Цитата #158 из книги «"Этаж смерти" with W_cat»

“Is that your neighborhood?” I asked him. “All the way over at the highway?”

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A southern accent. A confident manner. Accustomed to telephones.

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He just grunted. Didn’t say yes or no. I opened the office door and stepped out. Roscoe had gone. Nobody was there except Baker and Hubble over at the cells. I could see the desk sergeant outside through the front doors. He was writing on a clipboard held by the prison bus driver. As a backdrop behind the two of them was the prison bus. It was stationary in the semicircular driveway. It filled the view through the big plate-glass entrance. It was a school bus painted light gray. On it was written: State of Georgia Department of Corrections. That inscription ran the full length of the bus, under the line of windows. Under the inscription was a crest. The windows had grilles welded over them.

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I didn’t follow his reasoning. Didn’t make much sense, the way he was explaining it to me. I looked blankly at him.

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The pathologist rooted around on the messy desk. Found a curled-up fax. Read it and nodded. Crossed out “John Doe” on the folder and wrote in “Sherman Stoller.” Gave us his little grin again.

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