Russ suspected it wouldn’t be as easy to get information from the midway workers as it had been back in Chief McNeil’s day, when cops could show up, play the heavy, and get what they wanted. He was right. Pointed toward the management office—a large RV at the edge of the fairgrounds that also seemed to be the manager’s home—he was met by a guy who looked like a pugilist out of an old boxing movie, short and powerful, with a huge strap-band chest and arms like a stack of boulders. He was maybe five or ten years older than Russ, but he still looked like a man you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. Or a deserted country road.
“Trouble?” He stood in the doorway, blocking Russ’s view of the room within.
“I hope not. I’m Chief Van Alstyne of the Millers Kill Police Department—”
“I know who you are. I saw you on the TV last night.”
Russ kept his face still, but he could feel the tips of his ears heat up. “You’ve got the advantage of me, then. You are…?”
“Brent Hill. I’m the manager.” He stepped back and the door shut in Russ’s face. Russ blinked, frowned, and put his hand on his gun. He had just keyed on his radio to alert Harlene when the door swung open and Hill reemerged, a thin stack of papers in his hand.
“Chief?” the radio said.
“Ten-two, dispatch. Over.” He slapped the mic onto its Velcro patch. “Mr. Hill—”
“I’m required to show law enforcement officers the following documents. State license.” He handed a paper to Russ. “State Department of Employment compliance records.” Two pages. “Department of Health and Safety and Department of Environmental Protection certifications.” Two more pages. “State tax registration and vendor’s license. County registration and permit. Town permit.” He handed the rest of the papers to Russ.
“Mr. Hill.” Russ didn’t try to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “I’m not here about paying your taxes or dumping your fry oil. I’m trying to identify a young woman who was found dead in Cossayuharie on Saturday. Your midway was already on site and setting up that Friday.”
“Anything other than my permits, you’re going to need a warrant for.” The door closed in Russ’s face. Again. This time, he banged hard against the fiberglass. The door swung open. “Was I not clear? No warrant, no questions, no searches, no looking around. And don’t try to talk to my people behind my back. They’ll just send you here.”
“Mr. Hill—” Desperate for leverage, Russ shook the papers in his hand. “What about your certifications?”
“Keep ’em. They’re copies.” With that, the door slammed shut, and no amount of knocking could get Hill to come out again.
Swearing under his breath, Russ retreated to his cruiser, where he called Lyle. “I need you to get a warrant for Rusty’s Amusements. I want to be able to see their employment records and talk to the personnel. I’ve been blocked by the manager.”
“Which unit?”
“Which unit of what?”
Lyle’s voice was patient. “There are three individual units. East, West, and South. Rusty’s is their corporate owner.”
Russ looked through the sheaf of papers. “Uh … East.”
“Great. Now, do you have any suspicions or reasons that might induce Ryswick to give it up?”
“Check the ’72 report. Chief Liddle questioned the carnies back then. See if there’s any mention of Brent Hill.”
“That’s it?”
“Be creative. And fast.” Russ hung up. He decided to stroll around and chat with the hired help a bit. Despite Hill’s assurances, some of them might be willing to open up. At the very least, he could get Italian sausage with onions and peppers for lunch.