|
|
|
|
|
|
|
His counterpart was his antithesis, tall and ramrod straight with an obvious military bearing. "My orders on something like this are fairly specific," the younger man acknowledged. "This is off-base housing and the victim looks like a local, but the house is leased to a Colonel Harry Preston Driver. He's the Commander of the Eighth Weather Squadron out at the base." His voice was clipped and militarily precise. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Dawkins knew the young officer couldn't be more than 25, or 27, tops. From the look of the fuzz on his youthful face, he wasn't even sure the young man was old enough to shave. Another damn shavetail, he thought to himself. Wonder where the hell the Air Force keeps coming up with them? |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The two men worked their way back into the dimly lit kitchen. Each had a job to do, and they knew they had to tolerate each other. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Is that him?" Dawkins asked. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The young officer approached the man slumped wearily at the kitchen table. "Colonel Driver, this is Inspector Dawkins of the RCMP's special investigation unit." There was the slightest tinge of trepidation in his voice. Whatever the charges, Driver was a senior officer. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Dawkins nodded nonchalantly. A man lacking in social skills, he made no effort to shake the Colonel's hand. Instead, he walked |
|
|
|
|
|