Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📕

crime Mike’s murder was, that it was a petty robbery gone wrong, and that they were working tirelessly to find and apprehend the perpetrator. It was more press conference than eulogy.

He then told a couple stories about how great a fisherman Mike was, how he caught the biggest trout the Chief had ever seen. Then he said, “Mike never married, never had any children—the citizens of Tarrin were his children, his family. He felt a need to protect them, from themselves and from others. As most of us are well aware, Mike suffered from mental illness in the last several years. A combination of PTSD—possibly brought on by his military service in the Gulf War—and bouts of paranoid schizophrenia. But we shouldn’t let the last few pages of a man’s life undo a lifetime of good. He was a great man and he will be greatly missed.”

Eccleston stepped down, and the reverend asked if anyone else wanted to speak.

No one did.

The reverend began speaking again, and without thinking, I handed May to Randall and started toward the front. I made my way up to the lectern and gently pushed the reverend aside.

It was like when Kanye stole the microphone from Taylor Swift at the Grammy’s, but judging by Wheeler’s gaping mouth, much, much worse.

“I’d like to say a few words,” I said.

The many faces staring back at me were a combination of amusement, curiosity, and bewilderment. I overheard one woman near the front whisper, “Is that the same guy who brought the pigs?”

Yes, ma’am, I am.

I hadn’t anticipated speaking, but I felt it was my duty to make sure people knew that Mike might have had some degree of mental illness, but he wasn’t a liar.

“Most of you don’t know me. My name is Thomas Prescott. I recently moved into the Humphries Farm.” I paused for a breath, then said, “I only met Mike once. We only chatted for about an hour. Mostly we talked about the Save-More murders.”

There was a collective shift in the crowd. Everyone seeming to rock back on their heels simultaneously. Even Randall, as sturdy as humans came, seemed unsteady on his feet.

I had intended on telling everyone that Mike Zernan’s mental illness diagnosis was coaxed out of a psychologist by Chief Eccleston because Mike wouldn’t let the Save-More investigation go. That Mike had every reason to be paranoid. And that contrary to what the Chief said, it wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. That Mike’s death was connected to the Save-More murders. That the man who just spoke so lovingly about their fishing trips together was hiding something from all of them.

But as I looked out on the faces, I could see these people didn’t care. The Save-More memories were too painful. There was nothing I could say that could possibly justify bringing those memories to the surface.

It wasn’t the somber look on Victoria Page’s face at my mention of the Save-More murders, or even the nearly audible gulp by the farmer whose pant leg May attacked. It was Sarah Wheeler Lanningham. From even thirty feet away, I could see her bottom lip trembling.

Who was I to come into these people’s town and throw around wild unsubstantiated theories and accusations? There might be a time when these people would have to come to terms with the unresolved past, and I might very well be the conduit, but now wasn’t the time.

I glanced at the Chief. His eyes were narrowed. I could sense him daring me to continue, almost threatening that if I thought I was an outsider now, I would find myself on the other side of an invisible dome if I uttered the word Save-More one more time.

I broke my gaze with the Chief, then said, “Anyhow, Mike said he’d never seen a town come together like your town did after that horrific crime. He said that although it was the worst time in Tarrin’s history, he’d never been prouder to call himself one of you.” I forced a smile, then said, “I just thought he’d want everyone to know that.”

Then I stepped down.

Chapter Seventeen

It took Randall and me three weeks to cut down the 250 acres of brush. It was late June and the backbreaking labor combined with the warm Missouri afternoons—not to mention a half-hour workout with the dumbbells each night—and I’d shed ten pounds.

As for Harold and May, for every pound I lost, they each gained two. They had both tripled in size—Harold and May were now eating a diet of corn meal plus some fruits and veggies—turning into little porkers and taking up more of the bed’s real estate each night.

Randall and I decided to take a couple days off before we started tilling the soil, a task that hopefully would only take us a week. And presently, I was enjoying a long run and listening to a playlist Lacy sent me.

In the time since Mike Zernan’s funeral, I had limited interaction with the community of Tarrin. When I did go into town, to grocery shop or buy feed, I could feel the looks, sense the whispers: that’s the guy from Mike Zernan’s funeral who was talking about the Save-More murders…and whose pigs desecrated a mound of dirt.

As for the investigation into Mike’s murder, according to the last article I read on the Tarrin Weekly website, they were still looking into a number of different leads. If I was one of those leads, they were keeping me in the dark. I kept waiting to be pulled back into the station for another round of questioning, but it never happened.

Which meant the Chief never really thought I had anything to do with Mike’s death. Or they were just biding their time and the entire Tarrin gestapo was going to crash through my front door in the middle of night.

Time would tell.

As for my actions the past few weeks, I’d flipped through the copied pages of Will Dennel’s notebook a half dozen times, but found no anomalies. Other than that, I’d done