10:56 am
Frank, Kevin, Atlanta, Olivia and Chief Tommy conferred by the interrogation window. They could see Corey Cloutier seated inside, looking shamefaced and keeping his gaze averted from the stacks of papers on the table.
"He's a closet pedophile at the very least," Olivia said.
"If so," Tommy said, "that closet must be as packed as Phineas J. Whoopee's. Not that he has even half that character's IQ."
"The man with all the answers," Kevin said, sounding like he wanted a wastebasket to hawk snot into. "No fantasies about beating, mutilation, murder?"
"Not in those papers," Atlanta said. "No real red flag in our skim of his devices, either."
"Between the backlog and that new variant hitting our staff, a more thorough analysis of his laptop, tablet and phone might not be finished before October or even November," Olivia said.
Her phone buzzed. She pullet it from her pocket and looked at its screen. "Text from Rollins at Cedars-Sinai. Ursa has internal bleeding again. She's going back to surgery."
Frank felt a cold wash. It would be a struggle to stay calm, he thought, if any of his kids were in emergency surgery even once.
"Without her we probably don't have enough to hold Troy," the Chief said. "We can — and must — bring him in for questioning. Vertiz, do you have an address?"
"Yes sir."
"Give it to Bernard and Cosgrove, and continue to keep tabs on him. As for Cloutier, we'll let him stew a while longer. If nothing more substantial turns up by day's end, we can release him, let him keep his appointment."
Frank said, "Chief, before we go I'd like one more crack at him."
The Chief gave a very firm Look. "If he has another accident, you will clean it all."
Frank entered the room with his Look at Medium and all the body language of a stern parent who wants a serious talk.
Cloutier, who had been woolgathering, jerked his head up. He said, "I-I'll say it often as I have to, sir, I'm not . . . "
"We have more than enough to have you jailed for possession of porn. Of course, there's also that horror at Marcus Garvey."
"Sir, I had nothing to do with that, I keep telling you!"
"You're going to have everything to do with addressing your problem. We want you to get counselling and won't stand for you failing to get professional help."
"Who do you recommend, sir?"
That had the tone of someone who wasn't really inclined to see a shrink. Frank turned up his Look and said, "That's your responsibility. You find a psychiatrist and book a series of appointments. I don't care how much time you spend in their office, or how expensive it is, you will address your serious condition."
"O-okay, sir. I-I just don't want to blunder into someone like the late Jacob Lowenstein."
A smell rose from Cloutier. After a minute or so Frank judged that it was just a fart.
