The interrogation room smelled of stale sweat. As the video technician set up the camera, Jenner tried to figure out which of the detectives was the bent one, Bartley or his partner, Halverson; maybe both.
He was surprised that they were videotaping it—probably Craine’s idea, get Jenner locked down in his false statement.
When the ATF agent arrived, the tech gave the thumbs-up, and Bartley kicked off with a summary of the date, time, and location, and identified the personnel present. Then he had Jenner say that he’d come to Major Crimes out of his own volition, that his statement would honestly and accurately reflect his observations, and that it had not been coerced in any way.
Their questioning was perfunctory, mostly a repeat of the stuff Bartley had covered during the night at Rudge’s house. The ATF agent got all woody again about UFL Tomato, even though Jenner said nothing remarkable had happened there, other than feeble attempts at spin control. At some points it was more like a discussion, the ATF agent even raising the possibility that Amanda Tucker had been the intended target of the bombing; no one took that very seriously.
Jenner was neutral about La Grulla Blanca—he implied they’d been greeted politely, if not warmly, and said the foreman had answered their questions brusquely, but without real incident. He couldn’t recall a point in their investigation when they’d come across clear animosity, and, while he hadn’t been with Rudge every second of every day, he had personally received no threats. In short, he had no idea why he and Rudge had been targeted.
Then Bartley asked if he had a weapon, and Jenner said, “Nope. They don’t look kindly on guns up in New York.” No need to mention the 9-mm Beretta under the Accent’s front seat.
The specter of Northeastern liberalism seemed to set Bartley off. “Doc, seriously, screw that! If you’re staying in Florida, we’ll fix you up with a carry permit. Can you shoot?”
Jenner nodded. “Yeah. But don’t sweat it, detective—I’m heading back to New York this afternoon. I’ll come back down for Rudge’s funeral next week.”
Bartley leaned back in his chair, out of the light. A smile played on his lips as he looked at Jenner. “Well, you’ll have to wait a little, doc. His cousin Reggie said the Jewish Burial folks are going to fly him up to Chicago for free—that’s where his brother is. We’ll have a memorial service in a month or so, when things have calmed down a bit.”
“Ah.” Bartley, then, Jenner thought.
“Well, okay then, doc.” Bartley shuffled his papers. “This is all one big mess. We really have nothing to go on. Forensics didn’t find anything useful at Rudge’s house, the bomb-disposal people did the usual song-and-dance about how the testing will take a while but basically said it looks like a big pipe bomb, probably dynamite. We got no leads on the Roburns, and the dead men from the hammock…they’re still dead.”
He stood and looked down at Jenner. “So you’re heading out today?”
Jenner nodded. Bartley shook his hand, leaned in, and said, “Good luck.”
He grinned widely.