The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [99]
Volont shrugged. “Then we don’t use it against him… but we use it to get Gabriel.”
We took Blitek to the office, and began making the arrangements for an emergency committal to a mental health institute, for evaluation. He had, after all, attempted suicide. But we’d have at least two hours before the arrival of the mental health referee, who would examine him.
While we had been at the hospital with Blitek, two state troopers, and Art and George, had been to the top of the elevator. Lots of shell casings. 7.62 mm. The rifle. Some brown cardboard ammo boxes. Nothing else, though. Courtesy Maitland PD, chains and padlocks had been installed on the caged, exterior access ladder, in three layers, where a cop in a car could see them. A potential sniper could still climb to the top, but it was hoped that he’d at least be more obvious. The area was pronounced secure.
Pronouncement be damned, I noticed that almost everybody was suddenly using the back door to the office.
Twenty
Friday, January 16, 1998, 1717
We sat Blitek in a chair in the reception area, while we tried to find a room without bystanders where we could interview him. “Cletus and his attorney are in the interview room,” said Lamar. He indicated Blitek, sitting bedraggled in the corner. “Shit,” he said, “he looks like somethin’ the cat dragged in.”
He did. At the hospital, they had pretty well undressed him, looking at what turned out to be minor injuries, and prodding and probing to make certain there was no internal damage. Typically for those under emotional duress, and on the downside of a suicide high to boot, he had then replaced his clothing in a rather haphazard manner, not tucking in his long John top, or buttoning his plaid shirt. His fly was unzipped. His boots were untied, with the laces dragging on the floor. He was sitting in a small wooden chair, with his head in his hands, and his elbows on his knees; his disheveled gray and brown hair sticking straight out between his fingers. The only bright element in the picture was the touch of silver provided by the handcuffs.
We decided the best place for him was the kitchen. Available coffee, rest room, and no phones. We kicked everybody else out, including the troopers and Maitland officers who were regaling a small crowd of late arrivers with lurid descriptions of the monster sniper. They looked a bit silly as we brought Blitek in and shooed them out.
We sat him down, and I went out a different door on my way to get note tablets and pens for the interview. As I did, I had to excuse my passage though the interview room containing Cletus Borglan and Attorney Gunston.
Cletus looked kind of bad, and Gunston was being all protective. “Did you manage to get whoever it was? Is this area secure now?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. Just passing through. I was on my way back with the tablets before it occurred to me. I excused my way through the interview room again, and hit the kitchen with a plan.
“I think,” I said, “we’d be better off doing this interview in your office, Lamar.” Way back on the other side of the building.
As he started to protest, I motioned him over by the sink. “I just came through the interview room,” I said, in a low voice. “Cletus and his attorney are in there, and they don’t know who the shooter was.”
I could almost see the cartoon lightbulb come on over Lamar’s head. To arrive at his office, we would have to transit the interview room occupied by Cletus and company.
“Let’s take him back to my office,” said Lamar, in a loud, clear voice.
We paraded past Cletus and Gunston. Lamar, Volont, Blitek, and me. Slowly, of course, so that Blitek wouldn’t trip on his shoelaces. Blitek’s head was down, and in his state, I don’t think he even noticed who we were passing by. None of us said a word. Except for Lamar, who simply said, “Excuse us, please,” as he led the way through.
I glanced at Cletus, who had the now familiar pre-heave glaze in his eyes.
It was much more crowded in Lamar’s office, but it had been worth the trip.
Blitek, in a mumbling