony was entered into the record during Vance's attempt to convince lawmakers to exhume the body of Catherine Antrim. Lincoln

  County sheriffs made a point of noting that Pat Garrett's likeness is featured on the logo of the Lincoln County Sheriff's

  Department. The man was an icon. If it were proven that

  Garrett did not, in fact, kill William H. Bonney, it would throw the entire county into upheaval.

  I allowed this information to digest. For years Brushy Bill

  Roberts's story had been considered fraudulent. The ramblings of an old, broke man. Even an attempt to put the case to rest by comparing Billy the Kid's DNA to that of his mother never came to fruition. Likewise, J. Frank Dalton's DNA was never compared to that of Jesse James's family.

  Two legends with cracks in their facade. Two legends protected either by governmental incompetence, or institutions with reasons to hide the truth. Without the prosperity of those legends to harvest from, several towns in the Southwest would shrivel up and die. And a large part of this country's history would be rent to pieces. If Oliver P. Roberts truly was Billy the Kid, there were many people who had clear motivations to keep that secret locked away.

  I could see the connections between the legend of Billy the

  Kid and the man responsible for murdering Athena Paradis,

  Joe Mauser, Jeffrey Lourdes and David Loverne.

  William H. Bonney was a Regulator, sworn to bring to justice those who had wronged him, wronged society and threatened to disrupt the very fabric of the land he was trying to protect. Using some twisted logic, the psychopath who went

  Mario Batali on my hand felt he was also bringing justice to the guilty.

  I brought up the photo of J. Frank Dalton on his deathbed.

  Thought about the alleged report of Jesse James and William

  H. Bonney meeting near Las Vegas in 1879. Ten days after the birth of James's daughter.

  Daughter. That word stuck in my throat. Mary Susan

  James. Born just three years before her father was allegedly killed.

  On a whim, I checked to see if there were any records of

  Billy the Kid having children, a wife, any trace of a bloodline. According to the records, Bonney never married and it was unclear whether he had any children.

  I looked up the family tree of Brushy Bill Roberts. Roberts had apparently married a woman named Melinda. Records showed that Roberts had one son, Jesse William Roberts, who was born in Hamilton, Texas, in 1897.

  Jesse William Roberts. I looked at the photos featuring

  Brushy Bill and Frank Dalton together. Added that to the alleged meeting between the outlaws in 1879. It would be a mighty big coincidence-or a case of damn good foresight-for the man who'd later claim to be Billy the Kid to name his only son after Jesse James. Either that, or Jesse

  James and Billy the Kid were better acquaintances than people thought.

  My fingers flew as I typed more searches into the machine, my mind ignoring the pain from my stitched-up hand. I couldn't stop. The spool was unraveling and I couldn't slow down. I knew I had stumbled upon something, a story that drove to the very heart of a century-old legend.

  I looked for lineage records pertaining to Jesse William

  Roberts, son of Brushy Bill Roberts. Jesse had married a woman named Lucy Barnett. Lucy gave birth to two of Jesse's children: James and Catherine.

  Catherine Roberts. Brushy Bill's granddaughter. Who shared the same name as Billy the Kid's mother, Catherine Antrim.

  Catherine Roberts died of tuberculosis in 1927 at just three years of age. James Roberts, Brushy's grandson, eventually moved to New Mexico, where he married Lucinda W
alther.

  In 1957 she gave birth to a son named John Henry Roberts.

  John Henry Roberts married a woman named Meryl Higgins, and in 1987 Meryl gave birth to twins: Martha James Roberts, and William Henry Roberts.

  William Henry Roberts. Currently aged twenty-one. The same age Billy the Kid was when allegedly killed by Pat

  Garrett.

  The theories were true. William H. Bonney, known by millions as Billy the Kid, known by few as Brushy Bill

  Roberts, had fathered a son.

  I knew why this killer was using the Winchester rifle. Why he had chosen the weapon and bullets he did. Why he had stolen that gun from the museum in Fort Sumner. Why he had waited twenty-one years to reclaim his heritage. To continue the destiny set forth by his ancestor.

  The bloodline had survived. And one hundred and thirty years after his supposed murder, Billy the Kid's greatgrandson, William Henry Roberts, had brought the lawlessness and bloodshed of the Old West here to New York City.

  39

  The vodka tasted cold and bitter as it slid down her throat, but the tonic dulled the taste and made it easy to swallow. She knocked the glass on the counter and signaled the bartender, a bohemian named Gregory who wore a ponytail pulled back so tight she feared it might tear his scalp off, and told him to refresh the drink.

  "What, you going in for surgery and need a cheap anesthetic?" Gregory said with a laugh. He took a bottle from the well, gave her an inch and a half and topped the rest with tonic. "Hey, Mya, you okay?"

  Mya Loverne looked up at Gregory and managed a weak smile. She'd come to the Suave bar four times in the past week alone, drank herself into oblivion each time, and this was the first time Gregory had noticed her.

  Drinking was all she could do since Henry abandoned her.

  Since Amanda had run her off. Since Mya had nothing left, nobody to lean on except the awkward embraces from sweaty drunks who weren't quite repulsive enough to turn down. The physical pleasure dulled the pain. Not for long, but long enough to gain a modicum of relief from the anguish inside her.

  Mya took a small sip and saw Gregory watching her from the other end of the bar. As soon as he noticed her looking, he turned away, hiding a look of embarrassment, and pretended to clean a glass. She wondered what time he got off.

  If he had an apartment nearby.

  Mya felt her cell phone vibrate through her purse. She took it out, saw it was her mother, and pressed Ignore. Mya had only spoken to her mother once since her father's murder. She made no effort to hide the fact that she believed her mother's ignorance led to his death. That if her mother wasn't such a goddamn passive bitch, wasn't such a pushover, had every now and then stood up for herself, her father would still be alive and not in a pine box in some cemetery surrounded by dimming memories of loved ones.

  Mya could feel her blood warming as the alcohol swam through her veins. The door opened, and she felt a gust of cool air. Mya closed her eyes, knocked back the rest of the drink.

  Then she heard a creaking sound, opened her eyes and saw a man pull out the stool next to her and sit down. He was young, early twenties, very tan with sandy blond hair and a sweet smile. His eyes flashed a striking blue, and Mya felt her cheeks grow warm. The guy raised his hand to order a drink. Mya noticed how cracked and calloused his palms were. He took off his coat, was wearing a blue T-shirt underneath. His forearms were tanned and toned. He looked like no other guy she'd seen at this bar. He was naturally lean, not possessing the kind of strength born in a gym, but born out of honest blue-collar work.

  Gregory acknowledged him and came over. He placed a coaster in front of the stranger and said, "What'll it be?"

  "Gin and tonic," the guy said. His voice sounded slightly older than Mya would have expected. "Light on the tonic."

  Gregory held out his hand, palm up. "Lemme see some ID."

  He looked moderately embarrassed, and offered Mya a sheepish smile before opening his wallet and handing the plastic over. Gregory looked the man over, looked at the picture, made sure the faces matched.

  "William…Roberts?" Gregory said.

  "That'd be me." Gregory, seemingly satisfied, handed the card back and poured the drink. He went heavy on the gin, surely in apology for the embarrassing age verification.

  When Gregory left, the boy took a sip of his drink and said,

  "You think that'd never get old, but sometimes all you want is a drink." He said it softly without turning his head.

  "I know what you mean. I still get carded half the places

  I go to."

  The boy swiveled his stool toward her. He had a nice smile, dimples. "You're what, twenty-two, twenty-three?"

  "Twenty-six," Mya said, failing to hide her pleasure in his guess.

  "BS."

  "You're right, I lie to pretend I'm older. "

  They shared a laugh. Mya took another sip of her drink, found she was sucking on ice. Her body felt warm. She was unsure if it was the alcohol or this stranger. Either way, she didn't want it to stop. "So let me guess. You walk into bars and try to flatter all the girls." Immediately she regretted uttering such a line, but what was the worst that could happen?

  The boy laughed. "You're right," he said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "I have nothing better to do than wander around until I finally meet someone who needs flattery. Please. I talk to who I want, when I want. And right now I want to talk to you."

  "I bet you say that to all the girls, too," Mya said.

  "Actually, I do. You got me there."

  "So here you are. I guess I should be flattered you're talking to me."

  "Actually, I'm the one who should be flattered."

  The boy smiled, his face a strange but alluring combination of youthfulness and maturity, like he'd seen more and done more than anyone his age had experienced. He wasn't in a hurry like most guys she met, hadn't overplayed his hand within the first ten seconds of their meeting. He looked confident enough that if she rebuffed any possible advances, he could pick up, move on, quickly find someone who wouldn't.

  Not that she wanted him to move on. But there was the deliciously dangerous possibility of it all.

  "William Roberts," he said. "It's nice to meet you." He offered his hand.

  "Mya Loverne." She took it, shook it. "So, William

  Roberts. Do you have a middle name?"

  "You want to know my middle name? I don't know, that's a pretty big step. Once I've given that out, we're linked until one of us leaves this bar. Are you prepared for that kind of commitment?"

  "Is it really that big a commitment?" Mya asked.

  "Of course it is," he said. "See, a boy and a girl can sit in a bar talking for hours. They can share the most intimate secrets of their life, loves and hates, lovers and ex-lovers, pet peeves and fetishes, but there's always a layer of protection between them, this subtle, unspoken boundary where they both know the biggest intimacy has yet to be allowed." She felt the boy move closer, inching his stool toward hers. She pretended she hadn't noticed.

  "See, once you cross that line, once you allow that intimacy, you can never go back. See, knowing my middle name isn't such a big deal on the surface, it's what it represents. So if I tell it to you, be sure there's no going back. Are you ready for that?"

  "Mine's Helen," she blurted out. Everything seemed to stop for a moment, the boy seeming to soak it in. Now the night was open to all sorts of possibilities.

  "Henry," he said. "William Henry Roberts. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mya."

  Henry.

  "It's a pleasure to meet you, William Henry."

  William smiled. "Hey, barkeep," he shouted. Gregory turned around. "Another round down here, if you please."

  40

  William put down the copy of the Gazette. His fingertips had become black with ink. He licked his thumb, rubbed his fingers until the smudge had congealed, then wiped his hand on a napkin which he then tossed in the garbage by the bed.

  The article was smartly written, insightful
, and one hundred percent true. Parker had done a surprisingly good job.

  In a short amount of time, too. He wasn't quite sure how

  Henry had pulled all the facts together, and part of him was rather impressed. Still, William knew there were many unanswered questions to which Parker-and the rest of the city- would beg the answers. This was the beauty of the whole thing. William felt a great surge inside. Pride and ambition.

  Those four deaths were just the beginning. Athena Paradis, the other three martyrs, they were stepping-stones to a greater good.

  Two pages after Parker's story was an article about the turmoil at Franklin-Rees publications following Jeffrey

  Lourdes's murder, as the empire ran around like a headless chicken hoping to find some stability. William knew, as soon everyone else would, that regardless of how many Frankenstein-esque heads they tried to bolt on, the animal itself was dying. Everything would crumble from the top down. And out of that rubble would come something beautiful.

  Once the guilty had hanged, the innocent had nothing to fear. It was human nature to fear the executioner. Most never realized their job was to cleanse the earth of the guilty, the evil, those who poisoned society.

  Despite the truths Henry Parker had unearthed, William felt no anger toward him. Being attacked and brutalized hadn't stopped Parker's pursuit of the truth.

  Parker, of course, only knew what William wanted him to know. Because he was the Regulator. He was the last of the great bloodline. And even if the line died with him, it would have died claiming a destiny so abruptly halted many years ago.

  Just as William had uncovered his history despite those who had wished to keep it a secret, so would Henry Parker discover it, as well. Two sides of a coin-one clean, one dirty-both needed to create the whole. The same way Billy the Kid had his chronicler in Pat Garrett, so would William in Henry Parker.

  William heard a groan. She was waking up.