Carved in Bone

the other way?”
    Steve squirmed in his seat like a student who didn’t know the right answer. “Thing is, Doc, in cases like this, you get one shot. If you don’t win—if a grand jury votes not to indict, or if you lose the case at trial—that makes the sheriff much more powerful. He becomes virtually untouchable at that point, and he knows it. So then you’re really screwed.”
    This was not going at all the way I’d hoped. “So what am I supposed to do, then? Just shrug my shoulders and figure that’s the way things work in Cooke County?” I looked from one face to another, but no one at the table would meet my gaze.
    Finally Price spoke up. “No, Doctor, you’re supposed to do your job to the best of your ability, and trust us to do ours to the best of our abilities. Believe me, we don’t like to see public officials break the law any more than you do. But we have to work within congressional statutes and FBI protocols. Sometimes those feel like impediments. But they’re part of the American justice system, which beats the hell out of any other system I know of.”
    It appeared I’d overstepped. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
    She cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Not necessary, Doctor. We understand your frustration—we share it, in fact—and we do appreciate your help. Please keep your eyes and ears open; tell us about any illegal or suspicious activities you observe. As I say, our hands might be tied on the homicide case, but you never know—we might learn something that would give us some leverage with another witness, somebody who could corroborate federal offenses.” I nodded.
    Price glanced at her watch. “Anything else?” I shook my head. “Well, we don’t need to take up any more of your time, Dr. Brockton; I’m sure you’re busy.” I was, but not too busy to notice that I was being dismissed. “Do let us know if something else crops up.”
    “Sure,” I said. “Although I can’t imagine what more could crop up at this point.”
    “You’d be surprised,” she said, and gave a quick nod to Steve Morgan.
    “I’ll run you back downstairs,” said Steve, hastily rising from his seat at the Round Table.
    On the way back down, we made awkward small talk: Ashley, his oldest, was starting ballet lessons; Justin, the middle child, played T-ball last summer and was a solid hitter but not much of a fielder; Christian, the toddler, fell off the porch and blackened both eyes, earning Steve and his wife suspicious stares from strangers for a couple of weeks, until the shiners faded. We shook hands in the lobby and I said good-bye to the security guard, who gave me a reluctant tip of the head. As I reached the main door, I consulted my watch, then turned back to check the time on the wall clock above the elevator. Both read five minutes to ten. And, as I’d suspected, Steve Morgan had not moved from the spot where I’d left him.
    I fiddled with my watch briefly, waved good-bye to Steve, and walked out into the crisp fall air. I went as far as the next corner—out of the line of Steve’s sight—then crossed the street and ducked into the old Supreme Court parking lot, which was bordered by a hedgerow sparse enough for me to see through without being seen from the entrance of the federal building.
    At one minute to ten, a man sauntered up to the granite cube, and Steve Morgan stepped out to greet him. Agent Price’s last words had been prophetic: I was surprised; shocked, even. The man who went inside the federal building with Steve was a Cooke County deputy sheriff: my old pal Leon Williams.

CHAPTER 21
    “WHAT, NOW I’M SUPPOSED to be psychic? I don’t know what it means,” said Art, taking a sip of sweet tea between bites of his sandwich. He had answered my panic-stricken call from outside the federal building and agreed to meet me for lunch at Calhoun’s On the River, which boasted the best barbecue in town.
    “Even if you don’t know, you can at least help me think through the possibilities,” I insisted.
    “Okay, you tell me what you think the possibilities are,” he said,
    “and I’ll give you my considered opinion.”
    “Scenario A,” I began.
    He interrupted. “We’ve moved from possibilities to scenarios already?”
    I glowered. “Scenario A: Williams contacted the feds because he knows the sheriff is protecting the cockfights and the gambling and the drug trafficking, like Price said.” Art chewed his pulled pork thoughtfully. “B: Williams