The Totem 1979 by David Morrell Page B

Mostly he was hot and tired, and his hands shook so bad that he knew he’d have to stop soon for a drink. But reading through that microfilm had perked his interest, and he didn’t want to stay here any longer than he had to, so he’d take a chance, and if the office up there were still open, maybe he could save some time. Maybe, but the trees seemed just as far away, the more he walked, and several times he almost weakened, glancing at the bars.
    Then he stood across from all those trees, the big, stone, pillared courthouse, and the brick, three-story building that he guessed would be the police station. He crossed the street toward them, reaching the shadow of the trees and feeling cool beneath them as the siren started wailing and a cruiser shot out from the corner of the building, racing down a side street, emergency lights flashing, barely stopping at the main street as the big man in there swerved the cruiser sharply to the left and, tires squealing, rushed down through the center of the town.
    Dunlap watched him go. This was more like home. There were people all along the sidewalk stopped and watching. There were cars that pulled close to the sidewalk while the cruiser wailed quickly past. Then the cruiser was so far along that Dun-lap couldn’t see it anymore. He heard the siren rising, falling, becoming fainter. Then he couldn’t hear it, and after he noticed that the traffic and pedestrians were going on about their business, he started up the sidewalk toward the police station’s entrance.
    There was rich, well-tended lawn on each side of the walkway. From the shadow of the trees, he guessed. The sun could not get in and scorch it. He was thinking of the brown grass on the rangeland, thinking of the cruiser, what in this small town would merit such commotion. Probably an accident, he thought. A bad one, rush hour and all that. He reached the stairs that led up to the entrance, brick just like the portico and walls, old and dark and weathered. He went in. There were stairs that led down to the basement, stairs that led up to a vestibule, wide and tall and spacious, treelike plants in pots along the walls, doors that led off on each side. The place gave off the not-unpleasant must that comes with many years. He saw a door wide open, saw the sign on top, police chief, nathan slaughter, and he entered.
    The room was bright: white walls, lights across the ceiling. To the left, he saw a heavy, gray-haired woman at a desk that supported a bulky, two-way radio. At first, she didn’t notice him. All she did was sit there, staring at the radio. He moved, and then she turned to him.
    “Yes, sir, may I help?”
    Dunlap glanced across the empty room and doubted it. “I’m looking for the chief.”
    “Sorry. He’s not in.” The woman stared at the radio again.
    “Well, my name’s Dunlap. Mr. Parsons sent me over.”
    ‘You’re the reporter from New York?”
    He nodded.
    “Mr. Slaughter had a call about you, but he couldn’t wait. Something came up, and he had to get there.”
    Sure, the cop who raced out in that cruiser, Dunlap thought. As the woman stared at the radio yet again, he couldn’t tell if she was being rude or was merely preoccupied. “I don’t suppose you know when he’ll be back.”
    The woman shook her head. “Tomorrow morning.”
    Swell, Dunlap thought. “Then maybe you can do something for me.”
    “That depends.”
    “I need to see some files.”
    The woman shook her head again. “You’ll have to ask the chief about that.”
    Swell, Dunlap mentally repeated, and abruptly a call crackled from the radio.
    “Christ, he’s dead, all right,” a man blurted, his frenzied voice distorted by static. “Lord, he hasn’t got a-“
    Chapter Fourteen.
    Slaughter skidded to a stop behind the other cruisers. He was getting out and putting on his hat even as he reached to turn the motor off. His siren faded. Over to his right, he saw them standing in a circle in the middle of the field, staring