Inheritance: A Novel Part 14

Anderson nodded. There was plenty he could say, but instead he let the nod stand.

"He and his partner chase the guys on foot. Mike catches his guy over there," and pointed off to the left of the Cadillac, "while his partner chases the backseat pa.s.senger over there, towards those boxcars."

"What's the partner's name?"

Levy took a small, sweat-sodden notebook out of his s.h.i.+rt pocket and flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for.

"Paul Henninger," he said. "I don't know him."

"Me either," Anderson said. "Must be new."

"Yeah, like that matters. I've been off Patrol for so long I don't recognize half the uniforms I see anymore. They all look like kids to me."

Anderson nodded.

"Was there anybody in the front pa.s.senger seat?"

"Yeah. He took off towards the north fence line. Hawkeye Bravo got him on video scaling the fence and then going into the ditch over there. East is doing a quadrant for him now, but they're stretched pretty thin with this s.h.i.+t here."

"We get a name on him?"

"The driver said he only knows him as Pops, but you know how that goes. We'll get the name later."

"And Henninger's chase? What happened there?"

"Well, that's the big question," Levy said. "Henninger chases him over that way. He says the kid pulled a gun on him then ducks behind a train. When Henninger comes out from behind cover, he sees another one of those weird looking goats from last night. Then he goes inside the boxcar and sees the kid dead, splayed open, same as Cantrell last night."

"They find the gun?"

"Yeah. It's been fired recently, too. Probably used in the drive by."

Anderson nodded to himself.

"What do you suppose is up with the goats?" he asked. He remembered how strange the one from the night before looked-the long, curly whitish-gray hair, almost like dreadlocks.

"f.u.c.ked if I know. But everything was the same as last night. Both the goat and the kid were ripped open, their hearts torn out. You know, I'm wondering if it's not some sort of cult we're dealing with here."

Anderson looked out across the scene, at the acres of rusted railway cars everywhere. He could see Hawkeye Bravo making another lap over the scene.

"You said Hawkeye was over the scene during the chase?"

"Yeah. Nelson, the pilot, tells me they got the whole thing on video. I've been trying to download it to the computer in my car, but so far I got nothing."

"Figures. The Department won't hire enough people to do the job, but they don't have a problem spending too much money on equipment that doesn't work."

"Don't even get me started," Levy said.

"So Henninger's over there now?"

"Yeah. You ready to talk to him?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Okay," Levy said. "Talk to him in your car, though. Okay? I want to get him away from all the rest of the Patrol guys as soon as we can."

Alone again, Paul watched as the scene started to wind down. Most of the picture takers and evidence collectors had cleared out, and the officers on post were looking bored. Helicopters continued to circle overhead, but they were up high enough that their props were barely audible. A hot wind blew through the train yard, sending streamers of brown dust between the boxcars like snakes trying to find their way out of a maze. He was sweaty and hot and mentally exhausted, and he just wanted it all to end.

He was practicing a few variations on the standard two-handed vanis.h.i.+ngs when a man in dark gray slacks and a maroon s.h.i.+rt came up to him. He didn't wear a tie, but his s.h.i.+rt had the Homicide Unit's logo on the left breast. He had a detective's silver and black badge, but no gun or radio on his hip.

"Excuse me, son. Are you Paul Henninger?"

"Yes, sir," Paul said, and he thought, Doesn't he recognize me? He doesn't, does he?

"I'm Detective Keith Anderson, from Homicide. You mind if we walk and talk?"

"Um," Paul said. "Are you the one who's gonna be taking my statement?"

Anderson smiled. "I was hoping to."

Paul put the coin away and said, "I was told I needed to talk to my attorney before I said anything to you."

"You were? Who told you that?"

"My partner. And my sergeant, too."

"Hmm. I wonder why they told you that."

Paul kept quiet.

Anderson said, "You mind if I see your hands?"

"No, sir." Paul stuck them out for the detective to see.

Anderson made a show of looking at them, turning them over, looking at the palms, the knuckles, under the fingernails.

"I don't see any blood," he said. "Did you clean yourself up already?"

"No, sir. I didn't have any blood on my hands to wash off."

Anderson nodded. "Yeah, you're right about that. I mean, that's obvious just from looking at them."

Paul waited.

Anderson stepped back and motioned towards Paul's police car. "Do you mind if we walk while we talk?" he said.

"No, sir," Paul said. "I guess not."

Anderson put his hands in his pocket and they walked, side by side, towards the cars. He said, "I heard that boy in there got torn wide open. That true?"

"Yes, sir. That's what it looked like."

"And there was a goat there too, right?"

Paul hesitated before he answered. "Yes, sir."

"Was it one of those weird looking ones? The ones with all the gray curly hair all over it?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's the same kind of goat that was at the Morgan Rollins factory last night. I've never seen goats like that. Must be some kind of weird Asian goat or something, you know?"

Paul said, "Asian?"

"Yeah, you know, like in the Himalayans or someplace like that. Looked like something Richard Attenborough would do a TV show on."

"It was an Angora goat, sir."

"Angora?" Anderson stopped and looked at him. "You know about goats?"

"Sure. I grew up on a farm, sir."

"Really? Where?"

"Smithson Valley, sir."

"Ah," Anderson said. He started walking again. "You're a Hill Country boy."

"Yes, sir. We raised the same kind of goats. That hair you saw, it's called mohair. Lots of folks 'round here raise Angora. You can shear it four, maybe five times a year. They're good eating goats, too."

"You eat those things? Really?"

"Yes, sir. The meat's supposed to taste like veal. I don't know about that. I've never tasted veal."

Anderson glanced at him, his smile easy, friendly. "But they taste good, that's what you're saying?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hmm."

The cars were less than a hundred feet ahead of them now. Paul could see a crowd of sergeants and lieutenants and even a captain hanging around, talking about the scene. Seeing them, realizing they were there because of him-and, though they didn't know it, because of his father as well-was almost crippling. He felt like a bug under their microscope.

"This is me over here," Anderson said, and pointed to a blue Ford Taurus, covered in dust. "You wanna have a seat?"

"Sir?"

"What?"

"What about my attorney, sir? Don't I get to...talk to him or something?"

"Yeah, you said that before. Why do you need an attorney?"

"They told me..."

Anderson waved his hand in the air like he was dismissing the whole thing.

"Look," he said, "you didn't kill that kid, right?"

"No sir."

"I didn't think so. n.o.body here does. You don't have any blood on your hands. You don't have any under your fingernails. h.e.l.l, even if you had time to go and put on a pair of those big yellow dishwas.h.i.+ng gloves before you killed him, you'd at least have gotten some blood on your uniform. Am I right?"

"Uh, yes sir," Paul said slowly. "I guess."

"So it's obvious to everyone here you didn't kill anybody. Am I right?"

"Yes, sir."

"All you did was chase some kid who ran from you, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you were chasing him because he broke the law, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"So you were doing your job, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well then, see? That's what I'm saying. You're not a suspect in anything." Anderson opened his door and motioned for Paul to open the pa.s.senger door. "So what's the problem? All I want to do is get your statement so I can find out who did kill that little piece of s.h.i.+t. You see, I'm thinking whoever killed this kid also killed those people at the Morgan Rollins Iron Works. You follow me on that?"

Paul nodded.

"Good."

He got into his car.

Paul stood by the open pa.s.senger door, looking down at him. Anderson motioned to him to sit down, and he did.

Anderson took out what looked like a digital video recorder, about the size of Bic lighter, and hit the record b.u.t.ton.

He said, "So, Officer Paul Henninger, you've been made aware of your right to an attorney?"

"Yes, sir," Paul said.

"How do you feel about giving me a short statement about what happened?"