Nathan's Run

Chapter 4

It was ten-forty now, and the media people who'd stationed themselves in front of the MC were clamoring for information. A knot of reporters had already blocked the front entrance, and more were arriving by the minute. The television people were particularly aggressive, shouting questions at anyone wearing a uniform. Of all journalistic deadlines, none. were less forgiving than the eleven o'clock news. Immediacy was television's single trump card over their print counterparts, and they would do whatever it took to lead their newscasts with the big story. Michaels knew from experience that this meant fabricating details from rumor and assumption if the available facts didn't seem juicy enough. When they became desperate, news agencies would merely report on the rumors reported by the other agencies. It was a crazy way to make a living, but Michaels respected the fact that reporters had a job to do. He was committed to getting them the information they needed in time for them to do a live report at eleven, if not before.

The nameplate on the desk where Michaels sat read HAROLD P. JOHNSTONE, SUPERINTENDENT. The superintendent-warden, to Michaels-had cordially invited the police to use his office as a base of operations.

Jed Hackner sat on the other side of the desk, briefing his boss on the latest details. At best, things still looked pretty sketchy. Michaels scanned through the two pages of handwritten briefing notes a third time, committing times and names to memory. "So, the kid's a car thief, right?"

"Right."

"Nothing like a murder charge to up the ante," Warren thought aloud. He turned the page. "Ricky Harris got a family?"

"Not in the area. He's from Missouri. We've notified their state PD to make the notifications."

"Uh-huh." Warren flipped the sheaf of papers over by their staple and started over. "There's no mention of the dogs," he commented without looking up. "What's their status?"

Jed's uncomfortable silence drew Michaels's eyes from the papers. "Jed?"

Hackner recrossed his legs and cleared his throat. "There's a problem with the dogs, Warren. It'll be another couple of hours before Peters can be here with the hounds. Seems he went downtown for the Fourth. I talked to him on his cellular about twenty minutes ago. He's hopelessly stuck in traffic. On a good day, he says he could be here in an hour and a half. With the traffic, he just doesn't know."

The muscles in Michaels's jaw twitched. "Well, shit. When were you going to share that little tidbit with me? That's not the kind of thing to spring on me in front of the cameras."

"I wasn't hiding it from you," Jed said sheepishly. "It just didn't make it onto the briefing sheets."

Michaels rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then rested his forearms on the desk. He gave a wry chuckle and shook his head. "I hate talking to those vultures. Won't we look like a bunch of hayseeds? Yessirree," he mocked, affecting a hillbilly accent, "we got the best gol-durned K-9 team in th' state. Jest when we need 'em, they're on fucking vacation in the Nation's Capital!" The accent was gone. His volume increased. "God almighty, Jed, the kid's trail will only be fresh for so long! And they're predicting rain for tonight. If it rains, we might as well shoot the dogs, for all the help they'll be. Hell, right now I'm inclined to shoot 'em any- way."

When Michaels finished his tirade, he stared at Hackner.

"What do you want me to do, Warren? They're not my fucking dogs. We've been pushing for years for the Board to fund a K-9 team, but they won't do it. This is what happens when you try to pinch pennies."

Michaels smiled, the anger gone. "Wonderful civics lesson, Sergeant Hackner. Can I quote you on camera?"

Hackner smiled back. "Sure, why not? It's only a career."

Michaels checked his watch. Ten forty-eight. Through the drawn venetian blinds the night glowed like noon in the glare of the television lights. Michaels stood. "Come on, Jed," he said. "Time to go feed the birdies."