Jack steps back and begins to move sideways along a gentle arc that will bring him to Arnold Hrabowski.
"Incredible," says Brown. "Tell me, Chief Gilbertson, did you decide to delay a little bit before passing the news on to Lieutenant Black and myself ?"
"I did everything according to procedure," Dale says. In answer to the next question he says that yes, he has called for the medical examiner and the evidence wagon, which, by the way, he can see coming up the lane right now.
The Mad Hungarian's efforts at self-control succeed only in making him look as though he urgently needs to urinate. When Jack places a hand on his shoulder, he stiffens like a cigar-store Indian.
"Calm down, Arnold," Jack says, then raises his voice. "Lieutenant Black, if you're taking over this case, there's some information you should have."
Brown and Black turn their attention to him.
"The man who made the 911 call used the pay phone at the 7-Eleven store on Highway 35 in French Landing. Dale had the phone taped off, and the owner knows to keep people from handling it. You might get some useful prints from that phone."
Black scribbles something in his notebook, and Brown says, "Gentlemen, I think your role is finished here. Chief, use your people to disperse those individuals at the bottom of the lane. By the time the M.E. and I come out of that structure, I don't want to see a single person down there, including you and your officers. You'll get a call later in the week, if I have any new information."
Wordlessly, Dale turns away and points Bobby Dulac down the path, where the crowd has dwindled to a few stubborn souls leaning against their cars. Brown and Black shake hands with the medical examiner and confer with the specialists in charge of the evidence wagon.
"Now, Arnold," Jack says, "you like being a cop, don't you?"
"Me? I love being a cop." Arnold cannot quite force himself to meet Jack's eyes. "And I could be a good one, I know I could, but the chief doesn't have enough faith in me." He thrusts his trembling hands into his pants pockets.
Jack is torn between feeling pity for this pathetic wanna-be and the impulse to kick him all the way down to the end of the lane. A good cop? Arnold couldn't even be a good scoutmaster. Thanks to him, Dale Gilbertson got a public dressing-down that probably made him feel as though he'd been put in the stocks. "But you didn't follow orders, did you, Arnold?"
Arnold quivers like a tree struck by lightning. "What? I didn't do anything."
"You told someone. Maybe you told a couple of people."
"No!" Arnold shakes his head violently. "I just called my wife, that's all." He looks imploringly at Jack. "The Fisherman talked to me, he told me where he put the girl's body, and I wanted Paula to know. Honest, Holl — Lieutenant Sawyer, I didn't think she'd call anybody, I just wanted to tell her."
"Bad move, Arnold," Jack says. "You are going to tell the chief what you did, and you're going to do it right now. Because Dale deserves to know what went wrong, and he shouldn't have to blame himself. You like Dale, don't you?"
"The chief ?" Arnold's voice wobbles with respect for his chief. "Sure I do. He's, he's . . . he's great. But isn't he going to fire me?"
"That's up to him, Arnold," Jack says. "If you ask me, you deserve it, but maybe you'll get lucky."
The Mad Hungarian shuffles off toward Dale. Jack watches their conversation for a second, then walks past them to the side of the old store, where Beezer St. Pierre and Wendell Green face each other in unhappy silence.
"Hello, Mr. St. Pierre," he says. "And hello to you, Wendell."
"I'm lodging a complaint," Green says. "I'm covering the biggest story of my life, and this lout spoils a whole roll of film. You can't treat the press that way; we have a right to photograph whatever the hell we like."
"I guess you woulda said you had a right to photograph my daughter's dead body, too." Beezer glares at Jack. "This piece of shit paid Teddy and the other lunkheads to go nuts so nobody would notice him sneaking inside there. He took pictures of the girl."
Wendell jabs a finger at Jack's chest. "He has no proof of that. But I'll tell you something, Sawyer. I did get pictures of you. You were concealing evidence in the back of your truck, and I got you dead to rights. So think twice before you try to mess with me, because I'll hang you out to dry."
A dangerous red mist seems to fill Jack's head. "Were you going to sell photographs of that girl's body?"
"What's it to you?" An ugly smirk widens Wendell Green's mouth. "You're not exactly lily-white either, are you? Maybe we can do each other some good, huh?"
The red mist darkens and fills Jack's eyes. "We can do each other some good?"
Standing beside Jack, Beezer St. Pierre clenches and unclenches his enormous fists. Beezer, Jack knows, catches his tone perfectly, but the vision of dollar signs has so gripped Wendell Green that he hears Jack's threat as a straightforward question.
"You let me reload my camera and get the pictures I need, and I keep quiet about you."