Dez was expecting this and she made sure she phrased it as blandly as possible. She gave him straight facts without any speculation or color. Hardy listened without comment until she was finished.
“My condolences on the loss of your colleagues, Officer Fox,” he said. The comment lacked any real emotion, but Dez gave him a couple of points for good manners. “The officer who was overcome—was there any indication of erratic behavior beforehand?”
“None,” Dez said.
“Very well. I’ll be in touch. ” Hardy disconnected without another word.
“Dick,” she grumbled. The hospital was four blocks away. Maybe she’d get some answers there.
The radio buzzed again and Flower was back on the line.
“Dez,” said Flower, “we have a regular police call, too, and I don’t have any other units. It’s a carjacking. Guy said a naked man rushed him when he braked for a light. Beat him up, took his pants, and drove off in the car. Can you believe that? Took his actual pants. And get this … the guy who attacked him bit him!”
Dez nearly drove into a telephone pole. “Say again?” she demanded.
“That’s what I said. The guy bit him, and it’s pretty bad, too. Hospital doesn’t have any ambulances to send. They’re all at Doc’s place. So, I need you to take his statement at the hospital. ”
Christ, thought Dez, another bite?
Then she thought about the set of bare footprints that led out of Hartnup’s.
“What’s the location?”
“The victim is at the diner. Murph is going to take him to the hospital. ”
“Okay, we’ll try to get his statement there. ”
Half a block away the façade of the hospital loomed out of the gloom.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CONROY’S ACRES
Trout walked side by side with Selma, and neither of them spoke until they stood in the lee of the sagging barn. Crows lined the pitched roof and thirty kinds of birds flew in and out of holes in the rust-colored wood. There were no animal sounds from inside, and Trout suspected the barn had been in total disuse for at least twenty years.
“Okay,” Trout said, “we’re officially out in the sticks. Let’s talk. ”
Selma fished in the pocket of her robe and produced a pack of unfiltered Camels and a lighter with the logo of a Pennsylvania casino. Mohegan Sun at Pocono Downs. Selma kissed a cigarette out of the pack, lit it, and stuck out the corner of her lower lip to blow smoke up and over her face.
“Ask your questions,” she said.
“Are you Homer Gibbon’s aunt?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“How well did you know him?”
“Seen him once in a while. Mostly when he was like seventeen and older. After he ran away from foster care the last time. ”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Selma puffed, shrugged.
“Could you be a bit more specific?” Trout asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe back in ninety, ninety-one. ”
“That was after he had committed several murders. ”