That was when they learned that Hatcher had hit a truck head-on at what witnesses said must have been eighty miles per hour, shortly after leaving them the previous night. According to the accounts, his car had been accelerating as it crossed the central dividing line, and had made no attempt at evasion. One driver, still in a state of bewilderment, who had been following a short distance behind told the police, “It was like nothing you ever saw—like it was deliberate. There wasn’t a piece left big enough that you could have made a planter out of. Nuthin’.”
Shortly afterward, the police released a statement that the driver of the Ford had been tentatively identified as the “Greater Pitt Gunman,” who had left a security guard and two city policemen dead, along with four others wounded, in the airport shooting earlier the previous day. Since then, there had been twenty-three further incidents of multiple shootings in public places, and reports were coming of other, similar happenings around the country.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Corrigan watched across his desk while detective Yeen from city police headquarters checked over the notes that he had made. “And you didn’t talk to him at all yesterday? The last time that you did see him, did he seemed to be acting normally?” Yeen’s tone sounded dubious, as if he were giving Corrigan a chance for second thoughts.
“We had a meeting scheduled for yesterday morning, but Hatcher didn’t show up,” Corrigan said. “I got a message late in the day that he’d called, but I was in a hurry and didn’t return it. That really is all I can tell you.” And neither was he really interested, nor especially inclined to make any effort at pretending that he was. None of this was going to make any difference. Besides which, some of Hatcher’s cynicism seemed to have rubbed off on him. There was something mildly degrading about the thought of acting out a charade to placate an internal construct of a computer. After seeing what this whole creation had driven Tom to, he was as ready as Tom had been to blow the whole thing sky-high from within. The problem was figuring out how, and that would take just a little more patience yet.
“The car was heading north on eight, which passes close to Fox Chapel,” Yeen commented. “At least one person remembers seeing a brown Ford with a damaged front wing just a few streets from where, you live.”
Corrigan shrugged and held up his hands. “He might have stopped by the house before we got back. All I can say is that I didn’t see him.”
“We?”
“Lilly—Ms. Essell, who’s sitting outside. She’s a journalist from California, writing an article about the Oz project. We went back to talk about it in the evening. Yesterday was too hectic earlier.”
“And she’s still here this morning. Did she stay at the house?”
Corrigan sighed, wishing for an instant that he, too, could simply pull out a gun and dispatch the whole irritation. Already, he was understanding a lot better how Tom had felt. If he made up some other story and it didn’t fit with Lilly’s, there would be no end to this. He had other things to do.
“Yes,” he replied testily. “In the guest room. She also happens to be an old friend.”
The detective’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t pursue the point. “So you can’t really be of any more help?” he said.
Corrigan spread his hands in a suggestion of being tactful. “That is what I’ve been trying to say.”
“I see.” Yeen got up and put the notebook back inside his zippered document holder. “I appreciate the time, Mr. Corrigan. You will be available here if there are further questions?”
“Of course.”
Corrigan walked around the desk and opened the door. Lilly was sitting outside in one of the visitor chairs opposite Judy’s desk, where she had waited the previous evening. “Is there anywhere that I could have a few words with Ms. Essell?” Yeen asked Corrigan as they came out.
“There’s a room just along the corridor that you could use if it’s free,” Corrigan said. “My secretary can show you the way. Judy, could you check the small conference room and take Mr. Yeen and Lilly there if it’s free?”