“Good. If and when she comes to, keep her down and away from anything sharp,” he said as he replaced the Blackberry in his belt holder and tossed Achara a set of handcuffs. Then he turned his attention back to the bleeding man sprawled on the floor.
“Now then,” Mr. Fogarty,” Bulatt said as kicked the spear aside, holstered his pistol, and then squatted down next to the pale-faced and whimpering CEO, “while we’re waiting for medical help to arrive, and while I’m trying to make some sense out of a lot of very confusing information, why don’t you explain to me — as carefully and precisely as you can — exactly why your daughter seems to think you’re planning on going out and spearing a baby mammoth.”
An hour later, the emergency medical technician finished tying a sling around Sam Fogarty’s right arm and shoulder, stepped away from the couch where the still dazed and now mildly drugged CEO was lying, and approached Bulatt.
“I really ought to be transporting both of them,” he said with a serious expression on his face.
“Is he really that badly hurt?” Bulatt asked.
The EMT shrugged. “No, I suppose not. Looks like the arrow missed the major nerves and blood vessels. He’s got some significant tissue damage, and he definitely won’t be using that arm for a while; but he’s not in any immediate danger of anything other than infection. The wound’s dressed, and the bleeding’s stopped, so a couple of hours, one way or the other, isn’t going to make much difference. His daughter, however, took a serious blow to the head. We really do need to get her to the hospital.”
“What do you think, Fogarty?” Bulatt said, walking over to the sprawled CEO. “You want a ride to the hospital, in handcuffs, along with your daughter, so a doctor can take a look at that shoulder before we throw your ass in the can; or do you want to stay here for a couple more hours and discuss your situation?”
Fogarty blinked, and then stared at Bulatt.
“Do I have any options?”
“Everybody’s got options.” Bulatt shrugged. “Yours are just a little more complicated than most. If it helps you with your decision, I really don’t care if you end up being charged with a couple dozen ES violations, or not.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m very serious.”
“Can I have my lawyer here?”
“I advised you of your rights under Miranda, and you agreed that you understood the terms,” Bulatt reminded. “You can have your lawyer here any time you want; but the moment you make that call, we stop talking about everything — which specifically includes your options.”
“Oh.”
“Your daughter needs medical attention, Mr. Fogarty. The ambulance is leaving right now. You can go with them, or stay here with me; your choice, but make it now.”
“I’ll… stay.”
Bulatt nodded to the EMT who immediately walked out of the room.
“She’s not really my daughter, you know,” Fogarty said when the EMT was gone.
“Yeah, we kind of gathered that,” Bulatt acknowledged. “Most fathers don’t sleep with their real or adopted daughters; kind of a cultural standard in most parts of the world.”
“What I meant is, she’s not really my daughter, in a true legal sense, so she couldn’t legally invite you into my home,” Fogarty said with an edge to his voice. “My lawyers will make something of that.”
“Yes, I’m sure they will,” Bulatt agreed. “But I’m also sure our lawyers will make something of the fact that, sarcasm aside, she did address you as ‘father’ in our presence. Also, we know you registered the new truck you bought her in the name of Carolyn Fogarty, and we know you listed this home as her legal address; all of which suggests, to us, that she had every legal right to invite us into this house.”
“But — ” Fogarty tried, but Bulatt ignored him and continued on.
“And then there’s also the side issue of how old Carolyn was when your ‘adoptive’ relationship began. She looks awfully young in some of those photographs; but maybe she explains all of that in her diary. It appeared to be rather… detailed.”
“I… uh — ”
“It ought to be a fascinating trial, Mr. Fogarty. I understand Assistant U.S. Attorneys live for cases like this; especially the smart and aggressive ones who know how to use the media to their advantage. I’m sure your stockholders will be delighted with all the free publicity.”
Henry Lightstone stuck his head in the doorway to the living room. “Larry’s gone to the hospital with the girl; Mike’s making an inventory of the trophy room; Dwight’s finished upstairs; and I’m going over the war-plan with our warrior-princess, which leaves Dwight here with some free time on his hands.”
“Who are those people?” Fogarty asked.
“Special Ops agents,” Bulatt replied.
“What does that mean?”
“It means they’re very tough, smart, devious, aggressive and technically skilled special agents of the federal government who work undercover to mess with serious bad guys, and who also live for investigations like this one,” Bulatt said evenly. “That’s probably why you heard them humming cheerfully to themselves out there in your trophy room.”
“And you’re one of them, too?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Bulatt said. “They work as a team. I tend to work by myself; more of a liaison between teams, if you will.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he doesn’t play well with others; probably some kind of childhood problem,” Lightstone answered from the doorway. And then to Bulatt: “you want Dwight to take over the interrogation of this asshole? He says he’s real fond of child abusers; likes to get into their heads.”
The huge, glowering image of ex-Oakland Raider tackle Dwight Stoner filled the doorway.
“What do you think, Mr. Fogarty? Would you like to talk lawyer bullshit with Special Agent Stoner, who I believe just finished searching your and Carolyn’s upstairs bedrooms, or would you like to talk serious options with me?”
Fogarty stared at the terrifying image of Stoner — whose huge hands were slowly clenching and unclenching — and shook his head. “No, I know you’re trying to scare me; but I… I don’t want to talk with that man.”
“And I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk with you, either,” Bulatt said. He waved Lightstone and Stoner away, then pulled a chair up next to the couch and sat down facing Fogarty. “So let’s just you and I talk for a while.”
“I know you’re playing games with me,” Fogarty said. “What do you really want?”
Bulatt reached into his pocket, pulled out a small tape recorder, held it up in front of Fogarty as he turned it on, set it down on the coffee table next to the couch and chair, and then stared directly at Fogarty as he said, loudly and clearly: “The following is a continuation of my investigative notes pursuant to the consensual search of the residence of Sam Fogarty. Mr. Fogarty and I are in the living room of his home. The time is now fourteen hundred and eleven hours. Mr. Fogarty has been read his Miranda rights, he acknowledges that he understands his rights, and he has agreed to wave his right to have his attorney present during this conversation. Is all of that correct, Mr. Fogarty?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Mr. Fogarty, is it true that you are an active member of a small and very private hunting club that emphasizes the collection of endangered species trophies?”
“Fogarty hesitated. “I don’t think — ”
“Yes, or no?” Bulatt repeated.
Fogarty took in a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Besides you, how many members are there in this club?”
“Three others.”
“What are their names?”
Fogarty hesitated again, and then said: “Michael Hateley, Max Kingman and Stuart Caldreaux.”
“How did the three of you originally meet?”
