Bollinger bit their tongues and played gracious, apologetic hosts, humoring Joe with only minor objections and basically ordering everyone else to stay out of his way. They weren't saying much about it, but they were obviously quite content with the case they had built against the armed robber they picked up driving Geoffry Bettis's car. Otherwise, I knew, they would hardly have been so anxious to treat us like innocent bystanders they'd been fools to ever suspect. Suspicion wasn't something policemen moved intact from one person to the next unless someone came along who finally seemed to deserve it all; that Crowe and Bollinger no longer appeared to have the slightest doubt about our innocence spoke volumes about how convinced they were of their latest suspect's guilt.
But, like I said, they weren't saying much about it. In fact, they weren't saying anything at all.
"I'm afraid we can't discuss that, Mrs. Loudermilk," Bollinger said at one point, after I'd asked him if their suspect had a name.
"You can't tell me his name?"
"No ma'am. I'm sorry."
"We understand he was driving Mr. Bettis's car when you picked him up."
"Yes ma'am."
"And that he was armed with a gun?"
"That's right."
"And this gun, it was the same one that killed Mr. Bettis. Is that right?"
"Again, Mrs. Loudermilk, I'm afraid I can't answer that question at this time. I'd really like to, but can't."
He didn't know it, but there was no need for him to apologize; the slight glimmer of contentment that had shone in his eyes upon hearing my question had answered it perfectly. The results of their ballistics tests were in, and the two guns were indeed one and the same.
"Has he confessed to the crime?" I asked, determined to take Bollinger to the limit of his patience.
"Mrs. Loudermilk—"
"I just wondered if he's confessed, that's all. I only want to know what to tell all our friends back home when they ask me the same questions I'm asking you."
I smiled, and that seemed to buy me at least another smidgen of his generosity.
"No," he said, gulping at his coffee while his eyes remained glued to the lunchroom door, just in case his partner Crowe should come bursting in at any moment to catch us discussing the un-discussable. "The suspect has not yet issued a confession."
"Then, how can you be so sure—"
"That he did it? Easy. By listening to him try to explain himself. How he stole the car up at the Canyon, and just happened to find a loaded gun under the passenger seat. Would you believe a story like that, Mrs. Loudermilk? Do you know anyone that would?"
"Well—"
"No, you wouldn't. And neither do we." He stood up from the table we were sharing and tossed his empty coffee cup into a nearby wastebasket, crushing it into a ball first. "By the way. That daughter of yours is a real charmer. The one out in California? The lawyer?"
"Oh. You mean Mo?" I'd forgotten she had said she was going to give Crowe and Bollinger a call.
"I guess that's her. She told us her name was Maureen. Maureen Doubleday, attorney-at-law."
I laughed. "Yeah, that's our Mo. Doubleday is her married name."
"I see."
"I hope she didn't give you and Detective Crowe too hard a time."
He shook his head. "Naw. We hear that kind of language all the time around here."
I laughed again, and this time he laughed right along with me.
* * * *
"Does this mean we can go on to Pittsburgh now?" Bad Dog asked, elated.
"Nobody's goin' to Pittsburgh," Big Joe said. "At least, your mother and I sure as hell aren't. We're goin' to Texas. Or Louisiana, maybe."
"Later," I said.
"Not later. Now. Soon as we drop this boy off at the nearest Greyhound station."
Dog made a face. "You're gonna make me take a bus to Pittsburgh?"
"Nobody's gonna make you do anything. You can do whatever you want. Go to Pittsburgh on a bus, or Hawaii on a wookie board, makes no difference to me. All I know is—"
"You mean a boogie board," I said.
Joe turned, his train of thought
But, like I said, they weren't saying much about it. In fact, they weren't saying anything at all.
"I'm afraid we can't discuss that, Mrs. Loudermilk," Bollinger said at one point, after I'd asked him if their suspect had a name.
"You can't tell me his name?"
"No ma'am. I'm sorry."
"We understand he was driving Mr. Bettis's car when you picked him up."
"Yes ma'am."
"And that he was armed with a gun?"
"That's right."
"And this gun, it was the same one that killed Mr. Bettis. Is that right?"
"Again, Mrs. Loudermilk, I'm afraid I can't answer that question at this time. I'd really like to, but can't."
He didn't know it, but there was no need for him to apologize; the slight glimmer of contentment that had shone in his eyes upon hearing my question had answered it perfectly. The results of their ballistics tests were in, and the two guns were indeed one and the same.
"Has he confessed to the crime?" I asked, determined to take Bollinger to the limit of his patience.
"Mrs. Loudermilk—"
"I just wondered if he's confessed, that's all. I only want to know what to tell all our friends back home when they ask me the same questions I'm asking you."
I smiled, and that seemed to buy me at least another smidgen of his generosity.
"No," he said, gulping at his coffee while his eyes remained glued to the lunchroom door, just in case his partner Crowe should come bursting in at any moment to catch us discussing the un-discussable. "The suspect has not yet issued a confession."
"Then, how can you be so sure—"
"That he did it? Easy. By listening to him try to explain himself. How he stole the car up at the Canyon, and just happened to find a loaded gun under the passenger seat. Would you believe a story like that, Mrs. Loudermilk? Do you know anyone that would?"
"Well—"
"No, you wouldn't. And neither do we." He stood up from the table we were sharing and tossed his empty coffee cup into a nearby wastebasket, crushing it into a ball first. "By the way. That daughter of yours is a real charmer. The one out in California? The lawyer?"
"Oh. You mean Mo?" I'd forgotten she had said she was going to give Crowe and Bollinger a call.
"I guess that's her. She told us her name was Maureen. Maureen Doubleday, attorney-at-law."
I laughed. "Yeah, that's our Mo. Doubleday is her married name."
"I see."
"I hope she didn't give you and Detective Crowe too hard a time."
He shook his head. "Naw. We hear that kind of language all the time around here."
I laughed again, and this time he laughed right along with me.
* * * *
"Does this mean we can go on to Pittsburgh now?" Bad Dog asked, elated.
"Nobody's goin' to Pittsburgh," Big Joe said. "At least, your mother and I sure as hell aren't. We're goin' to Texas. Or Louisiana, maybe."
"Later," I said.
"Not later. Now. Soon as we drop this boy off at the nearest Greyhound station."
Dog made a face. "You're gonna make me take a bus to Pittsburgh?"
"Nobody's gonna make you do anything. You can do whatever you want. Go to Pittsburgh on a bus, or Hawaii on a wookie board, makes no difference to me. All I know is—"
"You mean a boogie board," I said.
Joe turned, his train of thought
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