rubble in an attempt to salvage whatever valuables they could before they were ordered away for good. Prayers were said. Those little bargains you made with God.
Please let it be over with. Let this be the worst of it.
Local TV anchors shoved microphones in Charlie’s face and followed him around relentlessly wherever he went. He tried to answer their questions as best he could while keeping his suspicions about the crime to himself. It was such huge news he didn’t want to be wrong about it, didn’t want to make a fool of himself on national TV. He would wait until after the autopsies were done to make an announcement, until he knew for certain what they were dealing with.
“Those parts of town with underground electrical lines will regain power first,” he told reporters outside the police station, his voice hoarse from reiterating a thousand details. “Those homes and businesses served by aerial lines should take a little longer. Part of the problem is moving huge piles of debris out of the way. We need more volunteers with bulldozers and tractor-trailers, if you could get the word out.”
“Chief? Can you confirm the number of dead so far?”
“We have it at six.”
“What about financial aid for the victims?”
“A representative from FEMA will be here tomorrow to help with the recovery.”
“Chief? Why is Shepherd Street closed off to traffic?” asked a reporter whose darkly challenging looks told you he’d get to the bottom of things, with or without your help.
“We’re checking out some damaged gas lines in the area,” Charlie lied, referring to a yellow legal pad so covered with notes he could barely read his own writing. “There are nine-hundred-plus people staying in shelters tonight, three dozen National Guard troops requested. We had approximately twenty minutes of warning, which helped keep the death toll low, compared to what it might’ve been. The fire department has completed its search for bodies and survivors in the Black Kettle subdivision, and the cadaver dogs have been called off. You can reach the courthouse all night long. Somebody’ll be there to keep you posted.”
He turned to leave, but a well-groomed anchorwoman from KVMX stepped in his path. “What about the rumors, Chief? We keep hearing rumors that one of today’s tornado victims has met with foul play.”
“I have no comment at this time.”
“Chief!” He was pummeled with questions as reporters scrambled after him. “The helicopter cam shows a cordoned-off area on Shepherd Street. Care to comment?”
“I’ll have more to say tomorrow morning. G’night, folks.”
“Chief? Chief?” News crews surrounded his vehicle, preventing him from leaving until a few of his men chased them off. Charlie stepped on the accelerator, all those ghostly faces in his headlights’ glare clamoring for enlightenment. A sudden gust of wind rammed into the car, and the taste of whiskey lingered on his lips.
Bad idea. One of the reporters could’ve smelled it, and then what?
An hour earlier, he’d changed his shirt at the station house and had taken a few covert swigs from the bottle of Mr. Daniel’s the dispatcher kept in his desk drawer. Now he passed through downtown with its rain-slicked streets and flat-faced brick facades, thinking how baffling this case was. Jenna, Rob and Danielle Pepper had sustained defensive wounds to the hands, forearms and face. There were drag marks leading up the stairs from two or more bodies, and Danielle had scrape marks on her arms and mud on the back of her clothes, indicating that her body had been dragged. He wouldn’t know about the other two until the medical examiner arrived on the scene and gave them permission to move the bodies. It sent shivers cascading across his scalp. Their last homicide case had been six months ago, a drug killing. The last tornado to hit Promise, Oklahoma, was in 1924.
He took a right onto a poorly paved road, his headlights wrapping across the twisted
Please let it be over with. Let this be the worst of it.
Local TV anchors shoved microphones in Charlie’s face and followed him around relentlessly wherever he went. He tried to answer their questions as best he could while keeping his suspicions about the crime to himself. It was such huge news he didn’t want to be wrong about it, didn’t want to make a fool of himself on national TV. He would wait until after the autopsies were done to make an announcement, until he knew for certain what they were dealing with.
“Those parts of town with underground electrical lines will regain power first,” he told reporters outside the police station, his voice hoarse from reiterating a thousand details. “Those homes and businesses served by aerial lines should take a little longer. Part of the problem is moving huge piles of debris out of the way. We need more volunteers with bulldozers and tractor-trailers, if you could get the word out.”
“Chief? Can you confirm the number of dead so far?”
“We have it at six.”
“What about financial aid for the victims?”
“A representative from FEMA will be here tomorrow to help with the recovery.”
“Chief? Why is Shepherd Street closed off to traffic?” asked a reporter whose darkly challenging looks told you he’d get to the bottom of things, with or without your help.
“We’re checking out some damaged gas lines in the area,” Charlie lied, referring to a yellow legal pad so covered with notes he could barely read his own writing. “There are nine-hundred-plus people staying in shelters tonight, three dozen National Guard troops requested. We had approximately twenty minutes of warning, which helped keep the death toll low, compared to what it might’ve been. The fire department has completed its search for bodies and survivors in the Black Kettle subdivision, and the cadaver dogs have been called off. You can reach the courthouse all night long. Somebody’ll be there to keep you posted.”
He turned to leave, but a well-groomed anchorwoman from KVMX stepped in his path. “What about the rumors, Chief? We keep hearing rumors that one of today’s tornado victims has met with foul play.”
“I have no comment at this time.”
“Chief!” He was pummeled with questions as reporters scrambled after him. “The helicopter cam shows a cordoned-off area on Shepherd Street. Care to comment?”
“I’ll have more to say tomorrow morning. G’night, folks.”
“Chief? Chief?” News crews surrounded his vehicle, preventing him from leaving until a few of his men chased them off. Charlie stepped on the accelerator, all those ghostly faces in his headlights’ glare clamoring for enlightenment. A sudden gust of wind rammed into the car, and the taste of whiskey lingered on his lips.
Bad idea. One of the reporters could’ve smelled it, and then what?
An hour earlier, he’d changed his shirt at the station house and had taken a few covert swigs from the bottle of Mr. Daniel’s the dispatcher kept in his desk drawer. Now he passed through downtown with its rain-slicked streets and flat-faced brick facades, thinking how baffling this case was. Jenna, Rob and Danielle Pepper had sustained defensive wounds to the hands, forearms and face. There were drag marks leading up the stairs from two or more bodies, and Danielle had scrape marks on her arms and mud on the back of her clothes, indicating that her body had been dragged. He wouldn’t know about the other two until the medical examiner arrived on the scene and gave them permission to move the bodies. It sent shivers cascading across his scalp. Their last homicide case had been six months ago, a drug killing. The last tornado to hit Promise, Oklahoma, was in 1924.
He took a right onto a poorly paved road, his headlights wrapping across the twisted
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