“Okay. Gerald Dean. What about him?”
“He drank with Gable, regularly. Real barstool buddies. According to Greta.”
“For this you woke me up at five in the morning?”
“It also turns out he and Gable arrived in Caesura together, in the same batch, in the first year, about six months after the facility opened.”
Cooper has no idea where this is going, but he’s sure of one thing: It’s not leading in any way back to him. He does his best to subsume his relief in a wave of exaggerated irritation. “Sure. Lots of people arrive together, Dawes. They usually come in groups of three or four. That’s how this works.”
“Then there’s this—” Dawes drops the thin file folder on Cooper’s desk.
Cooper opens it, while saying, “Feel free to spoil the surprise.”
“I looked back through the old records. Housing requests, medical records, that sort of thing. Right after he arrived, Dean put in a request to be moved across town. To the north quarter. So he’d be next-door neighbors with Errol Colfax.”
Cooper scans the papers in the folder and thinks, Is this it? Is this really all that Dawes has? “I remember that,” he says. “Dean wanted someplace quieter. The north quarter is where all the shut-ins are: Colfax, William Wayne—you know, the mummies. We had a free bungalow at the time, so I approved the move. So what?” He hands the folder back to Dawes. “I’m still not sure what this has to do with Hubert Gable.”
“Don’t you think it’s odd,” says Dawes, “that Dean requested to move so close to Colfax? Who ends up dead? And now he turns out to be our second victim’s closest drinking buddy?”
“Maybe. But he moved seven years ago. What do you think he was doing all these years—biding his time?”
Before she can answer, the door to the trailer swings open—it’s Robinson, arriving for his shift. He looks mildly surprised to see Dawes and Cooper already at the office, insofar as his face can register extreme emotions like surprise. “I’m presuming my invitation got lost in the mail,” he says.
“Dawes has a theory,” says Cooper.
“Worth waking with the roosters for?” says Robinson.
“Jury’s still out on that,” Cooper says.
“Well, when you two are done with this little powwow, we’ve got a noise complaint to deal with,” Robinson says. “One of the new arrivals, Vivien King. Lives over by Ginger Van Buren. Says she was up all night.”
“Let me guess,” says Cooper. “Our beloved coydogs.”
“In fine form and full voice last night, apparently.” Robinson shrugs. Then he eyes an open box of pastries on the table. “Remind me when the last delivery from Amarillo was?”
“Last Wednesday,” says Cooper. “New truck’s due tomorrow.”
“So those are a week old?”
“What is it they say about beggars and choosers, Walt?” says Cooper.
Robinson frowns. He’s amassed an impressive collection of frowns over the years, to go with his extensive arsenal of shrugs. These frowns and shrugs, deployed in various combinations, serve him perfectly well for roughly 99 percent of whatever each day might present. He ponders the pastries a moment longer, frowns again, shrugs again, then passes. “So what’s this grand theory?”
“That Hubert Gable and Gerald Dean like to drink together. And Gerald Dean and Errol Colfax used to be neighbors,” says Cooper.
“Sounds open and shut to me,” Robinson says.
Dawes pipes up. “I think it’s at least enough of a connection to justify putting in a formal information request to unseal the files on Colfax, Gable, and Dean.”
Cooper laughs outright. He knows it’s rude, ruder maybe than even young Dawes deserves in this moment, but he can’t help himself. “Do you know how many successful information requests we’ve put in over eight years? Walt, help me out with the math here.”
“I believe the answer you’re looking for is zero,” says Robinson.
“Somewhere in that ballpark,” says Cooper. “It’s definitely a number between zero and zero.”
“How many information requests have you made in that time?” Dawes says, in a way that let’s Cooper know she’s already tracked down the answer, which he finds a little infuriating.
“Also zero—and there’s good reason for that. Do you know why we don’t know anything about the backgrounds of the people who reside here? Because if we did, it would make our jobs impossible.”
“I’m happy to put in the request myself to Dr. Holliday,” she says, “and make it clear to her I’m acting against your objections.”
“And I’m happy to say no to that, too,” says Cooper.
Dawes finally breaks. “Why?” she asks sharply.
Cooper almost smiles, knowing the break in her composure means he’s won. “Because Dr. Holliday will just say no. And you’ll gain nothing but a notation on your official record suggesting you misunderstand the fundamental mission of your place of employment. I’m trying to protect you, Dawes. An information request like that is a huge ask that, frankly, you don’t have the equity here to make. I have built up a number of important and crucial relationships over my eight years here, relationships I am not eager to endanger. Meanwhile, you, in your short six weeks, haven’t even managed to charm me.”
“So I can’t contact Ellis Gonzalez and I can’t make this request. Is there anything I can do, sir?”
“Yes, there is—LaToya.”
“LaToya?” says Robinson. Something like a chuckle tumbles from his throat.
“That’s not my name, and it’s not funny,” Dawes says.
“I want you to go door-to-door this morning and engage in some community outreach,” Cooper says. “Reassure the residents, let them know we’ve got this under control.”
“It’s not even seven A.M., sir,” she says.
“You’re certainly welcome to wait until the day gets even hotter.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to tell them, reassurance-wise?”
“Tell them what we know. Our victim is Hubert Gable. Killed by a nine-millimeter pistol, smuggled in to our premises at time unknown, by persons unknown, and currently stashed at whereabouts unknown.” Cooper stands. “And while you’re out there canvassing, see if anyone heard any noises last night over by Orson Calhoun’s repair yard. Someone trashed it overnight.”
“Drunks?” says Robinson. “Greta’s open for business again.”
“Maybe—though it may be more complicated than that.” Cooper thinks of the bubblegum card he’s got stashed in his breast pocket. “They scribbled some graffiti on the walls, too. Some gibberish”—he searches both pants pockets for a slip of note paper, then finds it and reads it—“Damnatio Memorae. That mean anything to either of you?”
Robinson shrugs, and Dawes shakes her head.