the trilateralists or somebody, some agency—the CIA, the FBI, the KKK—was behind it all. But still Lt. C. D. Henderson clung to certain convictions against the mounting chaos. Primarily, he believed in logic. He was a detective, that most specialized and refined and renowned type of lawman, the most famous detective in Oklahoma, a celebrity at police conventions, a consultant on cases far and wide. His core belief was that if enough data could be assembled, a clever fellow could find a pattern in it somehow and make sense of it, and bring it to its logical conclusion.
He was sixty-eight years old, and still a lieutenant. He’d always be a lieutenant, just as inevitably as when they needed someone to run an investigation, they’d always call him. Careers had been built on his intelligence and insight,and still he made less than forty thousand dollars a year. The men he’d broken in with were mostly dead, the men he’d trained had retired or gone to other, better jobs, and he was now primarily working for rude young people. But he still had the gift: he saw the connections the others missed, he was willing to do the dreary work, the collating, the sifting, the endless examination of details.
“These kids,” he often lamented to the Missus, “these damned kids, they just don’t want to do the work. Get a wiretap, bust a raid, go to SWAT, sweat an interrogation, call forensics. They ain’t got the patience to nurse the answers out. They won’t look at the stuff and just
figure
it out.”
“Carl,” she’d say, “they ain’t worth a glass of hot gravy in July.”
It was the bitterness, mainly, that drove him to the loving arms of I. W. Harper. With his daily pint of Harper’s resting comfy and promising in a brown paper bag in his right inside pocket, he could get his mind loose and fluent and quell the seething anger that dogged him like a mean little dog. Maybe he made a few more mistakes, maybe he missed a trick or two, maybe the younger men could smell the whiskey on his breath and knew to leave him alone after four in the afternoon, it didn’t matter. It was drink or eat the gun, he knew that.
Now acolytes and cynics had gathered around in a hangerlike facility at the Oklahoma Turnpike Authority in Chickasha, as a whole flood of men in the second day of the Pye cousins manhunt came off duty and tried to grab some rest and perhaps seek advice. He’d run a manhunt or two in his time, it was said.
“So Lieutenant,” someone said, “got me a gal I’d like to git back to. What do you think the chances are we gonna git off this detail soon?”
“Most of ’em just wander around with no damned idea of what to do,” he began, staring out at the young, unformed faces, “and they run into a roadblock in the first few minutes or hours. They’re easy, they’re the ones the roadblock system is designed to catch. Then there’s those who have some kind of organization sponsoring them, and can count on it for support—transportation, weapons, new IDs, that sort of thing. But sooner or later, somebody rats them out, when there’s an advantage in doing so.
“But every now and then,” he continued, “every now and then you get a smart one. One who’s full of natural cunning from the get-go, you know, has the
gift
for such a thing. Add to that, he’s been calculating the angles for years, he’s thought over all the mistakes he made, he’s been smart enough to pick up tips from the older inmates. And let me tell you, he gives you a run. He gives you a goddamn run.”
“C.D., you think this Lamar is going to give us a run?”
“Well, now son, it’s early yet. But he has been out forty-eight hours and he seems to have goddamn disappeared. That’s very impressive, I have to tell you. So maybe Lamar is your boy, your hardcore bad man on a hot streak, getting bolder and bolder. And I’ll tell you this—if he is, he’ll be hell to catch.”
“C.D., if the governor asks you for advice, what will
He was sixty-eight years old, and still a lieutenant. He’d always be a lieutenant, just as inevitably as when they needed someone to run an investigation, they’d always call him. Careers had been built on his intelligence and insight,and still he made less than forty thousand dollars a year. The men he’d broken in with were mostly dead, the men he’d trained had retired or gone to other, better jobs, and he was now primarily working for rude young people. But he still had the gift: he saw the connections the others missed, he was willing to do the dreary work, the collating, the sifting, the endless examination of details.
“These kids,” he often lamented to the Missus, “these damned kids, they just don’t want to do the work. Get a wiretap, bust a raid, go to SWAT, sweat an interrogation, call forensics. They ain’t got the patience to nurse the answers out. They won’t look at the stuff and just
figure
it out.”
“Carl,” she’d say, “they ain’t worth a glass of hot gravy in July.”
It was the bitterness, mainly, that drove him to the loving arms of I. W. Harper. With his daily pint of Harper’s resting comfy and promising in a brown paper bag in his right inside pocket, he could get his mind loose and fluent and quell the seething anger that dogged him like a mean little dog. Maybe he made a few more mistakes, maybe he missed a trick or two, maybe the younger men could smell the whiskey on his breath and knew to leave him alone after four in the afternoon, it didn’t matter. It was drink or eat the gun, he knew that.
Now acolytes and cynics had gathered around in a hangerlike facility at the Oklahoma Turnpike Authority in Chickasha, as a whole flood of men in the second day of the Pye cousins manhunt came off duty and tried to grab some rest and perhaps seek advice. He’d run a manhunt or two in his time, it was said.
“So Lieutenant,” someone said, “got me a gal I’d like to git back to. What do you think the chances are we gonna git off this detail soon?”
“Most of ’em just wander around with no damned idea of what to do,” he began, staring out at the young, unformed faces, “and they run into a roadblock in the first few minutes or hours. They’re easy, they’re the ones the roadblock system is designed to catch. Then there’s those who have some kind of organization sponsoring them, and can count on it for support—transportation, weapons, new IDs, that sort of thing. But sooner or later, somebody rats them out, when there’s an advantage in doing so.
“But every now and then,” he continued, “every now and then you get a smart one. One who’s full of natural cunning from the get-go, you know, has the
gift
for such a thing. Add to that, he’s been calculating the angles for years, he’s thought over all the mistakes he made, he’s been smart enough to pick up tips from the older inmates. And let me tell you, he gives you a run. He gives you a goddamn run.”
“C.D., you think this Lamar is going to give us a run?”
“Well, now son, it’s early yet. But he has been out forty-eight hours and he seems to have goddamn disappeared. That’s very impressive, I have to tell you. So maybe Lamar is your boy, your hardcore bad man on a hot streak, getting bolder and bolder. And I’ll tell you this—if he is, he’ll be hell to catch.”
“C.D., if the governor asks you for advice, what will
Similar Books
