A sign on the wall nearby reminded, with the inexplicable capitalization of corporate culture:
Remember your Passports for International trips!
The sign he was referring to was beneath it:
Set your Brake and leave your Rig in gear!
Interrogators are always alert to subjects answering questions they haven’t been asked. Nothing illustrates what’s been going on in their minds better than that.
She’d get to the matter of brakes and gears in a moment. ‘Yessir, but about the hours?’
‘We close at five. We’re open seven to five.’
‘But trucks arrive later, right? Sometimes?’
‘That rig came in at seven.’ He looked at a sheet of paper – which of course he’d found and memorized the minute he’d heard about the tragedy. ‘Seven ten. Empty from Fresno.’
‘And the driver parked in a usual space?’
‘Any space that’s free,’ the worker piped up. ‘The top of the hill.’ He bore a resemblance to Henderson. Nephew, son, Dance guessed. Noting he’d mentioned the incline. They’d already discussed scapegoating the driver and had planned his public crucifixion.
‘Would the driver have parked the truck there intentionally, beside the club?’ Dance asked.
This caught them off guard. ‘Well, no. That wouldn’t make sense.’ The hesitation told her that they wished they’d thought about this scenario. But they’d already decided to sell the driver out by implying he hadn’t set the brake.
The top of the hill …
The third man, brawny, soiled hands, realized his cue. ‘These rigs’re heavy. But they’ll roll.’
Dance asked, ‘Where was it parked before it ended up beside the club?’
‘One of the spots,’ Henderson Lite offered.
‘Gathered that. Which one?’
‘Do I need a lawyer?’ the owner asked.
‘I’m just trying to find out what happened. This isn’t a criminal investigation.’ And she added, as she knew she should: ‘At this point.’
‘Do I have to talk to you?’ Henderson asked the tax-and insurance-certification lady.
She said evenly, as if concerned for him, ‘It will be a lot better for you if you cooperate.’
Henderson gave a calculated shrug and directed her outside, then pointed to the spot that was, not surprisingly, directly uphill from the club. The truck seemed to have rolled in almost a straight line to where it rested. A slight bevel of the asphalt would have accounted for the vehicle’s angle with respect to the building: it had veered slightly to the left.
Henderson: ‘So we don’t know what happened.’
Meaning: Take the driver. Fuck him. It’s his fault, not ours. We posted the rules.
Dance looked around. ‘How does it work? A driver comes in after hours, he leaves the key somewhere here or he keeps it?’
‘Leaves it.’ Henderson pointed. A drop-box.
A white pickup pulled into the lot and approached them and squealed to a stop nearby. A slim man of about thirty-five, jeans and an AC/DC T-shirt stepped out of it. He pulled on a leather jacket, straightened his slicked-back blond hair, fringy at the ends. His face was etched with parentheses around his mouth, his brow permanently furrowed. He was white but his skin was leather-tanned.
‘Well,’ Henderson said, ‘here he is now.’
The sheepish man stepped up to his boss. ‘Mr Henderson.’
‘Billy,’ the owner said. ‘This’s …’
‘I’m Kathryn Dance, CBI.’ Her ID rose.
‘Billy Culp,’ the young man said absently, staring at her ID. Eyes wide, perhaps seeing an opening door to a jail cell.
She ushered him away from the others.
The owner sighed, hitched up his belt, gave it a moment more, then vanished inside. His blood kin joined him.
‘Could you tell me about parking the truck here last night?’
The young man’s eyes shifted to the club. ‘I came back this morning to help. I was thinking maybe I could do something. But there wasn’t anything.’ A faint smile, a hollow smile. ‘I wanted to help.’
‘Mr Culp?’
‘Sure, sure. I had a run to Fresno, came in empty about seven. Parked there. Spot ten. You can’t see clear. The paint’s gone mostly. Wrote down the mileage and diesel level on my log and slipped it through the slot in the door, put the keys in the drop-box, there. Call me “Billy”. “Mr Culp”, I start looking for my father.’
Dance smiled. ‘You parked there and set the brake and put the truck in gear.’
‘I always do, ma’am. The brake, the gears.’ Then he swallowed. ‘But, fact is, I was tired. I admit. Real tired. Bakersfield, Fresno, here.’ His voice was unsteady. He’d been debating about coming clean. ‘I’m pretty sure I took care of things. But to swear a hundred percent? I don’t know.’
‘Thanks for being honest, Billy.’
He sighed. ‘I’ll lose my job, whatever happens. Will I go to jail?’
‘We’re just investigating at this point.’ He wore a wedding band. She guessed children too. He was of that age. ‘You ever forgotten? Gears and brake?’
‘Forgotten to lock up once. Lost my CB. My radio, you know. But, no.’ A shake of his head. ‘Always set the brake. Never drive my personal car I’ve had a single beer. Don’t cruise through yellow lights. I’m not really smart and I’m not really talented at a lot of stuff. I’m a good driver, though, Officer Dance. No citations, no accidents were my fault.’ He shrugged. ‘But, truth is, yes, I was tired, ma’am. Officer.’
‘Jesus, look out!’ Henderson shouted, calling through the open office door.
Billy and Dance glanced back and ducked as something zipped over their heads. The rock bounded over the asphalt and whacked the tire of another rig.