SIXTEEN
Four somber men sat in the conference room, paired on opposite sides of the table. On one side were Jerry Knowles and K.C. Hodges, facing off with Frank Oliver and Tad Culpepper on the other, not unlike a collection of boxers trying to stare each other down in the center of the ring.
Even though no suspects had been announced in Ken Hargrove’s murder, it was clear that Frank Oliver, at least, viewed the two detectives as his enemy. Of course, for Frank Oliver, life in general was a “them against me” proposition. K.C. was struck by the thought that Oliver apparently considered himself to be a suspect without having to be told. Not a suspect in the sense that, as TV policemen like to say, everybody is a suspect. But a suspect in the sense that Oliver seemed to be convinced that the
