“That’s not fair and it’s not true either.”
Graham was very tired.
“Okay. They’re full of shit and they make me sick—try that one.”
“Don’t say that.”
“They want the boy. Maybe they like you all right, probably they do, if they ever think about it. But they want the boy and they’ll take you. They don’t want me and I couldn’t care less. I want you. In Florida. Willy too, when he gets tired of his pony.”
“You’ll feel better when you get some sleep.”
“I doubt it. Look, I’ll call you when I know something here.”
“Sure.” She hung up.
“Ape shit,” Graham said. “Ape shit.”
Crawford stuck his head in the door. “Did I hear you say ‘ape shit’?”
“You did.”
“Well, cheer up. Aynesworth called in from the site. He has something for you. He said we ought to come on out, he’s got some static from the locals.”
51
Aynesworth was pouring ashes carefully into new paint cans when Graham and Crawford got to the black ruin where Dolarhyde’s house had stood.
He was covered with soot and a large blister puffed under his ear. Special Agent Janowitz from Explosives was working down in the cellar.
A tall sack of a man fidgeted beside a dusty Oldsmobile in the drive. He intercepted Crawford and Graham as they crossed the yard.
“Are you Crawford?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Robert L. Dulaney. I’m the coroner and this is my jurisdiction.” He showed them his card. It said “Vote for Robert L. Dulaney.”
Crawford waited.
“Your man here has some evidence that should have been turned over to me. He’s kept me waiting for nearly an hour.”
“Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Dulaney. He was following my instructions. Why don’t you have a seat in your car and I’ll clear this up.”
Dulaney started after them.
Crawford turned around. “You’ll excuse us, Mr. Dulaney. Have a seat in your car.”
Section Chief Aynesworth was grinning, his teeth white in his sooty face. He had been sieving ashes all morning.
“As section chief, it gives me great pleasure—”
“To pull your prong, we all know that,” Janowitz said, climbing from the black tangle of the cellar.
“Silence in the ranks, Indian Janowitz. Fetch the items of interest.” He tossed Janowitz a set of car keys.
From the trunk of an FBI sedan Janowitz brought a long cardboard box. A shotgun, the stock burned off and barrels twisted by the heat, was wired to the bottom of the box. A smaller box contained a blackened automatic pistol.
“The pistol came out better,” Aynesworth said. “Ballistics may be able to make a match with it. Come on, Janowitz, get to it.”