She wanted Bill to pay, the police to pay, the city to pay, God Himself to pay. I was waiting for news of the computer violation and the mislabeled PERK. The person who would pay was going to be me.
I didn’t get to the office until almost eight-thirty, and by then the phones were already ringing up and down the hall.
“Reporters,” Rose complained as she came in and deposited a wad of pink telephone message slips on my blotter. “Wire services, magazines and a minute ago some guy from New Jersey who says he’s writing a book.”
I lit a cigarette.
“The bit about Lori Petersen calling the police,” she added, her face lined with anxiety. “How awful, if it’s true . . .”
“Just keep sending everybody across the street,” I interrupted. “Anybody who calls about these cases gets directed to Amburgey.”
He had already sent me several electronic memos demanding I have a copy of Henna Yarborough’s autopsy report on his desk “immediately.”
In the most recent memo, “immediately” was underlined and included was the insulting remark “Expect explanation about Times release.”
Was he implying I was somehow responsible for this latest “leak” to the press? Was he accusing me of telling a reporter about the aborted 911 call? Amburgey would get no explanation from me. He wasn’t going to get a damn thing from me today, not even if he sent twenty memos and appeared in person.
“Sergeant Marino’s here,” Rose quite unnerved me by adding. “Do you want to see him?”
I knew what he wanted. In fact, I’d already made a copy of my report for him. I supposed I was hoping he’d stop by later in the day, when I was gone.
I was initialing a stack of toxicology reports when I heard his heavy footsteps down the hall. When he came in, he was wearing a dripping-wet navy blue rain slicker. His sparse hair was plastered to his head, his face haggard.
“About last night. . .” he ventured as he approached my desk.
The look in my eyes shut him up.
Ill at ease, he glanced around as he unsnapped his slicker and dug inside a pocket for his cigarettes. “Raining cats and dogs out there,” he muttered. “Whatever the hell that means. Don’t make any sense, when you think of it.”
A pause. “‘Sposed to burn off by noon.”
Wordlessly, I handed him a photocopy of Henna Yarborough’s autopsy report, which included Betty’s preliminary serological findings. He didn’t take the chair on the other side of my desk but stood where he was, dripping on my rug, as he began to read.
When he got to the gross description, I could see his eyes riveted about halfway down the page. His face was hard when he looked at me and asked, “Who all knows about this?”
“Hardly anybody.”
“The commissioner seen it?”
No.
“Tanner?”
“He called a while ago. I told him only her cause of death. I made no mention of her injuries.”
He perused the report a little while longer.
“Anybody else?” he asked without looking up.
“No one else has seen it.”
Silence.
“Nothing in the papers,” he said. “Not on the radio or the tube either. In other words, our leak out there don’t know these details.”
I stared stonily at him.
“Shit.”
He folded the report and tucked inside a pocket. “The guy’s a damn Jack the Ripper.”
Glancing at me, he added, “I take it you ain’t heard a peep from Boltz. If you do, dodge him, make yourself scarce.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
The mere mention of Bill’s name physically bit into me.
“Don’t take his call, don’t see him. Whatever’s your style. I don’t want him having a copy of anything right now. Don’t want him seeing this report or knowing anything more than he already knows.”
“You’re still considering him a suspect?” I asked as calmly as possible.
“Hell, I’m not sure what I’m considering anymore,” he retorted. “Fact is, he’s the CA and has a right to whatever he wants, okay? Fact also is I don’t give a rat’s ass if he’s the damn governor. I don’t want him getting squat. So I’m just asking you to do what you can to avoid him, to give him the slip.”