So I suppose you want to ask about what happened to Clive Simmons. I'll tell you what I told the cops.

Clive Simmons was a bad guy, who did me a good turn, and I didn't kill him.

I couldn't kill him.

Listen, everybody in town knew Clive was an underhanded git who spent more time working deals at the black market then visiting his mother, bless her. He blackmailed, cheated, and outright stole from his neighbors. Yes, he did have a hand in things when my son landed in jail--but that was on my fool of a son's head, who decided to work for him. My son knew he wasn't clever enough to make it in that world.

But remember, Clive helped me out also. When Marianne died, he helped pay for her funeral and tombstone. And in his own way, employing my son was a kindness, though he knew as well as I how stupid Jerry is.

Now, one thing I have to say, if you want to know who I think offed him, is that the cops should be investigating Clive’s own son, Harry Simmons. You can ask anyone on the block, and they’ll tell you about how Harry Simmons is worse than his father in every respect. And that he was set to inherit all of Cilve’s business once the old man died.

Seems clear to me. Because people have tried to kill Clive in the past, and sure as your momma knows when you’re up to something, they didn’t succeed. Clive often managed to make an example of anyone after him before they could even try anything.

And if Clive let his guard down around anyone, it was his family. Now, I mentioned that black heart spent no time with his momma, but that’s because she was a foul mounted, manipulative witch. If she were my momma, I’d’ve avoided her too.

But apart from that detail, Clive was an old fashioned family man. He spent every minute he wasn’t up to trouble with his wife and kids. Gave the parents at the high school games heart attacks, when he showed up, dark circles under his eyes and red cheeks.

Now, I suppose you’ll mention to me--but Frank, you were his right hand man! He trusted you, didn’t he? And weren’t you set up to guide Harry once he took over, if things ended that way?

And I’ll tell you what I told all those good-for-nothing pieces of trash who asked the same thing, though I know you aren’t one of them.

Clive Simmons was my best friend, piece of trash that he was too--and I shed a tear now thinking of people whispering that I'd done in my best friend.

Because Clive Simmons, that cruel fox of a man, held my back for all my adult years, he did.

When some losers tried to take advantage of me, he stepped in and handed them money for an ambulance before beating their innards out of them. And he reached out a hand for me, pulled me up, and let me know I wasn’t a waste of breath.

When my sister said not to come back, he found a place for me to stay while I got myself together. And when I lost my job to the recession, he let me work for him in his more legal venues. It was me who asked to take those steps into the dark places. Clive didn’t push me down.

Clive Simmons, devil of the town, was, at heart and soul, a good man.

The gunshots from that day still echoed in my brain. A pitta-patta-pitta-patta, and again. Shot seven times, they told me. Whispers on the street were more upset the devil died, since his son was known as an evil blight upon mankind.

At the funeral, all of Clive’s children and wife cried except for Harry. Even I cried.

Worse, I had no one to hold me to keep me from breaking apart, what with Marianne dead, and Jerry in prison.

But when the last of the funeral goers left, and Clive’s wife sent a last wistful look at her husband’s grave, I went to Marianne’s tomb and bawled until I couldn’t see straight. I felt her, then, her presence. And I wondered--why had she ever got into a relationship with Clive?

Because, out of casual curiosity, Jerry and I had done a genealogy test. And what I found out killed me inside.

Jerry wasn’t my son.

I confronted Clive, and we had words. Harsh words that crippled the heart.

My vision went red, and the next thing I heard was pitta-patta-pitta-patta, and again.

I was a bad shot. Clive’s chest had seven leaking holes, but I’d shot eight at point blank range, from my custom gun meant to confuse anybody counting shots.

Like I said, I never killed Clive, and I couldn’t.

He did it to himself.