to do and doesn’t require a lot of brainpower.”
“Speaking personally, are we? And isn’t the correct term now ‘African-American’.”
Troy nodded. “I suppose so. But look at me. I’m also part Asian. So am I supposed to go around calling myself an African-Asian-American. I don’t call you a European-American. ‘Black’ is convenient, if not terribly accurate.
“Problem with all this is that, in order to keep on feeling superior, Gerry Whyte sometimes has to escalate. Suddenly he has a black woman living just down the street. And she’s not like him. She’s an educated professional. Even a moron like him can see that he’s not superior to her just because he’s from the Caucasian race.”
“Maybe we all need to stop thinking of one human being as ‘superior’ to another,” Angel said. “Any one person is ‘superior’ in some regard.”
Troy stared at her. “I stand corrected. Of course you are right. I like that you think that way. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t. It’s a weakness I have.”
“Chief, you’re in Mensa. You’re certainly superior in brainpower.”
“Debatable. I’m superior at marking in little circles on tests with my trusty Number Two pencil. I guess Gerry Whyte is superior at shooting dogs. But back to Sasha Thompson, she’s smart, educated and she makes more money than him. Her very presence, her entire lifestyle, threatens him. What to do? He has to put her down somehow. But there is one thing I don’t understand, at least not yet.”
“Which is?”
“A trigger. Even granting that he’s a walking mass of inchoate hatreds, hatred of himself mostly, something triggered him to formulate a plan and carry it out.”
“Not much of a plan. Shoot dogs and claim he was a hero.”
“ Au contraire. He bought a bolt cutter, which means he knew he would need it, which means he planned this in advance and even scoped out Sasha Thompson’s fence and gate. Then he cut off the lock to the gate. He probably chased the dogs out of the yard. He then followed them around until he saw an opportunity to shoot them and claim he was saving someone from attack. He acted on that opportunity swiftly and effectively. It’s a fairly elaborate plan for a guy with the IQ of a grapefruit.”
“Maybe someone put him up to it.”
“Maybe so.”
“Well, whatever. Want me to drive him up to the Naples jail before I go off shift?”
“Do that. He can have his arraignment tomorrow morning and we don’t have to look at him any more.”
Angel looked at the corner of Troy’s desk. “You got a photo of Barbara Gillispie there?”
“Yep.” Troy turned the wood frame around to show Angel. “Bought the frame yesterday. Photo’s printed out from the ones you got from the two girls.”
“How long you plan to keep that on your desk?”
“How long until we find her?”
“See why you went for the expensive frame, since it’s gonna be there a while.”
Angel left. June Dundee, the dispatcher, was off on Mondays and Troy usually just did her job and his too. Sometimes Norris Compton came in and volunteered to sit at June’s desk. Compton, a retired Atlanta accountant, had been in legal trouble a few months earlier and Troy had gotten him loose on the promise that Compton go to AA, that he learn to fish, and that he come in once a week or so to do bookkeeping chores for free. Compton also now helped run the town taxi service, two old vans he and June Dundee’s husband Bob drove to keep themselves busy.
Mondays were the slowest day of their week. Troy sat at June’s desk in the lobby and had a good view of the television vans parked across the street. There weren’t too many reporters around them; Troy assumed they were all out looking for any remotely related story to use about Mangrove Bayou. He hoped Lester Groud would appreciate the national publicity.
He got on the phone and called Detective Ramon Bustello Prado at the Tampa Police Department.
“What the fuck do you