'This is Sheriff McKellroy, of the Fulton County Sheriff's Department. I was wondering if you'd be able to come on into Ashenville for a bit, so that we could ask you a few questions.'
'Questions?'
'We could send a cruiser if you wanted, but it'd be easier if you could just drive in yourself. We're kind of strapped for manpower right now.'
'Can I ask what this is all about?'
Sheriff McKellroy hesitated, as if unsure what he should say. 'It's about Officer Jenkins. Carl Jenkins. He's been shot.'
'Shot?' I said, and the horror and regret in my voice were genuine. Only the surprise was counterfeit.
'Yes. Murdered.'
'Oh, my God. I can't believe it -- I saw him just this morning.'
'Actually, that's what we'd like to talk--'
Someone on the other end interrupted the sheriff, and I heard him put his hand over the phone. Sarah stood across the kitchen, watching me. The baby was beginning to cry a little in the other room, but she ignored her.
'Mr. Mitchell?' McKellroy's voice returned.
'Yes?'
'Did you meet a man named Neal Baxter yesterday afternoon?'
'Yes,' I said. 'From the FBI.'
'Did he show you any identification?'
'Identification?'
'A badge? A picture ID?'
'No. Nothing like that.'
'Could you describe him for me?'
'He was tall. Maybe six-four or so. Broad shouldered. Black hair, cut short. I can't remember what color his eyes were.'
'Do you remember what he was wearing?'
'Today?'
'Yes.'
'An overcoat. A dark suit. Black leather shoes.'
'And did you see his car?'
'I saw it this morning. I saw him climb out of it.'
'Do you remember what it looked like?'
'It was blue, four doors, like a rental car. I didn't see the plates.'
'Do you know the make?'
'No,' I said. 'It was a sedan, kind of boxy, like a Buick or something, but I didn't notice the specific make.'
'That's all right. We'll probably show you some pictures when you get in, and maybe we'll be able to identify it from that. Can you come right away? We're at the town hall.'
'I still don't understand what happened.'
'It's probably best if you just wait till you get here. Do you need us to send a cruiser?'
'No. I can drive myself.'
'And you'll come quick?'
'Yes,' I said. 'I'll leave right now.'
11
I TOOK the pistol out of the car before I left and put it in the garage. It didn't seem like something I'd want to have with me when I spoke with the police.
The rain was still falling, an icy drizzle, but I could tell that it was going to stop soon. The sky was lighter; the air was growing colder. The fields alongside the road were quilted brown and white.
Ashenville was abuzz with activity. Two television crews -- one from Channel 11 and one from Channel 24 -- were busy assembling their cameras on the sidewalk. Several police cars were pulled up in front of the town hall. The street was crowded with gawkers.
I parked a little ways down the block.
There was a policeman standing at the foot of the town hall steps, and at first he wouldn't let me by. Then one of the wooden doors opened above us, and a short, pudgy man leaned out.
'You Hank Mitchell?' he asked.
'Yes.'
He held out his hand, and I climbed up the steps to shake it. 'I'm Sheriff McKellroy,' he said. 'We spoke on the phone.'
He led me inside. He was very small, and he waddled when he walked. He had a wan, pasty face, and short, colorless hair that smelled strongly of hair tonic, as if he'd come here directly from a barbershop.
Carl's office was packed with policemen. They all seemed very busy, as if they were under some sort of deadline. No one looked up when we came in. I recognized one of the deputies from when Jacob had been shot. He was the one with the farm boy's face, the one who'd dropped off Mary Beth at my house. He was at Linda's desk, talking to someone on the phone.
'Collins!' Sheriff McKellroy yelled. 'Take Mr. Mitchell's statement.'
One of the policemen stepped forward, a tall man, older looking than McKellroy, with a lean, grizzled face and a cigarette in his mouth. He escorted me back out into the hallway, where it was quieter.
The idea of giving a statement to the police made me nervous, but it turned out to be a remarkably simple affair. I just told him my story, and he wrote it down. There was no interrogation, no third degree. He didn't even seem particularly interested in what I had to say.
I started almost three months earlier, at the end of December. I told him how I'd heard a plane with engine trouble out by the nature preserve, how I'd mentioned it to Carl, and how -- since there'd been nothing in the news about a missing airplane -- he'd said it was probably a false alarm.
'I didn't think anything about it,' I said, 'until yesterday afternoon, when Carl called me over as I was leaving work. There was a man from the FBI in his office, and he was looking for a missing plane.'
'That was Agent Baxter?' Collins asked.
'That's right. Neal Baxter.'
He wrote this down. 'Did he say why he was searching for the plane?'
'He said it had a fugitive in it.'
'A fugitive?'
'Someone the FBI was looking for.'
'He didn't say who?'
I shook my head. 'I asked, but they wouldn't tell me.'
'They?'
'He and Carl.'
'So Officer Jenkins knew?'
'I think so. That's what it seemed like.'
He scribbled this down. Then he flipped to a clean page in the notebook. 'You met them again this morning?'
'That's right. We'd planned to go out around nine o'clock to look for the plane, but my wife called just as we were leaving and said that our daughter was throwing up. So I went home instead.'
'And that was the last you saw of either Officer Jenkins or Agent Baxter?'
I nodded. 'They drove off, and I went home.'
