“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re here about.”
“You don’t sound sorry he’s dead.”
He scoffed. “I’m not. If I knew who did it, I’d shake their hand. I mean, he was a thief. Stole my work and passed it off as his own. I’m sure he did the same thing to others.”
“I saw your video. One of them anyway.”
“Of course you did,” he said. “That’s why you’re here.”
“It is. You’re very outspoken about your feelings about Hamill.”
“He’s a thief. Plagiarists like Hamill are parasites. They’re among the lowest forms of life on earth,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, he got what he deserved.”
“Wow,” Spenser said. “That’s intense.”
“You’re not an artist. I doubt you’d understand.”
“I’m not an artist. You’re right. But believe it or not, I do understand. I’m sure it can’t be easy to watch somebody steal something you poured a piece of yourself into and have a level of success with it that, perhaps, you didn’t have.”
“It’s not.”
“Even still, wishing death on somebody… like I said, that’s intense.”
“I never wished death on the guy. I just said he got what he deserved and I’m not sorry he’s dead. It’s two very different things.”
“Kind of seems like a distinction without a difference.”
Bo rolled his eyes. “One is active, the other passive. Do I really need to explain the difference between wishing and not caring, Sheriff?”
“Seems like you’re splitting hairs to me, Bo. In your video, you seemed pretty active to me.”
“And I also said I was pursuing legal remedies.”
“You did,” Spenser said. “And how exactly are those legal remedies coming?”
His face clouded over, his expression darkening, and that familiar anger returning to his eyes. Bo drew a deep, quavering breath, his nostrils flaring as he let it out, his face painted with frustration.
“My attorney said he’ll press it if I want, but this case is going to end up being a loser,” he said through gritted teeth. “He said Seth changed the song—my song—just enough that he can slip through the loopholes in copyright laws.”
“So, you and Seth didn’t get along then,” Spenser said.
He looked at her like she was an idiot. “Have you not heard anything I’ve said? No. I hated the guy with every fiber of my being.”
“So, you never visited his home?”
“What? No,” he said. “We never hung out.”
“Got it. So, there’s no reason we’d find your fingerprints in his house?”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s a ridiculous question. No. You will not find my prints in that man’s house,” he said. “Look, I see what you’re doing, Sheriff.”
“And what is it I’m doing?”
“Let me tell you again, I had nothing to do with Seth’s death. I may have hated his guts, but I didn’t kill the man,” he said.
“Right. You said that.”
“What do I have to do to prove it to you?”
“Tell me where you were on the fourteenth and fifteenth,” she said.
“I was here. I had a couple of days off from the Whistle, so I locked myself up for a couple of days and was working on some new material,” he said. “I turned the second bedroom into a studio, and I usually record here.”
“Was there anybody here with you?”
He shook his head. “No. Other than my girlfriend, I don’t usually have a lot of visitors, and she was out of town doing a showing in Portland.”
“Did you go anywhere? See anybody?”
“Nobody other than the Postmates people,” he replied. “I locked myself away and didn’t come out for a couple of days. I do that sometimes when I’m working on my material.”
“And you’re sure about that? You were here for those two days and didn’t see anybody other than the delivery people who dropped off your food.”
“That’s right.”
Spenser pursed her lips. “Okay.”
He stared at her with a blank expression. She could see a flicker of worry in his eyes, though. Bo ran a hand through his hair as he stood up a little straighter and squared his shoulders.
