Cole died in the ambulance.
We had his body taken to Arsenal, with a hold placed on it for Dr. Herrera. Chunk and I then went looking for Dr. Herrera himself, the idea being that we would tell him personally what to expect. But that never happened. We were met on the main floor of the morgue by Lt. Treanor and Dr. Laurent. Both, it seemed, already knew about Cole.
“You did good work,” said Treanor, shaking our hands. All of us wore gloves. “I understand you got a full confession?”
“That's right,” I said.
There were two SWAT officers standing a short distance away, both of them armed with MP5s, nasty little machine guns. There was something about the way they were watching our conversation with Treanor that made me think something was very wrong.
“You'll send me a copy of the Prosecution Guide, I trust?” Treanor said.
“Yes, sir.”
Laurent stood a short distance behind Treanor, her eyes little green pinpoints of hate in her fat, round face.
“Lieutenant,” she said. The impatience in her voice was palpable.
He glanced over his shoulder at her without turning all the way around, looked back at us, and sighed.
“Do you have the property from the crime scene?” he said. “The hard drives and Dr. Bradley's journal?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “They're out in the trunk of our car.”
He nodded. Then he turned to one of the SWAT officers and waved him over.
I watched the officer approach.
“What's going on, sir?”
The officer stood next to Treanor. “I need the keys to your car,” he said.
“Sir?”
“Your keys,” he said, his voice icing over. His expression made it look like he'd just tasted something unexpectedly bitter.
I looked at Chunk, but his face was unreadable behind his surgical mask. Only his eyes flashed, and those only for the briefest moment.
“Detective Harris,” said Treanor, his hand open, palm up in front of me.
I reached into the pockets of my sweatpants and pulled out the car keys and dropped them in his open palm.
He handed the keys to the SWAT officer, who left without a word.
“Lieutenant,” said Laurent, only this time her voice was softer, a note of satisfaction in it that made my blood boil.
Treanor stared at me, then at Chunk, then back at me.
“I've already been in contact with the District Attorney's Office,” he said. “The two of you are under a gag order as of right now. You are to go back to your office, write your Prosecution Guide and your Charge and Disposition Report, and submit them directly to Assistant DA Carnahan. She'll be standing by.
“Once you've turned in your report, you are prohibited from discussing the matter with anyone. Is that clear?”
He kept looking right at me, waiting for me to open my big mouth. Ordinarily, that would have been a sure bet, but this time it didn't pay off. I could read the writing on the wall, as plain as I could see the contempt in Laurent's face. I knew right then that Herrera would never perform an autopsy on Walter Cole's body. I knew that his sacrifice, as insane as it was, had been for nothing. All of it was for nothing. Three people were dead-five if you counted the looters-and not one of their deaths would matter.
I imagined turning over my report to the DA, who would promptly take it to the deepest well she could find and dump it in. It would be like that scene from the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, where the ark is unceremoniously stuffed in a plain wooden box and filed among thousands and thousands of other unknown secrets. My report would be like that, a secret kept by fools, too proud to realize that's what they were.
Treanor was still looking at me, waiting to shut me down when I objected.
“I understand, sir,” was all I said.
He frowned with his eyes. “Well, okay then. Carry on.”