The blue and red flashing lights of three police cars and Macklin’s only emergency response vehicle, shattered the darkness of the narrow residential street in a multicoloured neon display. The bright lights were reflected from windows in adjacent homes, and from the eyes and faces of the small crowd that was growing larger by the minute. Leo Kern averted his eyes from the brilliance. He’d read somewhere that the strobe like effects of emergency lights could induce an epileptic seizure.

    A whooping siren and heavy rumble of a powerful diesel engine announced the arrival of the small town’s second urban response vehicle – a two thousand-gallon tanker. It pulled to a stop with a hiss of air brakes. The noise drowned out the surrounding excited conversation and the crackle of the violent flames leaping from the overturned police cruiser – wrapped around a splintered, wooden power pole.

    It took only minutes for the yellow safety-jacketed fire crew to roll out hoses and connect to a nearby hydrant. With water now spraying over the burning vehicle, curious onlookers moved closer to the accident scene. Two uniformed policemen stringing up a security tape around the perimeter redoubled their efforts before the crowd got too close.

    "It’s Billy Ray Thurman, for sure," someone yelled.

    "We can only hope," was the reply from the rear of the crowd.

    Kern shielded his eyes from the piercing glare of lights with his hand, and peered at the small sea of faces surrounding him. He was looking for that certain witness. The one a veteran reporter can always pick – the one who would relate the story most accurately. He’d almost given up hope, and was about to question an obese woman jiggling a baby on her hip, when he spotted the solitary figure sitting on the front veranda of a shabby wooden house opposite.

    Kern strode across the road and mounted the kerb. He paused, checking the view of the accident from where he stood, then nodded. The man would have been in a position to see the entire thing. He turned and stepped across the dry weeds that doubled as front lawn, and stopped at the bottom of the steps leading to the veranda.

    The man wasn’t as old as he appeared from a distance. With the amount of silver in what remained of his hair, Kern figured him for about sixty-five, maybe seventy. In deference to the warm night, the man wore no shirt, only the top half of grubby looking, white long johns. Dark baggy cloth trousers, with a red suspender hanging from each side, adorned his lower regions. He had a withered look about him – probably a result of being confined to the wheel chair he was seated in. But he also carried an appearance of permanence. Kern hoped the man’s nightly habit was to sit out here and watch the world go by.

    "Evening, sir. My name is Leo Kern. I’m a reporter for the Macklin Leader. Could you tell me what happened here?"

    The old man ran a hand over his stubbled chin, and regarded Kern with red rimmed eyes. "Well now, I s’pose I could. But it wouldn’t be a true picture of what happened, if I was just to tell you ‘bout this here accident."

    Kern had pulled out his notebook and pen. He now had misgivings about his selection for the interview, and made as if to put them back in his pocket.

    The old man chuckled, and waved a gnarled hand at him. "I saw it, don’t worry. It’s just that there’s more to this story than the result, if you get my meaning."

    Kern didn’t, but his curiosity was piqued. "How so?"

    "Step up and take a seat, son. We can watch what’s goin’ on while I tell you all about Clarence and Billy Ray. It’s time people knew."

    Kern stepped up onto the wooden veranda and sat down in a weathered, cane love seat. He pulled out his pad and pen again, and hoped. He had a funny feeling this might be a once in a lifetime scoop.

    "Gotta go way back," the old man said. The bright lights opposite were shining on his face – highlighting his deep creases and pale features.

    Kern glanced at the accident scene. The flames were abating, and the sickening smell of burning flesh was permeating the area. A lot of the onlookers were moving back, hands covering their mouth and nose. Kern was an experienced reporter – used to it. He peered at the old man. If it affected him, he didn’t show it. His face was grave – broody.

    "Gotta go right back to when Billy Ray was no more than eight or nine. Clarence could see evil in him even then. He’d be settin on his front veranda when Billy Ray and the others came along from school. Billy Ray would be up to no good, stealin’ marbles, throwin’ stones, and beatin’ up on the little ones. And the girls," he added.

    Kern was writing it down in shorthand. He hoped the tale would finish quickly so he could get a statement from the fire-chief and the police.

    "Course, Clarence always hoped he’d grow out of it. Young boys can be high spirited. But there was something ‘bout him. He just oozed badness. When he got older, he got meaner. The beatins’ he give were worse, and he had a gang runnin’ round with him. Clarence just knew the boy was headed for trouble."

    The old man pointed at a vacant block across the road, behind the fire truck. "Nice family of coloured’s moved in there one day. Always waved to Clarence. Even baked him a chicken potpie one time. Right, decent people. But Billy Ray, he decides they don’t belong. Burnt em’ out, he did. Clarence knew it was him responsible. Saw him from his front veranda, settin where he always sets each night. Poor young fella from two blocks down got the blame for it. But no one ever asked Clarence how it happened, and Clarence felt like he couldn’t do much ‘bout it anyway, so Billy Ray got away with it." The old man shook his head. "Pure evil, just like I said."

    "What’s this got to do with the accident?" Kern asked, wondering where the story was going.

    The old man glared at him, as if irritated at the interruption. "Like I said, more to this than anyone thinks."

    Kern nodded, and resigned himself to listening. If what the old man was saying was true, Billy Ray didn’t have a saintly background. He wondered how he would write it up.

    The man continued. "Course Clarence was upset ‘bout the coloured folk. They moved away. But he didn’t forget about them. Billy Ray went on getting’ meaner and badder. He got hisself one of them old black Chevies. He soups it up an’ paints big red flames on the front, and has these chrome hubcaps and such like fitted. It looks like a mean car – just like he is. By now he’s got his hair all slicked back and wearin’ one of those leather jackets. He starts racin that Chevy up and down the roads. Give everyone a fright at one time or t’other. Clarence would hear the engine roar, and he listens to the letterboxes and garbage bins getting’ run over. Just for the hell of it. Then things get worse. Few years ago, Billy Ray got hisself made a policeman. Then there was no stoppin’ him. He be beatin’ up on people with that black rubber stick of his, and demandin’ free coffee and food at Elmo’s diner. All sorts of other bad things he was into. But Billy Ray covers his tracks good, and nobody could ever prove nuthin’. Clarence was getting’ mighty sick of it. But he was an old man. What could he do?"

    Kern shook his head in sympathy and waited, pen poised.

    "Came to pass that Serena Adams moved in up the street. She has a baby with her. Husband was killed in some accident up north, so she came here to get herself and the tot a fresh start. Real likeable girl. Helped out with us oldie’s – bakin’ an runnin’ messages and such like. Clarence got to likin’ her as a daughter. Doted on her and the kid, even baby-sat the little-un on occasion. Billy Ray, he gets to hearin’ about this pretty young mum, and starts payin’ her visits. Straight away Clarence is worried, and it wasn’t long before she confides and tells him Billy Ray’s been beatin’ up on her and forcin’ hisself where he ain’t wanted, if you know what I mean." The old man peered at Kern.

    "I get your drift," Kern muttered, feeling a dislike for the deceased Billy Ray.

    "Well, Billy Ray would come zoomin’ past Clarence’s house every night. That big old police car of his sittin’ low to the ground, and Billy Ray lyin’ back in the drivers seat like he owns the world. Clarence knew where he was goin’, and what was gunna happen. He makes his mind up one night that poor Serena wasn’t gunna have to put up with it no more. That Billy Ray was just pure evil, yessiree. He was gunna do somthin’ ‘bout it alright."

    The old man sat forward and gazed at Kern. "Clarence was a sharp shooter in the war. Didn’t tell you that, did I?"

    Kern shook his head, and took the opportunity to glance at the accident scene. The fire crew were rolling hoses and mopping up, and the response team members had the door of the upturned car open. He wondered what was left of Billy Ray Thurman, then refocused on the old man. He’d sat back again. The expression on his face was serene, satisfied.

    "Well, Clarence earned hisself a bunch of medals in the war. Best goldurn sniper they ever had. He still keeps a .303 cleaned up and oiled. He gets it out this night, and he sets there, waitin’ for Billy Ray to come whoopin’ along. Pretty soon he hears him, same time as always, so he sights up on the gas tank of that fast movin’ police car."

    Kern stopped writing and stared at the old man in disbelief. "Are you telling me that Clarence put a bullet into the gas tank? This wasn’t an accident?"

    The old man shrugged. "You wanted to know what happened."

    Kern shook his head in amazement. "Where can I find this, Clarence? I’d like to interview him."

    "You be lookin’ at him, son."

    Kern glanced up, his mouth open. "You? You’re Clarence?"

    The old man nodded.

    "Do you realise, that if any of this is true, you’ve just incriminated yourself?"

    The old man smiled. "What’ll they do? Lock up an old cripple with terminal cancer? Don’t matter much to me, son. Did what I had to." He shook his head sadly. "Should’ve done it years ago."

    Kern sighed, and looked at his notes. He wondered if he should tell the police about the interview. "What’s your last name please, Clarence?"

    "Thurman," he replied softly.

    Kern whipped his head up and stared at the old man. "But...Billy Ray?"

    Clarence nodded. This time he looked old and sad. A solitary tear traced its way through the creases lining his face. "Yup. Billy Ray be my only son," he whispered.