Nathan smiled and shook his head. “No, but come ten o’clock I got a phone call to make.”
Chapter 32
By the time Warren arrived at the Pitcairn County Sheriff’s Office, the place was a media circus, with satellite trucks parked nose-to-tail down the last quarter-mile of Main Street. Approaching the front entrance, he saw two network reporters whom he recognized from the evening news broadcasts. Jesus, he thought. They’re bringing their New York staffs into this thing.
His gold badge granted him unimpeded access into the building, through the crowds of reporters and citizens. Just as he opened the glass doors to enter, one of the reporters recognized him and called his name. Warren didn’t even break stride.
The first face he saw belonged to Petrelli, who was already holding court in the hallway, issuing instructions to people over whom he had no authority, but who nevertheless seemed to be listening. Warren could tell from the body language alone that he was in the middle of one of his “let’s-go-out-and-get-’em” Knute Rockne pep talks.
With too little sleep to his credit and way too much caffeine in his system, Warren knew he was ill-prepared to encounter Petrelli just then, and he tried to become invisible as he passed the crowd. It didn’t work.
“Lieutenant Michaels!” Petrelli called in his most officious tone. “Can you come here a minute, please?”
Warren stopped, sighed, and then worked his way through the knot of police officers to stand next to Petrelli.
“This is Detective Lieutenant Warren Michaels,” Petrelli announced to the group. “Notwithstanding a bit of trouble getting a handle on this particular case, the lieutenant is one of Braddock County’s finest police officers. I’ve asked him to travel here to New York to assist in our efforts to catch Nathan Bailey.”
Warren shot a withering look at Petrelli. Nobody had asked Warren to do anything. He was in Pitcairn County of his own volition, and he was none too certain how the chief was going to respond when he heard.
“Sorry about fumbling the ball, there, J.,” Michaels mumbled, just loud enough for Petrelli to hear. “We can’t all be as successful as you’ve been these last few days?’ This was Petrelli at his finest: center stage, big case, hungry audience, and manufacturing facts at will.
A pro at selective hearing, Petrelli ignored the comment. “We all know what’s at stake here,” he concluded. “Now let’s work together to stop this animal before he can hurt anyone else.”
“Have we got the green light to take him out if we have to?” asked one of the deputies. He looked maybe twenty years old. “I mean, he’s just a kid. I don’t want to have to spend the rest of my career in a courtroom if it comes down to him and me and I win.”
The rumbling murmur through the crowd indicated that it was a shared sentiment.
Petrelli was ready. “I’ve said all along that I think we should treat this monster as an adult. Clearly, he’s capable of unspeakable violence. But that’s really not my call to make, Deputy. Sheriff Murphy’s got to make that decision.”
All eyes turned toward a bald, heavyset man standing on the other side of Petrelli from Michaels. Till now, the man had looked distracted, as though his mind were elsewhere, like a platoon leader who’d just lost his troops in combat. With attention now focused on him, Murphy set his jaw and faced his men.
“Two wonderful families lost fine husbands and fathers this morning,” he said softly. Though barely audible, his voice was the very essence of strength. The hallway grew silent as he spoke. “Those men were friends of mine, colleagues of yours. A murderer took these peace officers from us in cold blood, and I have no intention of seeing him take any more. To answer your question, Deputy, yes, you have the green light. If you feel threatened, you take him out.”
It was what they wanted to hear. “Fucker’s history,” Deputy Steadman said at the front of the crowd.
“There you go, men,” Petrelli concluded, careful to rob Murphy of the last word. “You have your orders. Go out and bring the bastard in.”
Warren was horrified. As the group of police officers broke up and headed out to fulfill their orders, he turned to face Murphy and Petrelli, his mouth agape. “Jesus Christ, Petrelli, you just issued a death warrant on that kid.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Warren, don’t be such a woman.” He turned his back on Michaels.
Warren leveraged a shoulder to spin him back around. “What the fuck gives you the right to form a lynch mob? My God, Petrelli, you’re an officer of the court! You can’t authorize an execution!”
Petrelli’s eyes burned with self-righteous anger. “Get your hands off of me, Lieutenant, or I’ll have you arrested for assault. Save your theatrics for that incompetent staff of yours. All we’re trying to do is finish the job that you couldn’t. If the kid gets killed, it’s because he deserves it. When his arrest comes down, he’ll just have to be very careful, that’s all:’
Warren knew that Petrelli was an asshole; there was no use trying to talk to him. He turned his attention to Murphy. “Sheriff?” he said. “You’ve got to tone down the rhetoric, sir. Those men think you just authorized them to kill a twelve-year-old boy.”
Warren wasn’t sure what to make of the look he got from Murphy. It wasn’t angry; it wasn’t sad. Tired. That was it, he looked tired.
“Look, Lieutenant,” he said patiently. “My boys know how to do their jobs. If the kid can be taken alive, that’s how it will go down. If he poses a threat, he’s toast. It’s that simple.”
“It’s not that simple!”
“It’s exactly that simple!” There was the anger. Suddenly Murphy seethed with it. “Don’t you tell me how to run my department, Michaels. That animal killed two of my deputies. Here are the pictures.” He thrust a fistful of Maroids at Warren. “The way I look at it, if you hadn’t fucked up on your end, I wouldn’t have had to console two widows this morning. This is my case now, and I’ll run it my way—which is to capture the bad guy and eliminate the threat to the community. That’s what I’m elected to do. If that means that a young killer doesn’t get a chance to grow up to be an old killer, then I can live with that.”
A long moment passed with Michaels and Murphy staring angrily at each other. Then the anger disappeared from Murphy’s countenance and he just looked tired again. Without another word, the sheriff turned and walked toward his office. Petrelli followed.
Goddamn politicians, thought Warren.
The very last thing in the world that Pointer wanted to do was call Mr. Slater. Nonetheless, the call had to be made. Pointer was a professional, and one of the duties of a professional was to own up to his mistakes. Sammy Bell answered the phone and passed him right through to Mr. Slater. Said he’d been expecting the call.
“Is it true what they say on the news, Lyle?” the old man asked, his raspy voice giving testimony to fifty years of unfiltered Chesterfields. “Is it true that you let this Bailey boy get away again?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Slater,” Pointer explained, surprised by the shakiness of his own voice, “but it’s like this…”
“Be quiet, Lyle,” commanded Mr. Slater. “I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses. Do you comprehend how much embarrassment you’ve brought down on us with your incompetent screwups? Do you know what the others will say about us? Even the niggers will laugh at us. Punk kids, Lyle, and they’ll be laughing at us.”
“It’s not like you think, Mr. Slater,” Pointer offered.
“Shut up,” the old man commanded a second time. “You don’t know what I think, Lyle, and I don’t care what you think. I care about performance, Lyle, and you’ve let me down terribly. Now, here’s what I want you to do. Leave the boy alone. It appears that the police are intent on keeping him from our grasp. I want you to come home. We have some things we need to discuss.”
Pointer felt himself hyperventilating, but he could not control his breathing. “What about that asshole Mark Bailey? Don’t you want me to…”
“We’ll take care of him.”
“Please, Mr. Slater, at least let me…
