“What about Doc Hartnup?”
“Sir?”
“Did he attack you, too?”
“No,” said Dez. “JT told you, the doc was already dead when we got here. ”
“Really?” Goss went and pointed into the other room. “Then where the fuck is his body?”
Dez shot JT a look and then the two of them hurried over to the entrance to the prep room. There were several officers in there and blood everywhere. Some of it was red, some was black, like the sputum the Russian woman had spat at her. Tiny worms, like maggots, writhed in it. A set of bloody footprints led from the large pool of blood on the floor to the open back door.
But there was no body.
Doc Hartnup was gone.
CHAPTER TEN
OFFICES OF REGIONAL SATELLITE NEWS
STEBBINS COUNTY BUREAU, PENNSYLVANIA
He answered the phone with, “Fishing for news with Billy Trout. ”
His voice was dead, his body slumped into an executive desk chair that he swore once belonged to the misogynistic serial murderer Gerald Stano. He called the chair “Old Sparky” after the much different seat by which Stano exited the world in a Florida prison execution room.
“This you, Billy?” The caller was a man with a Mississippi accent.
“Mmh,” grunted Trout. He was six clues away from finishing the New York Times crossword. Thirty-eight down was a six-letter word for “parasite. ” He tried “lawyer,” “ex-wife,” and “editor,” but none of them would fit.
“You still doing those weird news segments?” asked the caller.
“Hence the clever way I answer the phone,” murmured Trout with disinterest.
“Still paying for the good stuff?”
“Depends. Who’s calling?”
“It’s Barney Schlunke. ”
“Ah,” said Trout and filled in the clue: “I. N. S. E. C. T. ” He tossed the paper onto his desk. “You still in Rockview?”
“At Rockview. Inmates are in, staff are—”
“I know. It was a joke. We saw each other yesterday. … What do you want?”
“Yeah, I tried to talk to you yesterday at the execution, but you ducked out before I could get free. ”
What a shame, thought Trout. “Talk to me about what?”
“A news tip. ”
Trout snorted. “The only news around here is the storm and I’m not a weatherman. ”
“Not that kind of story. Look, Billy, I wanted to know if you’re still paying the same rates for tips as you used to?”
“If it’s something good I can give you seventy-five percent. ”
Schlunke snorted. “You going cheap on me?”