It really was too cold out here, much too cold, and there was another woman dead. Gary gave one last look around—he had no idea what he was expecting to find, but he was always expecting to find something—and then went into the station. The big anteroom was crowded, because there were so many staties wandering around, doing nothing useful. Gary had to push people to get to the counter.
Franklin Hale was standing at the counter by himself, pounding on it a little. “I want to talk to Gregor Demarkian,” he was saying. “I don’t give a shit who you think you are. I want to talk to Gregor Demarkian.”
“Gregor Demarkian,” Dale Vardan said.
That was when Gary realized that Franklin was not actually alone. It was just that Dale was shorter than Franklin and than most of the men around him. There had once been a rule that all state policeman had to be at least six feet tall. The idea was that a man had to be at least six feet to be able to intimidate without actually, deliberately intimidating. Sheer physical presence was a useful weapon in keeping the peace. That rule was gone now, though. It had made it practically impossible to “diversify” the state police. Women were almost never six feet tall, and Latinos weren’t very often. Gary hated the whole idea of “diversity,” the whole idea that superficial things like race and gender should count more than ability and talent in deciding who would get hired to do a job.
“I want to talk to Gregor Demarkian,” Franklin said again.
There was something in the sound of that voice that Gary didn’t like. Franklin could get—odd—sometimes. Gary was sure that Franklin never did drink to excess, and equally sure that he never took drugs, but every once in a while it was as if Franklin caught drunkenness and drug addiction just from talking to Marcey on the phone.
“I’m not going to talk to you, Dale, I’m really not,” Franklin was saying. “I don’t give a crap who you think you are. I want to talk to Gregor Demarkian. Gregor Demarkian is in charge.”
Gary pushed through the crowd the rest of the way to the counter and took Franklin by the arm. It was one of those times, Gary thought. Franklin looked glassy-eyed. Dale Vardan looked like he was going to punch him.
Gary pulled Franklin away. “He’s through here,” he said, trying to sound soothing, although that wasn’t always a good idea.
Franklin didn’t seem to notice. “Asshole,” he said, meaning Dale Vardan. “I know what I want. I’m not an idiot. I want to talk to Gregor Demarkian.”
Gary got the hinged section of the counter open and pushed Franklin through. “Right through there,” he said. “He’s using that room next to mine for an office while he’s here.”
“That’s a broom closet,” Franklin said. “You put the great Gregor Demarkian in a broom closet. What does he think he’s so great for, anyway? Why do any of them think they’re so great? Where do they come from, these people? Why don’t they go the Hell back home.”
Gary pushed Franklin again and they were standing in Gregor Demarkian’s makeshift office. Gregor Demarkian was standing behind the desk, looking as if he didn’t know what to do next. Gary didn’t know, either.
“This is Franklin Hale,” he said, pushing Franklin slightly forward. “He’s the chairman of the board of education. He wants to talk to you.”
“My name is on the lawsuit,” Franklin said. “You think it would be the name of the town on the lawsuit, but it isn’t. It’s Wackford v. Hale, because I’m the chairman of the school board, like Gary says. I won it in an election, fair and square. I ran against that son of a bitch, Henry Wackford, and now he pulls this. He’s only doing it for spite. He’s a spiteful person, Henry is. He’s spiteful and he only wants to get his own back, and he’s an atheist secular humanist and he has no morality and that’s what I wanted to tell you. You need to know that. You need to know what you’re up against. Except you’re probably an atheist secular humanist yourself. I told Gary he shouldn’t bring you here.”
Gary put his hand on Franklin’s arm again. “Come on,” he said. “Maybe you ought to go home and rest up a bit. You can tell Mr. Demarkian all this tomorrow.”
“Mr. Demarkian,” Franklin said. “You all sound like idiots, that’s the truth. Mr. Demarkian. Who’s Mr. Demarkian, anyway? What kind of name is Demarkian? It sounds foreign.”
“It’s Armenian,” Gregor Demarkian said, sounding helpful. “My parents immigrated from Armenia.”
“I told you it was foreign,” Franklin said.