whereas Harris rarely even bothered to wear his bulletproof vest, his “duty boots” being these cowboy ropers he’d bought on a Wyoming trip—not a good choice if he had to run someone down. But Ho was right. If something went wrong, backup in the form of the state police was at least half an hour away, things were changing, the kids were all on speed now, they were cooking it up themselves and you didn’t know what they might do. No, he thought, even thinking that way is a problem. Puts you and them on opposite sides before the word go. He shook his head at himself. There’s probably never been an old man who didn’t think that all the young people were degenerate. Nature of youth and age. Painful to see the world changing without you.
Still, he couldn’t blame Ho for not wanting to walk into those situations with only a sidearm. Not to mention Ho was still here because Harris made the job fun, gave him carte blanche. The feds were getting rid of all their old M16s, giving them away to police departments, and Harris had ten of them, free except for shipping costs. They’d also gotten binoculars, night vision, riot shields, old ballistic vests, all free. They had more weapons and gear now than they had cops, they had more gear than Harris had had when he’d gone to Vietnam with the marines. It was all because of Ho, who had spent weeks of his own time filling out the paperwork, then thousands of dollars of his own money to customize his rifle, a ten- inch barrel and holographic sight. At the moment, Ho was happy living in his parents’ basement, doing gunsmithing on the side, but someday he would decide to move on. Sooner than later if Harris made the job boring. He would miss Ho. But he was getting ahead of himself again. Ho wasn’t gone yet.
He tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing but then Billy Poe was on his mind again, and what this would do to Grace. He vaguely remembered the man Ho said was the owner of the dead dog, he’d just moved to town from West Virginia, typical toothless speed freak, had relatives here. He wondered if the man deserved a special visit. But probably watching his dog get machine- gunned was enough.
After an hour more of catching up on paperwork, he decided he couldn’t stand it. He went and got Billy Poe from the cell. Billy looked depressed. That was a good sign.
“Let’s talk in the office,” said Harris.
Billy Poe followed him into the office and stood politely until Harris motioned him to a chair. It occurred to him that the kid had been through this plenty of times before, called to the principal’s office and lectured. Called to this very office and lectured. He tried to recollect what he’d said last time. He hoped he didn’t repeat himself—they all remembered.
“I watched you play ball,” he said.
Billy Poe didn’t say anything. He was looking at the floor.
“You should have gone to college with it.”
“I was sick of school.”
“Won’t tell you that’s smart. I know other people did, or just didn’t say anything. But I won’t. That was one of the dumbest moves you ever made.”
Poe shook his head. “You ought to be able to grow up in a place and not have to get the hell out of it when you turn eighteen.”
Harris was slightly taken aback. “I might agree with you and I might not,” he said, “but either way it doesn’t change a goddamn thing.”
“I’m gonna call up the coach at Colgate.”
Ho knocked and Harris told him to come in. He was carrying a box from Dairy Queen and Harris went through it and set a hamburger and French fries and a milkshake in front of Poe. They could all see the steam coming off the food.
“Vanilla shake?” said Harris.
“No, thank you.”
“Go on and eat.”
“I can’t,” said Poe. “That stuff gives me problems with my stomach.”
Harris and Ho looked at each other, then at Billy Poe.
“He didn’t eat what I brought him last night, either,” said Ho.
“It’s the chemicals,” Poe said. “That stuff isn’t fresh.”
“What do you think prison food is gonna be like?” said Ho. “You think they offer organic?”
Harris grinned but waved him out of the room, and then faced Billy Poe across the desk again. He decided to push the boy a little. “No job,” he said. “No skills to speak of, no car, if you’re counting ones that actually run. Mostly likely headed to get some girl in trouble, if you haven’t already. And now you’re a cunt hair away from a murder conviction and I do mean a cunt hair, too.” Harris held up his fingers. “So whether some college football coach remembers you or not, that’s pretty much the least of your worries.”
Poe didn’t say anything. He began to pick at the fries.
“Tell me about this man,” said Harris.
“Don’t know anything about it.”
“I saw you there, William. Returning to the scene of the crime to…” He nearly mentioned the jacket but stopped himself. “The only reason I didn’t take you in right then was because of your mother. Plenty of kids like you get out but the ones that stay, I’ve seen what becomes of them.”
“You’re here, if it’s so good to leave.”
“I’m an old man. I’ve got a boat and slip and a cabin on top of a mountain.”
“Big deal.”
Harris rummaged in the broad oak desk and came out with a manila folder, from which he took several printouts of digital photos. He passed them to Poe. From the way Poe dropped the papers, he recognized the scene pictured.
“Otto Carson, if you want to know the guy’s name. The DA over in Uniontown is a brand- new guy as you may or may not know, he’s got a dead woman in a dumpster with no clues and here you are dropping this in his lap. The staties want me to confiscate your goddamn shoes.”
Poe looked at his sneakers.
“Thing is, Billy, the now- deceased Mr. Carson was a piece of shit. Been locked up for all kinds of crap, some stays in mental wards, two outstanding warrants for assault, one from Baltimore and the other from Philadelphia. Sooner or later he was going to kill somebody. Most likely he already had.”
“What’s your point,” Poe said.
“If it were up to me, if you’d come to me right away, this would have been an easy self- defense plea. Or it might have just gone away on its own. But that’s not what you did. You ran. Now you got a guy who was there with you in that machine shop claiming you killed his buddy.”
Harris leaned back in his chair, into the sunlight. Usually he liked to watch people in these situations, every tic on their guilty faces. But he did not want to look at Billy Poe. “You need any coffee?” he said.
Poe shook his head.
He waited for Poe to comment, or make a gesture, but he didn’t. Harris got up and walked to the window and looked out over the Valley. “I’m guessing there were five of you in the machine shop. You, someone else who was probably Isaac English, Mr. Carson, and two of his friends—”
“Then why haven’t you picked up Isaac?”
“Isaac English is not a suspect,” Harris said, “because the DA doesn’t know who he is, and the more the DA knows, the worse off you are going to be.”
“Like I said,” Poe told him, “I don’t know anything about it.”
Harris nodded. He decided to try nice cop. “You did the right thing, Billy. You need to tell me what happened, and who else was in that plant with you, so we can make sure this goes to trial as self-defense. Because if all the jury sees is that you killed a man and fled the scene, even a bunch of good ole boys are gonna vote to hang you.”
“His buddy had a knife to my neck and the dead guy was coming at me to finish the job,” said Poe.
“Good.”
Poe looked at him.
“Don’t stop now.”
“It was dark,” Poe said. “I couldn’t see the rest of their faces.”
“No.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
