I drove to the police station. It was a new building on the south side of the interstate, the opposite direction from downtown.
In the lobby Murray was the center of a mass of national media microphones, cameras, and lights. Maybe his star would soar without me.
After twenty minutes, Murray was set free. I caught his eye. He was breathless and limped a bit as he strode over. “This is great. I’m in the middle of something terrific. It’s a good thing we were shot at. Everybody’s heard of me. Everybody wants to know what’s going on. Everybody is listening to me.” He smiled and beamed like a child at his fourth birthday party.
I said, “No hint about Czobel being dead?”
“Nobody’s reported a body.”
I repeated Duncan’s notion that someone could just dump him in the woods or the Mississippi.
“But why?” Murray asked.
I gave him the obvious answer. “To conceal the fact that there was a murder.”
“But we know about it.”
“And when we have to produce a body? We can’t. It’s the same thing as last night. We weren’t supposed to be there. You’d think blood on the floor, shattered glass, and bullet holes would at least get someone to consider the notion that something odd happened. When’s the press conference?”
“Nobody knows. They even stopped making those periodic we’re-starting-in-half-an-hour announcements. They’ve begun to demand press credentials from everyone. Distributed by the City of Butterfield official press office.”
“There is such a thing?”
“There is now. Bunch of amateurs trying to control the press. It won’t take long for the whole thing to fall apart.” He pointed toward a set of closed doors. “All the town officials and the Mustangs’ people are in there with lawyers and representatives of the big team, the entourage, everybody.”
I said, “It’s a cover-up. They’ll need to be careful. They may need a scapegoat or a hero. Be careful which one they try to paint you as.”
“They’d do something to you, too.”
“But I’m not from here and not beholden to anyone.”
There was a stir at the front of the room, then two wide wooden doors opened, and the crowd of reporters were let into a large room labeled ‘community conference’. I sat in the last row in the back. Nobody asked me for credentials.
Rotella marched to the podium. His ubiquitous sweat stains under his arms seemed to have grown. I guess no matter how air-conditioned a place was, it had no effect on his body’s moisture output. He was alone. He said, “We’ll have the process for credentials set up in a few minutes.”
The room erupted in laughter.
Near the front, a reporter I recognized said, “You’re not dealing with moronic locals. You’re live on camera right now. Why not just answer some simple questions instead of looking like a buffoon?” I’d seen Julian Lawson, the reporter who asked the question, on national shows. He had a reputation as abrasive and rude.
Rotella said, “You’ll never get credentials.”
Lawson asked, “Was Tyler Skeen murdered?”
Then they were all shouting questions, “Is this a cover-up? Why aren’t representatives from the team out here answering questions? Where are the officials from the hospital?”
Rotella looked pissed but these weren’t people beholden to him who he was going to be able to cow.
He simply stomped off.
They shouted their questions to his retreating back. A few even tried to follow him. He hurried through a door. When a reporter grabbed the knob, it wouldn’t open. Did Rotella really think he was going to be able to avoid the press in this small town? Apparently he was willing to try.
A cluster of national reporters huddled around Murray. I figured I’d call him later. If he was still talking to peasants like me.