Page 36 of Body Count

Peterson patted my shoulder and went inside.A few minutes later, he came out with Nickels, the two of them talking in a low voice.He left Nickels by the door as he came down to the driveway again.He put his hand on my shoulder again and looked me in the eye and said, “We’re going to do this right, Gray.I promise.”

And just like that, my home became a crime scene.

Yarmark went to help Nickels, and when he was out of earshot, Peterson said, “Tell me what happened.”

So, I told him everything from when I’d seen Jordan leave the apartment the day before—the argument, his trip to Shepherd Park, learning that Tip had disappeared, my visit to Eddie Wheeler, and then the rest of the day from when I’d left the station to when I’d gotten home.Almost everything.Not the BJ from Jordan.And not the hummer from Ricky, or whatever his real name was.

“I know it’s not my investigation,” I said when I finished.“I know I fucked up.But nobody else cares.”

Peterson didn’t say anything.Another Wahredua PD patrol car arrived.A cruiser from the sheriff’s department parked behind it.Peterson still hadn’t said anything.Men got out of the cars.Doors slammed.And then, finally, he said, “When was the last time you saw him?”

For a disorienting moment, I thought he meant Darnell.And then I realized he was talking about Tip.“I don’t know.A couple of weeks ago.I did a follow-up, just to see how he was doing.”

“Gray, if there’s anything else you need to tell me about your relationship with that boy, now’s the time.”

It took a moment for me to understand.When I did, a tingling numbness started in my lips, in my mouth, in my tongue.“What?”

“He was an adult.I get that.But if it comes out later, it’s going to be a lot worse.”

I shook my head.

“Why’s he in your bed?”

“I don’t fucking know!”

The shout rang out on the empty street.

A deputy I didn’t recognize glanced over at us, but he moved on when Peterson waved a hand.

A big old Ford pulled up, and Brother Gary got out.The pencil-dick had found time to get dressed in his Matlock suit.Or maybe he slept in it.He looked over at me with sad, pouchy eyes as he settled that stupid cowboy hat on his head.Red Alvin was about two minutes behind him, showing up in a Firebird with a shot suspension.They talked for a moment.And then they pulled Peterson aside.

When Peterson came back, he said, “You’re going to the sheriff’s station for an interview.”

“Are you kidding me?”And before I could stop myself: “Do I need a lawyer?Where’s my rep?”

Voice so quiet I could barely hear him, Peterson said, “Right now, Gray, it’s an interview because a boy was found dead in your bed.I can’t advise you about a lawyer.”He considered me for another moment.“It’s only an interview.”

It was Burrows who drove me.The same deputy who’d gotten the call-out when Tip had been hurt.He didn’t cuff me.He didn’t put me in the back seat.I rode shotgun, and neither of us said anything on the drive over.He’d been in my bed, I thought.I’d touched his leg.My hair was still drying from the shower.The smell hadn’t gone away.

The sheriff’s station was attached to the county jail, but I tried not to think about that.It was built low and painted the color of dog shit, and inside, it smelled like burnt popcorn.Like the Wahredua PD, the lobby was shut down for the night, but an old guy with a fringe of hair the color of mop water was carefully cleaning the glass case of a bulletin board.He had a radio clipped to his belt, and from the snatches I heard, it sounded like he was listening to one of those emergency weather stations.

Burrows planted me in an interview room.It wasn’t that different from ours—the one-way mirror, the table bolted to the floor, light bulbs behind safety mesh.The first chair I tried smelled like ass, but so did the next one.Aside from a little dust bunny in the corner, I was alone.My phone buzzed.John-Henry again.I sent it to voicemail.Someone had tagged the table with a ballpoint.It was a pretty good work, except it looked like their name was Hair Salon.

According to the clock on my phone, I was in that fucking room for two hours and thirty-seven minutes before the door opened.When it did, it was like a premonition—this ghost of a moment when I knew, unshakably, that John-Henry was going to walk into the room.But it was Brother Gary.He was carrying that stupid hat under his arm, and the silver ring with his cross winked under the fluorescents.Red Alvin came behind him in track suit bottoms and a Rolling Stones T-shirt with the tongue logo.

“Well,” Brother Gary said, “this sure is a mess.”

At least he hadn’t said,We’re in a right pickle.

“You want to tell us what the fuck is going on?”Red Alvin asked.

I told them.

When I finished, Red Alvin said, “How long had you been sticking it to that kid?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Are you sure about that?Because even if you used a condom, there’s a good chance we’ll find something.Saliva.One of your curlies.Hell, these days, might even get a fingerprint off the skin.”

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