BECOMING — Chapter One

by Patrick Baggatta

There have always been three things I can count on in my career as a murder police.

The first is a personal hang-up that I’ll take to the grave. The second promises the people closest to the stiff are the ones most likely to lie in your face, at least around the edges. You always hear about super cops who feel the itch when someone sails south of the truth? It’s no great magic, really. There’s just so much bullshit in this job that you can pretty safely play the odds and look like God’s own lie detector when the case finally breaks on pubic hair DNA. And the third thing? Every once in a while, even knowing that second thing about the bullshit, I’m always gonna ache to believe someone. That’s how I got into the biggest mess of my career. That third thing.

I dragged myself into the squad room that morning knowing I'd ordered the shit sandwich. Chalk it up to super cop intuition if it paints a rosier outlook for my future, but I was mostly going off the fact that my head was thumping like a bastard. I hadn’t been the only detective drinking at the Blue Room the night before, the walls there were practically made of city issue tin, but I’d damn sure been the worst off. In my experience, the universe takes offense too easily to come to work hopeful after a night like that. I’d been pushing my luck in that regard a lot lately. I was due payback.

“Patches! Get in here!” I had to bite my lip, literally, every time someone called me that, but what could I do? With a name like Pachwolynzki, you gotta cut a break or two, especially when it’s your boss taking the liberties. So there I was, heading into Cruz’s shitty little office with a dug-in headache and a powerful urge to yell ‘personal day’ and run back to the bar. I guess part of me just wanted to take my lumps and get it over with.

“Dead girl in a photography studio,” he blurted as soon as I got within range. Everything Cruz said sounded like a low-level threat, because he meant it that way. He handed me a scrap of paper with an address, 524 Bryant. South of Market, home of the live-work crowd. “And take Hammond. You’re partners now.”

I knew better than to argue. Not because Cruz minded a spirited debate. Why would he? The man never lost in his own house. I just didn’t need the added reminder of my place on a morning like that. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t mentally cursing his whore mother for giving birth to a man who would grow up and stick me with a rookie detective without a single murder on him.

“On it,” was all I said. Another dead girl on my conscience.