Free C.O.T.V.H. (Book 1): Creation by Dustin J. Palmer Page B

the house and bowled right over two police officers. The three men crashed hard to the ground with John, still clutching The Cleaner , on top.
     
     

 
    Chapter 5
    Henry
     
     
    Midland Police Department, Interrogation Room 2
    July 31, 1994 4:22pm
     
     
     
     
    Henry Anderson leaned back in his hard metal chair, trying to find just the right spot. His slightly overweight stomach hung a tad more over his belt than it had the month before. Better cut back on the damn candy bars. He thought to himself as he readjusted the black gun belt holding his Sig Sauer .357.  
    Henry hated uncomfortable silences. If there was one thing consistent about him it was that, he loved to talk. He’d spoken his first word at seven months old, nearly fifty-nine years before, and he hadn’t shut up since. However, the man handcuffed to the table in front of him didn’t feel much like talking. He kept staring at the black clock ticking loudly on the wall. Even though the air conditioner rattled above, beads of sweat clung to his forehead.
    Henry pulled the tan Stetson off his head and set it gently on the table, then wiped his own sweaty brow with a red handkerchief. With his other hand, he slicked back what little gray hair he had left on his balding head. “Whew! Damned if it ain’t hotter than the devil’s asshole shitting jalapeno peppers!”
    The man looked at him for the first time and cracked a smile. “Never heard it put quite like that.”
    “ Yeah well . . . that‘s my . . . I guess you’d call that my specialty, ” Henry shoved the handkerchief back into his pants pocket then loosened the tie that was strangling his thick neck. “So . . . Mr. Bishop. Or do you prefer Mr. Griffin?”
    “ Call me John,” he reached his hand out as far as the restraints would let him. “Guess your lab boys ran my prints already. At least they’re efficient.”
    Henry, without hesitation reached out his own hand and shook John’s. “Quite a grip you got there, John. Calloused, looks like you've had a couple of broken fingers . . . I take it you're an oilfield man? Warm hands too. You know what they say about that don't you?"
    John started to reply but was quickly interrupted as Henry noticed something else. "Well, well would you look at that,” he said eying the cuts and bruises on the big man's knuckles. "Who've you been fighting with, son?"
    John jerked his hand away without answering. Henry gave him a warm smile. "John, my name is Lieutenant Henry Anderson. But you can call me Henry. Everyone does. Except my ex-wife of course, she doesn’t call at all,” he laughed heartily at his own bad joke.
    “ Lieutenant?” John asked, sitting back as much as his shackled hands would let him. “I take it you’re not local MPD. Sheriff's department? Or DPS?”
    “ No, ‘fraid not,” Henry reached into his pocket and set his badge made from a silver cinco peso on the table. Any other time it would be proudly displayed on his left breast pocket, just over his heart. Henry liked to give his suspects a little surprise, as expected John’s face grew more serious.
    “ Texas Ranger? Well, well . . . I guess they called in the big guns."
    Henry chuckled. "I was just passing through when I got a call from an old friend of mine. Imagine my surprise when Chief Roberts told me that none other than John Bishop was locked up in his jail. So I thought I'd drop in and say hello."
    "Begging your pardon Ranger, but as far as I know I've never done anything to be on yours or anyone else's radar. What's your interest in me?"
    "I guess you're just an innocent good ole boy that got picked up for no reason at all. Is that it?" Henry smirked. "Then why the alias John? If you're such an upstanding citizen with nothing to fear, why the fake ID? The fake social security number? You sure went the full nine yards for someone living on the up and up."
    "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," John said, looking back up at the clock. "You know . . . I've always