by Patrick Baggatta
It had been four hours since we let Warner Lynch leave with a head full of questions. I was banking on him taking at least that long to do his own ruminating before setting out for answers.
Hammond was proving surprisingly good at holding his liquor and his edge for the work. I wasn’t sure yet if this was a good thing or not. When I finally got tired of deflecting case questions, I excused myself and made a private call to the station.
“Let’s go,” was all I had to say when I got back. Hammond was up and heading toward the door in a flash. It wasn’t until we were in the car that he even bothered to ask where we were going. He was like a dog that way, happy to be along for the ride.
“God damn right,” he shot back, when I finally told him where we were going.
I blocked a driveway a few doors down from Lynch’s house and killed the lights.
“Which one is it?” Hammond asked.
I pointed out a two story Edwardian, nothing special. You could find at least one like it on just about any block in the city. There were no lights in the front, but a faint glow from deep inside said someone was home. The light was most likely from the kitchen or bedroom. I scanned the street for Lynch’s car, another detailed I’d collected on my call. There was no sign of it.
“I’m going to check something,” I told Hammond. “Stay here.” I slid out of the car sticking to the shadows as I made my way to the garage. I peered in, but it was too dark to see anything. Suddenly, a car horn blared behind me and I turned to see a pissed-off neighbor unable to get out of his own garage because of where I’d parked.
Hammond jumped out of the car and flashed his badge for the whole neighborhood to see. So much for keeping a low profile.
Just then Lynch’s garage door lurched to life, rolling up with a terrible clatter. “Shit!” I hustled back to the car where Hammond was yelling at the neighbor.
“Hammond, come on,” I ordered as I dove back into the car.
Lynch played it off like he didn’t see us as he drove past, but I caught a flash of panicked recognition and a slight swerve to go with it. It wasn’t how I’d wanted to play it, but it was what it was. A good plan is flexible if nothing else.
“Was that Lynch?” Hammond asked. I balled my fist for the second time in our brief partnership. “Well, are we gonna follow him?”
Showing posts with label BECOMING. Show all posts
Showing posts with label BECOMING. Show all posts
Friday, June 29, 2007
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
BECOMING — Chapter Six
by Patrick Baggatta
I’d struck a nerve bringing Lynch’s wife Violet into play. Violet, the name felt sticky somehow. It was more exotic than she deserved, based on the photos I’d seen anyway.
Lynch admitted his two women knew each other, but downplayed their relationship. I’ve never been married, but I’ve come close enough to know the woman at home doesn’t sit easy with her man holed-up in a studio with a better looking woman. I needed to talk to the one who was still breathing, but the day was getting old by the time we left the scene and I needed to let it sit. Hammond had other ideas.
“Where to now? The wife? The cleaning crew?”
“No,” I said, taking a sharp left. “Now, we get a drink.”
I took Hammond to a shitty little bar I knew in the Mission, not one of the usual cop hang-outs. On-duty drinking was different, you had to at least make an effort to lay low. The old Mexi guys at the bar gave us the evil eye until they felt sure we meant no harm. I ordered a scotch and the same for Hammond.
“To the dead,” I said, toasting our new case, partnership, whatever else Hammond wanted to read into it. I could tell he didn’t like wasting time at the bar when there were leads to chase. I waited for him to make it an issue.
“What are we doing here, Pachwolynzki?”
“Call me Patches.” I was in that kind of mood.
“What are we doing?”
“We’re ruminating.”
“Ruminating what?”
“Close your eyes,” I said, motioning to the bartender for another round. Hammond hesitated. “Close ‘em, goddamnit.” He finally did. “Ashley Brown. What do you see?”
“A dead girl in white. Our case.”
“Her face? What do you see?”
“I don’t know.” He was getting impatient. “Pretty, I guess. Dead.”
“Ashley Brown,” I repeated, stressing the name. “What does Ashley Brown look like?” He opened his eyes and stared at me, trying to decipher if that itch he was starting to feel was real or not, if I was real or not. I was glad to see him thinking like a detective already.
“You don’t think that was Ashley Brown we found back there?”
“I don’t know. I never met Ashley Brown. I’m just ruminating.” I downed my second scotch and ordered us another round. We drank for the next two hours without talking much.
Hammond kept throwing anxious glances at the door. It was for effect, for my benefit, but it came from something honest. Finally, he played his card. “I keep expecting her to walk in here and ask what we’re doing to find the bastard who killed her.”
At least I knew who I was partnered with now. I didn’t tell him that nothing would have made me happier.
I’d struck a nerve bringing Lynch’s wife Violet into play. Violet, the name felt sticky somehow. It was more exotic than she deserved, based on the photos I’d seen anyway.
Lynch admitted his two women knew each other, but downplayed their relationship. I’ve never been married, but I’ve come close enough to know the woman at home doesn’t sit easy with her man holed-up in a studio with a better looking woman. I needed to talk to the one who was still breathing, but the day was getting old by the time we left the scene and I needed to let it sit. Hammond had other ideas.
“Where to now? The wife? The cleaning crew?”
“No,” I said, taking a sharp left. “Now, we get a drink.”
I took Hammond to a shitty little bar I knew in the Mission, not one of the usual cop hang-outs. On-duty drinking was different, you had to at least make an effort to lay low. The old Mexi guys at the bar gave us the evil eye until they felt sure we meant no harm. I ordered a scotch and the same for Hammond.
“To the dead,” I said, toasting our new case, partnership, whatever else Hammond wanted to read into it. I could tell he didn’t like wasting time at the bar when there were leads to chase. I waited for him to make it an issue.
“What are we doing here, Pachwolynzki?”
“Call me Patches.” I was in that kind of mood.
“What are we doing?”
“We’re ruminating.”
“Ruminating what?”
“Close your eyes,” I said, motioning to the bartender for another round. Hammond hesitated. “Close ‘em, goddamnit.” He finally did. “Ashley Brown. What do you see?”
“A dead girl in white. Our case.”
“Her face? What do you see?”
“I don’t know.” He was getting impatient. “Pretty, I guess. Dead.”
“Ashley Brown,” I repeated, stressing the name. “What does Ashley Brown look like?” He opened his eyes and stared at me, trying to decipher if that itch he was starting to feel was real or not, if I was real or not. I was glad to see him thinking like a detective already.
“You don’t think that was Ashley Brown we found back there?”
“I don’t know. I never met Ashley Brown. I’m just ruminating.” I downed my second scotch and ordered us another round. We drank for the next two hours without talking much.
Hammond kept throwing anxious glances at the door. It was for effect, for my benefit, but it came from something honest. Finally, he played his card. “I keep expecting her to walk in here and ask what we’re doing to find the bastard who killed her.”
At least I knew who I was partnered with now. I didn’t tell him that nothing would have made me happier.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
BECOMING — Chapter Five
by Patrick Baggatta
Warner Lynch dressed like a modern day beatnik, striped shirt, shag haircut, black jeans, the works. It was probably a bold move in Topeka or wherever he denied being from, but in San Francisco it was just another uniform. I was embarrassed for him.
We talked in his office. The space was tight, and I’d angled him to sit with his back to the door. I wanted him facing me while he listened to the boys taking Ashley out. Hammond took up a position behind me.
“When did you see her last? Breathing, I mean.” Hammond’s eager breathing behind me spawned the jab. Lynch didn’t appreciate my manner. That was good. I wanted him agitated.
“Yesterday.”
“Here?” He nodded. Trying to listen to the action in the other room.
“Personal or business?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I showed him my shittiest grin. No one plays innocent with me.
“Business. A shoot. We finished at eight last night and she left.”
“Commit that time to memory, did you?” Hammond jumped in. His timing surprisingly good.
“I had dinner reservations, with my wife.”
I took a shot. “The pretty girl on the wall, right? Behind the sheets? Pretty girl.”
“Yes. She is...pretty.”
“So, you and Ashley met back here late night? After putting the wife to bed?”
“Her name is Violet, my wife. And it wasn’t like that with Ashley.”
“How was it then?”
“We worked together. She was important to my career, admittedly, but that’s all.” I pretended to write something in my notebook. He was getting anxious. “How did you find her, anyway? Ashley.”
I saw her face again, that look. I suddenly wanted to hand the whole mess over to Hammond and get the fuck out of there. I needed a drink.
“We’ll ask the questions,” shot back Hammond, covering my silence. I shook it off and got back to business.
“Your cleaning service called,” I replied calmly. “Said some messes were too big for six dollars an hour.” I’d expected that to get him riled, but he only got confused.
“Lupa? She comes Thursdays. It’s only Wednesday.”
“What are you trying to pull? It is Thursday.” I could see this was more troubling than the dead girl on his floor.
“Are we done?” he asked after a telling silence. “This is all a little much for me.”
“We’re done when we say we’re done,” Hammond piped-up again.
I turned to Hammond. It was time to see what kind of instincts he had. “How about we give Mr. Lynch time to collect his thoughts?” Hammond nodded dutifully, sharp enough to stay out of my way. “You’ll come to the station tomorrow to give a full statement?” Lynch nodded gratefully. He had questions of his own, and I wanted to see where he went for answers.
“One more thing, though. Did Violet know the deceased?” Lynch took a moment to blank his expression. “It is Violet, isn’t it?”
Warner Lynch dressed like a modern day beatnik, striped shirt, shag haircut, black jeans, the works. It was probably a bold move in Topeka or wherever he denied being from, but in San Francisco it was just another uniform. I was embarrassed for him.
We talked in his office. The space was tight, and I’d angled him to sit with his back to the door. I wanted him facing me while he listened to the boys taking Ashley out. Hammond took up a position behind me.
“When did you see her last? Breathing, I mean.” Hammond’s eager breathing behind me spawned the jab. Lynch didn’t appreciate my manner. That was good. I wanted him agitated.
“Yesterday.”
“Here?” He nodded. Trying to listen to the action in the other room.
“Personal or business?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I showed him my shittiest grin. No one plays innocent with me.
“Business. A shoot. We finished at eight last night and she left.”
“Commit that time to memory, did you?” Hammond jumped in. His timing surprisingly good.
“I had dinner reservations, with my wife.”
I took a shot. “The pretty girl on the wall, right? Behind the sheets? Pretty girl.”
“Yes. She is...pretty.”
“So, you and Ashley met back here late night? After putting the wife to bed?”
“Her name is Violet, my wife. And it wasn’t like that with Ashley.”
“How was it then?”
“We worked together. She was important to my career, admittedly, but that’s all.” I pretended to write something in my notebook. He was getting anxious. “How did you find her, anyway? Ashley.”
I saw her face again, that look. I suddenly wanted to hand the whole mess over to Hammond and get the fuck out of there. I needed a drink.
“We’ll ask the questions,” shot back Hammond, covering my silence. I shook it off and got back to business.
“Your cleaning service called,” I replied calmly. “Said some messes were too big for six dollars an hour.” I’d expected that to get him riled, but he only got confused.
“Lupa? She comes Thursdays. It’s only Wednesday.”
“What are you trying to pull? It is Thursday.” I could see this was more troubling than the dead girl on his floor.
“Are we done?” he asked after a telling silence. “This is all a little much for me.”
“We’re done when we say we’re done,” Hammond piped-up again.
I turned to Hammond. It was time to see what kind of instincts he had. “How about we give Mr. Lynch time to collect his thoughts?” Hammond nodded dutifully, sharp enough to stay out of my way. “You’ll come to the station tomorrow to give a full statement?” Lynch nodded gratefully. He had questions of his own, and I wanted to see where he went for answers.
“One more thing, though. Did Violet know the deceased?” Lynch took a moment to blank his expression. “It is Violet, isn’t it?”
Friday, May 11, 2007
BECOMING — Chapter Four
by Patrick Baggatta
I found a wooden stool at the far end of the room and watched the lab geeks seal up invisible fibers, trying to let my head relax into the case. I could hear Hammond asking TV cop questions in the background. I muttered shut the fuck up about a hundred times, but it was my own shortcoming to care that he was wasting his time.
I’d already committed Ashley Brown to memory. It wasn’t easy going. I had the feeling she didn’t like being admired so closely, a by-product of being a product model, maybe. I’d found her picture several times in the portfolio books stored in the attached office. She was hard-wired to be there and not be there at the same time. She was a lifestyle, a prop, a feeling you were supposed to get when you purchased the right detergent. She was not to be studied too closely. She was not real. Reality puts us out of the buying mood. But she was real now.
I was trying to soft focus the room one last time before making my first move. “What’s behind the sheets?” A passing tech, assumed the question was for him.
“Nothing. Some photos.”
I went to look for myself, taking a wide berth around Ashley who was still there under my orders. I peeled back the first curtain. It was soft, expensive shit. The wall was bare. I caught a whiff of fresh paint. I worked my way around the perimeter, the same all the way around except for one wall that contained a neatly lined column of portraits, all of the same woman. They were technically good, professional, but they didn’t exactly send me. The girl struck me as forgettably pretty and I got the impression that this was what you got when an advertising photographer tried to recapture his verve for the art he’d long since sold down the river.
“Warner’s here,” Hammond called to me from the door. “The uniforms are keeping him downstairs.” It was time to meet the photographer. “Tell them to let him come up.” I wanted to see how he entered the room.
Lynch Warner, a bullshit name if ever I heard one, turned the corner a moment later and ran straight for the body. It told me he probably loved her. A mad dash like that was an instinct to save. Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t in on her death, it just meant he didn’t feel good about it. He’d have to be rattled.
“Get away from the body,” I demanded from my stool. He stopped and looked at me as if I’d just pissed on the Pope. I leaned back on the stool, letting him know I had the support of the room. I didn’t need to act personally to get my way. He stood and approached me because he knew he was supposed to.
“You can take the body now,” I told the coroner.
I found a wooden stool at the far end of the room and watched the lab geeks seal up invisible fibers, trying to let my head relax into the case. I could hear Hammond asking TV cop questions in the background. I muttered shut the fuck up about a hundred times, but it was my own shortcoming to care that he was wasting his time.
I’d already committed Ashley Brown to memory. It wasn’t easy going. I had the feeling she didn’t like being admired so closely, a by-product of being a product model, maybe. I’d found her picture several times in the portfolio books stored in the attached office. She was hard-wired to be there and not be there at the same time. She was a lifestyle, a prop, a feeling you were supposed to get when you purchased the right detergent. She was not to be studied too closely. She was not real. Reality puts us out of the buying mood. But she was real now.
I was trying to soft focus the room one last time before making my first move. “What’s behind the sheets?” A passing tech, assumed the question was for him.
“Nothing. Some photos.”
I went to look for myself, taking a wide berth around Ashley who was still there under my orders. I peeled back the first curtain. It was soft, expensive shit. The wall was bare. I caught a whiff of fresh paint. I worked my way around the perimeter, the same all the way around except for one wall that contained a neatly lined column of portraits, all of the same woman. They were technically good, professional, but they didn’t exactly send me. The girl struck me as forgettably pretty and I got the impression that this was what you got when an advertising photographer tried to recapture his verve for the art he’d long since sold down the river.
“Warner’s here,” Hammond called to me from the door. “The uniforms are keeping him downstairs.” It was time to meet the photographer. “Tell them to let him come up.” I wanted to see how he entered the room.
Lynch Warner, a bullshit name if ever I heard one, turned the corner a moment later and ran straight for the body. It told me he probably loved her. A mad dash like that was an instinct to save. Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t in on her death, it just meant he didn’t feel good about it. He’d have to be rattled.
“Get away from the body,” I demanded from my stool. He stopped and looked at me as if I’d just pissed on the Pope. I leaned back on the stool, letting him know I had the support of the room. I didn’t need to act personally to get my way. He stood and approached me because he knew he was supposed to.
“You can take the body now,” I told the coroner.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
BECOMING — Chapter Three
by Patrick Baggatta
She was in the middle of the floor, bent like she was leaned against a lover. My vision tunneled hard. Just me and her.
This is gonna make me sound wrong, and maybe there's something to that, but I wanted to curl up next to her. I’d had to learn long ago to lock my appreciation of beautiful dead girls in a safe place. But this girl was different. She made me angry for getting dead before we met.
Her name was Ashley Brown. An uninspired name for a beauty of her stature, but I didn’t name her so I didn’t feel bad about it. She was wearing a white cotton dress that clung tight. Nothing else. It was strange how it white-washed the smut out of her sexuality. But it was the look on her face that really rattled me. I felt like a child who'd just caught his school teacher on a date.
There were no overt signs of violence. Here she was, gravity having its way, but she was clean as an angel after confession. My senses slowly started coming back along this line of thinking. My vision widened. The entire room carried the same virginal attitude. There were white sheets hung on the walls. A white love seat. White lamp. Even the floor was covered in white butcher paper. I saw that everyone had their shoes off, a rare favor of good judgment on someone’s part.
“What killed her?” I heard Hammond ask one of the techs. Strike one. Never let someone plant your first notion. Granted, there was no pool of blood under the victim’s head with a crusty nine iron nearby, but you still have to let the scene speak its mind. I could see Hammond was just talking to drown out the excited pulsing in his ears. I let it go.
“Poison,” I muttered, not trying to impress anyone. “She’s eaten up on the inside.” It was something in her embarrassed expression.
“Poison, most like,” the morgue ghoul echoed. But something didn't sit right. You die of poison in bed, in a worn leather chair, or hugging the toilet if you get wise in time. You don't die in the middle of a photo shoot. Whatever killed her was fired like a shot. It was a first for me.
“Hammond, have a look around.” I was bargaining for breathing room, but if he came up the hero, great. I’d be okay to let him fix this one on a wave of beginner’s luck. As for me. I knelt down beside her to feel for warmth left in her face. Maybe there is something to me being wrong.
She was in the middle of the floor, bent like she was leaned against a lover. My vision tunneled hard. Just me and her.
This is gonna make me sound wrong, and maybe there's something to that, but I wanted to curl up next to her. I’d had to learn long ago to lock my appreciation of beautiful dead girls in a safe place. But this girl was different. She made me angry for getting dead before we met.
Her name was Ashley Brown. An uninspired name for a beauty of her stature, but I didn’t name her so I didn’t feel bad about it. She was wearing a white cotton dress that clung tight. Nothing else. It was strange how it white-washed the smut out of her sexuality. But it was the look on her face that really rattled me. I felt like a child who'd just caught his school teacher on a date.
There were no overt signs of violence. Here she was, gravity having its way, but she was clean as an angel after confession. My senses slowly started coming back along this line of thinking. My vision widened. The entire room carried the same virginal attitude. There were white sheets hung on the walls. A white love seat. White lamp. Even the floor was covered in white butcher paper. I saw that everyone had their shoes off, a rare favor of good judgment on someone’s part.
“What killed her?” I heard Hammond ask one of the techs. Strike one. Never let someone plant your first notion. Granted, there was no pool of blood under the victim’s head with a crusty nine iron nearby, but you still have to let the scene speak its mind. I could see Hammond was just talking to drown out the excited pulsing in his ears. I let it go.
“Poison,” I muttered, not trying to impress anyone. “She’s eaten up on the inside.” It was something in her embarrassed expression.
“Poison, most like,” the morgue ghoul echoed. But something didn't sit right. You die of poison in bed, in a worn leather chair, or hugging the toilet if you get wise in time. You don't die in the middle of a photo shoot. Whatever killed her was fired like a shot. It was a first for me.
“Hammond, have a look around.” I was bargaining for breathing room, but if he came up the hero, great. I’d be okay to let him fix this one on a wave of beginner’s luck. As for me. I knelt down beside her to feel for warmth left in her face. Maybe there is something to me being wrong.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
BECOMING — Chapter Two
by Patrick Baggatta
“What do we know?” Hammond had only been around for a couple of days, mostly shit details the guys could dump on him. He’d been a willing enough target, but I hadn’t taken my turn yet. There was always shit work to get out of, but I knew I was gonna end up riding with the guy. I liked the idea of starting clean. Most guys want to get a rookie partner under their thumb as fast as possible. But it’s hard work keeping someone under, you never stop watching the cracks forming. I didn’t need the stress.
“We don’t know shit,” I said with a smile. Just because we were starting clean didn’t mean I had to answer his stupid questions. Besides, he was all set up to learn his own first thing about being murder police. He wouldn’t remember anything I told him anyway.
We arrived at the address, one of those loft renovations that looked good until the new one next to it made it look like day old bread. I could see cops milling around on the second floor, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing a scandalous show for the entire block.
“Come on,” I said, and started out of the car. Hammond grabbed my wrist. I tensed and balled my fist to hit him. He was lucky he was paying attention and let go fast.
“Sorry, I just wanted to ask you something.”
“Just take it in,” I told him, making it sound enough like an apology to get it dropped. But he wasn’t gonna let it go. He needed to bathe in the moment. “What?”
“I’m always gonna remember this one, aren’t I?”
“I don’t know. How’s your memory?” I got out of the car and headed for the door. A uniform I knew from the bars opened up for us on his way out. The guy’s shoes were untied. Schmuck, I thought.
“Seen enough, Lazetti?”
“Enough to know I should of come by six hours ago.” I tried to keep his comment from flavoring my first impressions. Clean starts are important to me.
Lazetti tipped his cap and left. I kind of envied the uniform guys. I’d skipped that part. The force is worse than Hollywood with who you know. I knew a lot of people. I didn’t like that many of them, but I knew them. I made some of them nervous with my drinking, but I’d never been the kind of drunk to go shooting his mouth off, so most of the guys, even the ones I could’ve fucked six ways from Sunday, raised a glass and wished me well.
We climbed the stairs to the open studio door. I could see camera flashes from the hallway. It came back to me that this was some kind of photography studio. My mind started picturing the scene with each flash. It always did that just before seeing the real thing. I stepped inside with Hammond right behind me. I was off by a mile.
“What do we know?” Hammond had only been around for a couple of days, mostly shit details the guys could dump on him. He’d been a willing enough target, but I hadn’t taken my turn yet. There was always shit work to get out of, but I knew I was gonna end up riding with the guy. I liked the idea of starting clean. Most guys want to get a rookie partner under their thumb as fast as possible. But it’s hard work keeping someone under, you never stop watching the cracks forming. I didn’t need the stress.
“We don’t know shit,” I said with a smile. Just because we were starting clean didn’t mean I had to answer his stupid questions. Besides, he was all set up to learn his own first thing about being murder police. He wouldn’t remember anything I told him anyway.
We arrived at the address, one of those loft renovations that looked good until the new one next to it made it look like day old bread. I could see cops milling around on the second floor, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing a scandalous show for the entire block.
“Come on,” I said, and started out of the car. Hammond grabbed my wrist. I tensed and balled my fist to hit him. He was lucky he was paying attention and let go fast.
“Sorry, I just wanted to ask you something.”
“Just take it in,” I told him, making it sound enough like an apology to get it dropped. But he wasn’t gonna let it go. He needed to bathe in the moment. “What?”
“I’m always gonna remember this one, aren’t I?”
“I don’t know. How’s your memory?” I got out of the car and headed for the door. A uniform I knew from the bars opened up for us on his way out. The guy’s shoes were untied. Schmuck, I thought.
“Seen enough, Lazetti?”
“Enough to know I should of come by six hours ago.” I tried to keep his comment from flavoring my first impressions. Clean starts are important to me.
Lazetti tipped his cap and left. I kind of envied the uniform guys. I’d skipped that part. The force is worse than Hollywood with who you know. I knew a lot of people. I didn’t like that many of them, but I knew them. I made some of them nervous with my drinking, but I’d never been the kind of drunk to go shooting his mouth off, so most of the guys, even the ones I could’ve fucked six ways from Sunday, raised a glass and wished me well.
We climbed the stairs to the open studio door. I could see camera flashes from the hallway. It came back to me that this was some kind of photography studio. My mind started picturing the scene with each flash. It always did that just before seeing the real thing. I stepped inside with Hammond right behind me. I was off by a mile.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
