Chapter Thirty-five

Parrott sauntered to the break room to refill his thermos of coffee and start a new pot, the cast of characters flipping through his mind as if a slide projector were advancing them beyond his control. Tripp—Tammie—Claire—Jessica—Bonnie—Charlie—Wyatt—Pennington—Thornton. Who were the good guys and who, the bad? Or was there really any such thing as a good guy or bad guy in this crazy world, where nobody seemed all good, and nobody seemed all bad. Herman, for example. Tonya had been sure he was a gold-digger, but now he was in her good graces. As a policeman, Parrott had reservations about everyone, sometimes a benefit, sometimes a liability.

Still, someone had assaulted Charlie Wukitsch. Someone had killed the man who might be Tucker Anderson. Someone had set off a meth explosion in Claire Whitman’s bank barn. And it was up to Parrott to find out who.

Looking forward to a lunch at Portabello, Parrott tried to ignore the roiling in his stomach. Man doesn’t live by coffee alone, it seemed to be saying. “All right, all right,” Parrott said, peering into the vending machine. A package of peanut butter and cheese crackers peeked back at him.

Returning to his desk with food and drink, he located his file on local drug detox centers. There were eleven of them in Wilmington, one designated for women. One by one, he started calling the other ten, identifying himself as a police officer and giving his badge number. Once he found the one where Wyatt Wukitsch was, he would make an in-person call.

In between phone calls, Parrott munched on his peanut butter crackers. He was on his third phone call when Schrik tapped on his door, asking to come in. The chief looked as if he’d overslept and dressed in a hurry. While Schrik wasn’t known for sartorial perfection, he usually looked clean, neat, and, as Cora Parrott would say, “adequately put-together.” Today his thinning hair was frizzy, and a rivulet of perspiration rolled down the side of his face.

“Did you see the op-ed piece in the Unionville Times today?” He dropped into the chair across from Parrott and wiped his face and the back of his neck. “The headline’s Are All Our Bank Barns at Risk?”

“Oh, no.” Parrott hated those kinds of articles. They invited trouble.

“Oh, yes. Our friend Dave Simmons says, ‘The remoteness of large farm tracts and quiet country roads create the perfect storm for meth labs.’ To make things worse, Lucretia got two anonymous tips about meth labs in barns. Officer Barton’s checking them out now.” Schrik’s face had turned the color of boiled shrimp, and all the lines spoke of frustration. “And that asshole Simmons opines, ‘Our police department is ill-equipped for cases involving meth-production.’”

Parrott grunted. “If Simmons gets his way, reducing the police budget, how would we be equipped to do anything?” He might have said more, but, given Schrik’s body language, it’d be best not to pour accelerant on the fire.

Schrik slapped at the buttons on his shirt and straightened his collar. “Where are we with this Whitman case? Anything new to report?”

“Actually, yes.” Parrott filled the chief in on where they stood with identifying the body as that of Tucker Anderson. “I’m interviewing a construction company owner, who happens to be dating my mother. He also has a connection to Brock Thornton that I want to explore.” Next, he shared what Claire had told him about Charlie Wukitsch and Wyatt. “Hearsay at this point, but I’m trying to locate the detox in Wilmington, and I’ll head over there to interview him, assuming I’m cleared through HIPAA.”

“Well, that’s a twist. Tying up his own father. What’s your take on that?”

Parrott appreciated the way Schrik withheld his own opinions until after absorbing Parrott’s. Once Parrott had asked him about this, and he had explained, “You’re the one closest to the players and the evidence. I don’t even form opinions until after I process yours.”

Parrott remembered the scene at Charlie’s cottage—the loyal dog, the overturned chair, Charlie’s showering and changing clothes before the police could get there. “Certainly explains some things but raises questions about others. If the confession bears out, was Charlie complicit? How does the incident at the cottage tie into the meth explosion? Wyatt’s history with drugs makes him an obvious suspect, but we can’t jump to conclusions. A case like this has more levels than a Philadelphia skyscraper.”

Schrik walked over to Parrott’s chair and patted him on the shoulder. “So glad you aren’t going to Galveston. We need your talent right here in West Brandywine. Carry on, son.”

Parrott’s ear reverberated, and he muttered. “Twice in one morning.”