Quite a lot, as it turns out.
Dale finds he is able to think quickly and clearly. His earlier fear has left him, partly because the f**kup has already happened and the case — the official case, anyway — has been taken away from him. Mostly because he knows he can now call on Jack if he needs to, and Jack will answer. Jack's his safety net.
He listens to Railsback's description of the Polaroids — mostly letting the old fella vent and settle a bit — and then asks a single question about the two photos of the boy.
"Yellow," Railsback replies with no hesitation. "The shirt was yellow. I could read the word Kiwanis on it. Nothing else. The . . . the blood . . ."
Dale says he understands, and tells Railsback an officer will join them shortly.
There is the sound of the phone shifting hands, and then Fine is in his ear — a fellow Dale knows and doesn't much care for. "What if he comes back, Chief ? What if Potter comes back here to the hotel?"
"Can you see the lobby from where you are?"
"No." Petulant. "We're in the office. I told you that."
"Then go out front. Look busy. If he comes in — "
"I don't want to do that. If you'd seen those pitchers, you wouldn't want to do it, either."
"You don't have to say boo to him," Dale says. "Just call if he goes by."
"But — "
"Hang up the telephone, sir. I've got a lot to do."
Sarah has put her hand on her husband's shoulder. Dale puts his free one over hers. There is a click in his ear, loud enough to sound disgruntled.
"Bobby, are you on?"
"Right here, Chief. Debbi, too, and Dit. Oh, and Ernie just walked in." He lowers his voice. "He's got one of those motorcycle boys with him. The one who calls himself Doc."
Dale thinks furiously. Ernie, Debbi, Dit, and Bobby: all in uniform. Not good for what he wants. He comes to a sudden decision and says, "Put the hogger on."
"What?"
"You heard me."
A moment later he's talking to Doc Amberson. "You want to help bust the f**ker who killed Armand St. Pierre's little girl?"
"Hell, yes." No hesitation.
"All right: don't ask questions and don't make me repeat myself."
"I'm listening," Doc says crisply.
"Tell Officer Dulac to give you the blue cell phone in evidence storage, the one we took off the doper who skipped. He'll know the one I mean." If anyone tries to star-69 a call originating from that phone, Dale knows, they won't be able to trace it back to his shop, and that's just as well. He is, after all, supposed to be off the case.
"Blue cell phone."
"Then walk down to Lucky's Tavern, next to the Nelson Hotel."
"I got my bike — "
"No. Walk. Go inside. Buy a lottery ticket. You'll be looking for a tall man, skinny, salt-and-pepper hair, about seventy, khaki pants, maybe a khaki shirt, too. Most likely alone. His favorite roost is between the jukebox and the little hall that goes to the johns. If he's there, call the station. Just hit 911. Got all that?"
"Yeah."
"Go. Really shuck your buns, Doctor."
Doc doesn't even bother to say good-bye. A moment later, Bobby's back on the phone. "What are we gonna do, Dale?"
"If he's there, we're gonna take the son of a bitch," Dale says. He's still under control, but he can feel his heartbeat accelerating, really starting to crank. The world stands out before him with a brilliance that hasn't been there since the first murder. He can feel every finger of his wife's hand on his shoulder. He can smell her makeup and her hairspray. "Get Tom Lund. And lay out three of the Kevlar vests." He thinks that over, then says: "Make it four."
"You're going to call Hollywood?"
"Yeah," he says, "but we're not gonna wait for him." On that he hangs up. Because he wants to bolt, he makes himself stand still for a moment. Takes a deep breath. Lets it out, then takes another.
Sarah grasps his hands. "Be careful."
"Oh yeah," Dale says. "You can take that to the bank." He starts for the door.
"What about Jack?" she calls.
"I'll get him from the car," he says without slowing. "If God's on our side, we'll have the guy in lockup before he makes it halfway to the station."
Five minutes later, Doc is standing at the bar in Lucky's, listening to Trace Adkins sing "I Left Something Turned On at Home" and scratching a Wisconsin instant-winner ticket. It actually is a winner — ten bucks — but most of Doc's attention is focused in the direction of the juke. He bops his shaggy head a little bit, as if he's really getting off on this particular example of Shitkicker Deluxe.