even have a suspect.” After a moment's pause an abrasive voice spoke off to Eichord's left.
“Let ME answer that one for you.” It was Councilman Bissell, the bitter enemy of the Police Department. “I think we know how much progress the cops are making in the Hoyt killing. And for that matter, how much progress they're making in stopping the flood of violent crime. ZERO is the answer. They've failed miserably in their sworn duty to serve and protect the honest, law-abiding public paying their salaries. The man on the street is no longer safe from the animals.'
More applause.
“Jack ... is what Mr. Bissell says true? Are we no longer safe?'
“How do I answer that? Are we safe? The police do everything humanly possible to protect law-abiding citizens. But we aren't a fascist state. We cannot arrest a person whom we suspect MIGHT commit a crime. We can only be a presence until a crime is committed, and because that's the nature of our function in society, when crime increases the ball gets dropped in our court. Councilman Bissell's comment that we have failed in our responsibility to the public is inaccurate.'
“Isn't it true that we have more violent crime now than at any point in our history, even with respect to the population explosion?'
“In some geographical communities there is a higher crime incidence, in some it's lower. Nobody denies there is violent crime.'
“But are the measures the police take sufficient to match the higher crime rate? It would seem not.'
“We sometimes succeed. We sometimes fail. Overall the police do a good job, in my opinion. Everything's relative. We're in a society where a few underpaid, overworked law-enforcement officers stand between the good guys and the bad guys. As the population increases and the criminal population increases with it, the job becomes more difficult to do. Sometimes the law itself is on the side of the criminal.'
“How do you mean?'
“Violent, repetitive offenders need to be imprisoned. Often that doesn't happen. Judges are too lenient. Turnstile justice and plea-bargaining and overcrowded prisons all contribute to this atmosphere. It's an atmosphere that lets dangerous offenders back on the street too soon, it contributes to premature paroles, it contributes to suspended sentences that should never—'
“The prison system is worthless as it is right now.” Bissell again. “Do you know my wife and I can go stay at the fanciest hotel in Buckhead and order three meals a day from room service and we STILL can't run up a bill of eighty-four dollars a day, which is what it costs to house one of these felons. See, that's the cops’ answer to crime. Build more prisons. Like the taxpayer has a bottomless pocketbook. Prisons are no answer.'
Eichord just looked at him. He realized the camera was back on him, so he spoke.
“It's true enough that prisons aren't an answer in themselves, but what are the alternatives? Work programs? Mental institutions? Psychiatric counseling? Violent, dangerous offenders must be put in prisons. We need more prison space to house these criminals. Right now we have severe problems in allocating the finite source of prison space. Only so many beds, so many cells. When we—the penal system—are forced to make decisions about confinement based on available space we're in a very dangerous area. Antisocial individuals are going to be back out on the street in that sort of environment. So the reality is, we need more places to lock offenders up. But nobody wants to build more prisons and nobody wants to spend more tax dollars on them, yet everybody wants a better criminal justice system, better police protection, and a better correctional system. But we want it without a price tag. It's sort of like all of us here in this studio, Ginger.” He looked at the interviewer.
“How so?” she said.
“Well, we all want to go to heaven, right? But nobody wants to die.'
“You need to talk to the special counsel over there,” Eichord told the person on the other end of the telephone. “Huh-uh. No, I don't,” he said, after a pause. “Okay. Will do. Talk to you later.” And he hung up just in time, just as the booming tones of fat Dana rang down the stairs.
“Fuckin’ dumb shit,” Monroe Tucker muttered to no one in particular at the sound of his partner's loud voice.
“They were outta that other crap so I got a bear-claw.” He started passing foul coffee around. The coffee from across the street was hideous, and the cardboard cups made it worse, but it was still better than the poisonous slime they brewed in the squad bay.
“What's that 202 number I gave ya yesterday?” Eichord said to Dana's back as he handed out goodies from the sack.
“Black through and through,” he told his partner as he handed him the cardboard cup.
Tucker nodded and said, “So is this,” cupping his load.
“Dana?'
“Say what?'
“Gimme the Privacy Act Unit number already.'
“What do I look like, a fuckin phone book?'
“You look like the Macy's Dumbo float but gimme the 202 number I gave you yesterday.'
“Okay. Hang on.” He ignored Eichord and sat down at his desk with a thump, his broken chair tilting dangerously to one side as he unwrapped food.
“Sometime this year if possible,” Eichord said patiently.
“Shit, gimme a fuckin second,” he whined, stuffing a huge sugary donut into his face.
Buckhead Station was a workplace in transit. It seemed to be going downhill, like The Job itself, and Eichord felt powerless to do anything about it. Chink and Chunk, James Lee and Dana Tuny, had been partners for about a century, Eichord's friends, guys who'd stayed with him through his booze years, and both Dana and Jack had been devastated by Jimmie's death.
Fat Dana had become absurdly protective of Jack in the ensuing months. Additionally, his rotund pal seemed to feel that he had failed his buddies in some way. His detective work grew sloppy, and when he'd been assigned a new partner, he had started doing everything he could to get kicked off the force. Eichord had traveled that road, too.
Monroe Tucker, a massive, two-fisted black man, had not been the ideal choice for a partner to Dana. The captain couldn't seem to grasp the fact that just because Tuny had partnered with an Oriental for years did not make him an expert in biracial relations. In fact, both Tucker and Tuny were bigoted, hard-nosed guys used to doing it their own way. The partnership had been a volatile one, but at least Dana was more or less back to his old self, and doing some semblance of competent police work. Yet the overall efficiency of the unit had continued to decline.
“Unnnnng,” Dana said through a mouthful of food, handing a sticky piece of paper to Eichord.
“Thanks,” Jack said, making a show of holding it by the tip and shaking off the residue.
“I'm the only one in this whole fuckin place knows what he's about,” Dana said, taking a noisy sip of coffee and wiping at the front of his shirt absent-mindedly, like somebody who was used to having crumbs all over him.
Eichord remembered the time it had all come to a head. The first homicide they'd been on after Tucker had been transferred from Metro. Woman and a dude both dead of gunshot wounds. One of the scenes that was so unreal everybody figures it has to be apocraphyl when the coppers trade stories later.
Jack could see the building as if it was yesterday, a run-down duplex with the orange tape around the exterior. A crime scene sealed off by the upside-down legend DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS. And if you kind of squinted and let it run together it said CROSS POLICE LINE DONUT. And he can see them all going in and the blood and the bodies there.
Each man was a different-style detective. Eichord into vibes, the feel of a scene, the aura. Dana, when he wasn't being sloppy, was a plodder. Meticulous. A detail man as good as any evidence tech. Tucker was a steamroller type. His method of getting from point A to point B was to run full speed until he crashed into a wall.
“In here,” Dana had said, and Eichord had gone in the room where the man was.
“That the shotgun?” It was rhetorical. It looked like a murder/suicide. One of the bad domestic things you'll
