TWENTY-ONE
The next morning, Frank Oliver sat in his corner office that had been released back to him and stared at scratches on his desk where some clumsy bastard from the police tried to scrape away blood samples. He chafed at what he considered an invasion of his privacy, warrant or no warrant. Deep down inside, though, his better judgment knew that the police had done what they had to do. Maybe if his better judgment wasn’t buried so deep, he wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place. But he was in a predicament, and he knew it.
It was obvious the police considered him their prime suspect. Hell, he would have considered himself the prime suspect if he were the police. The shock of Hargrove’s death and the inquisition he underwent the day before had, amazingly, cleared clouds
