Twelve
The security desk stood just inside the main entrance of the courthouse, from which the guard could clearly see the plaza and street outside, and the long corridor that bisected the building all the way to the back exit. Whatever couldn’t be seen in either of the two directions was clearly visible on the bank of ten video monitors tucked between the countertop and desk. Each monitor cycled five images, making a total of fifty vantage points throughout the building.
Jim Brock glanced up from his phone to the monitors, but only for twenty or thirty seconds—not long enough to see every view. Regulations stated that cellphones were only to be used while making the rounds, to notify the sheriff’s office if he came across anything amiss, but at the desk at night, with little to be seen on the monitors or outside the front entrance or down the main corridor, his attention was centered on his phone, where the Hawks were tied with the Islanders, midway through the third period. Sharp and Hossa had scored beautiful goals early on, but Crawford gave up a soft goal in the third, followed by a breakaway goal he had no chance of saving. The Islanders were on the power play, and Jim squinted tensely at the small screen, willing the Hawks to kill the penalty.
During a break in play he looked up, and on the nearest monitor he watched the clock change from 8:29 to 8:30. Time for his rounds again. He rose from the chair, which made a metallic squeak as it turned. He pocketed his phone and languidly moved down the corridor. He stopped at each courtroom, opened the door and flipped the light switch, scanning the room before turning off the light again. At each courtroom it was the same: the light on for a few seconds, the sight of an empty room, then the light off. The county court held no evening sessions, and other than the cleaning crew that passed through early, the overnight guard was alone in the building.
On the upper floors Jim tested the door knob of each judge’s chamber and other offices, every one of which was locked each time he came through. His shift started at six, and he had seen almost nothing the entire evening until, as he returned to the desk, an old man shuffled past outside along the sidewalk, looking chilled in his thin sweater—Who goes out without a coat on a freezing night like this?—and, a few minutes later, the inside lights of the bar across the street suddenly going dark. Nothing of consequence.
Settling back into the chair, he turned on his phone only to learn that the Hawks had somehow lost, 3-2. He checked his text messages but found nothing of interest, glanced again at the monitors and felt, deep in his gut, the early pangs of hunger. He knew not to eat too soon, or else he’d be hungry again at two or three a.m., when only the meager pickings of the vending machines were available. Now—not yet nine—there had to still be a restaurant open, though his choices were probably limited with the holiday.
Online he found a phone number of one nearby possibility, and dialed.