Loss of compassion? Like Ms. Cotton had said? A scene from an old movie flashed into Nick's head. A hard-core mercenary is told during a firefight that he's bleeding. The guy's rebuttaclass="underline" I ain't got time to bleed.
When he got to his desk there was a press release lying in the middle, a one-sheet write-up that had been faxed by the Sheriff's Office as it had been to every news organization in three counties. Cameron had given everyone all the updated information that Nick had already put in his story for this morning's edition, including the caliber of the bullet. While his computer was coming up, Nick answered the blinking light on his phone. Three of four messages were from readers who wanted him to know how glad they were that Ferris had been shot, saving them the cost of another trial "for that animal." None left a name. The fourth call was from Cameron. There was a distinct edge in his voice:
"Nick. Nice job this morning doing an interview of a witness before the detectives could even get to her. Man, you're gumming this one up, pal."
Cameron paused, maybe for effect, maybe because he didn't want to say what he had to say next.
"Detective Hargrave wants to see you himself this afternoon about four. I'll assume you'll be here. Believe me, Nick, it might be a once-in-a-lifetime offer. But I'm going to have to be in the room with you, so ease up, eh?"
Nick replayed the message, twice, and then sat back, thinking it through. Hargrave, the wordless one, the man who always turned his back on the media, wanted a sitdown. Did he think Nick had gotten something from Cotton he hadn't? Maybe he thought she knew the people who had worn the pictures of Cotton's girls during the trial. That would sure as hell be one of Nick's moves if he was looking for someone with motive. There had been news coverage of the trial. Nick would have to call Matt over at Channel 10 to see if their film was being subpoenaed. But most of those video shots would have been of the front of the courtroom, not of the gallery. Hargrave also would have known from Cameron that Nick hadn't covered the trial. He looked up over the cubicles to see if the court reporter was still at her desk. She might have quoted some of the people who'd worn the buttons and had some names and contact numbers. He looked at his watch. It was two o'clock. If the meeting with Hargrave took a while, he'd be pushing deadline later in the day. To be safe he opened up a new screen on his computer and started typing a rough draft of tomorrow's follow-up story, which at this point wouldn't be much different factually from today's, other than planting a quote or two from Ms. Cotton. He could always hope that Hargrave would let loose with something, but he wasn't planning on it.
It took him an hour to bang out 350 decent words that could pass for a Saturday story on its own if it had to. At this point, he'd have to lead with the only fresh thing he had, which was that police were talking with the mother of the slain children in connection with Ferris's killing and the investigation was continuing. Nick knew it was bullshit. The investigation was always continuing and most people with half a brain would know that the cops would talk with the girls' mom. But he also knew that if you phrased it just right, the general reading public would skim it, figure it was close enough to news and give themselves something to gab about at dinner with their friends on Saturday night:
"How 'bout that shooting downtown? The pedophile guy?"
"Yeah, I saw they were talking to the mom of the girls he killed."
"Like she wouldn't have a big smile on her face, eh?"
"Can you believe they were gonna let the guy off?"
"The system is all fucked up, you know?"
"I'd of hired somebody to kill him if I was her."
"Yeah?"
"Damn straight."
When Nick was finished with the draft, he stored it away and turned off the computer. He'd have enough time to stop at the cafe downstairs and grab a cup of coffee and maybe one of those plastic-wrapped sandwiches and he could eat on the way over to the Sheriff's Office. He hadn't bothered to look at the rest of the research files that Lori had sent. Later, if he got back early, he thought. Right now he was already getting cranked up for Hargrave. What the hell was the guy going to say? Just chew him out? Hell, he could take that without a sweat. He hadn't put anything unethical in the story today, and sure as hell nothing that was going to stink up the investigation. The dead man's name and the caliber of the bullet? The killer knew the name would come out and the bullet caliber was only good in dismissing some of the nut jobs who would call the cops claiming they'd done the shooting. Oh, yeah? What'd you do him with? A nine-millimeter, you say? Good-bye. Don't call back again.
No, whatever Hargrave had in mind would be something more than the simple stuff, Nick thought, trying to prepare. But hell with it, he finally whispered to himself, better not to speculate, just let it fall the way it was going to fall. Nick walked through the front doors of the sheriff's administration building at 3:50 PM. As soon as the wash of air-conditioning swept over him he was taking the car keys out of his pocket, fishing the cell phone off his belt, checking to see if he had a pack of gum in his shirt, the foil of which would set off the metal detectors. While he stood in line waiting for his turn to pass through the security screen, he looked up into the huge ornate rotunda. The building had been constructed a few years ago to replace what had been little more than a retrofitted warehouse south of the city. The entryway soared up several floors to an atrium roof that let in the signature sunshine of South Florida. Nick thought it far too ostentatious for a cop shop. But what the hell. Your tax dollars at work.
The deputy on the other side of the electronic gateway nodded as Nick passed through without a beep.
"Where are you visiting today, sir?"
"Media relations," Nick said and tipped his head to the left where the doors to Joel Cameron's department were located. He watched for a change in the young officer's face. Did it change when he was told the press was in the house? But the kid just nodded and was already on to the next person passing through the hoops of post-9/11 decorum. Nick gathered his stuff from a plastic bowl and moved on.
The receptionist just inside Cameron's office recognized Nick immediately, smiled, asked how he was doing.
"Fine, how are you?" Nick didn't come here often. Most of his work was done out in the streets or by phone. If he was meeting an inside source, it was usually done at a designated lunch spot, Houston's on Federal Highway, Hot Dog Heaven on Sunrise. Nick stole a look down the hall into the office. It had the same setup as the newsroom, a smaller version, but the same fabric-covered separators that made you think you had a space of your own. Cameron was at the end of the created hallway, heading his way.
"Thanks for being on time, Nick," Cameron said, moving briskly, not offering a hand or a greeting. He was carrying a legal pad and checking his shirt pocket for a pen. Nick noted that the pad was brand-new, nothing yet on the top page.
"The detectives want us to meet them upstairs in a conference room," Cameron said, opening the door to the lobby and holding it for Nick. "We'll have to get you a pass."
Nick shrugged at Cameron's iciness. The media officer had already told Nick that Hargrave was a hard-ass who never talked to the press, or even Cameron, for that matter. Now he'd been told to bring a seasoned police reporter in for a private meet. Nick knew Joel would not only be nervous about what might be said, but also pissed if he had to explain to the rest of the media types who would be howling if word got out of such an exclusive.