surveillance. I got no problem with that. But read your goddamned criminal investigation and interrogation manual, Bennett. It's a popular fallacy to think that a clairvoyant can give valuable information with respect to a homicide investigation. They've got no damned business in a homicide investigation.”
No one disputed the lieutenant. He stood there, wanting someone to dare disagree. Bennett just went back to his drink.
This only made Alex more determined and angry. He began to pace about the bar in nervous-tiger fashion, the others watching out of the sides of their eyes for him to make the next move.
He settled himself against the bar and said, “Fact is, these so-called psychic people just arouse the hopes of the family members, and to justify the dollar/man-hours to follow up on a bunch of empty leads… well, enough said.”
“ Well, Lieutenant,” said one young officer, “seems to me, you're telling it to the wrong crowd.”
“ Yeah,” agreed a second, taking some courage.
“ Why don't you tell it to the captain?” suggested Bennett.
“ Carl Landry knows how I fuckin' feel. No matter how sincere a so-called psychic may be, the actual hits she makes are usually due to some bit of information she was previously exposed to.”
Still no one disputed him. God, he thought, I'd really like to throw a punch at Bennett. That'd feel great. Instead, he continued to shout his opinion. “These psychic detectives are con men, or con women, even if sometimes they don't recognize their own con. They're cunning people with photogenic memories and steel-trap minds, no doubt. Their lucky guesses are far from lucky guesses. They use open-ended thinking, seeing multiple end points to a case, just like any good detective, but the bozos who're taken in by them confer on them this incredibly wide margin for error that no cop is afforded ever.” “You ever work with psychics before. Lieutenant?” asked Stubby from behind the bar, listening intently, curious “Where's that ham sandwich?” Alex sharply countered.
“ Gettin' it…”
“ Whataya mean, wide margin?” Bennett asked of him.
“ Psychic says!” Alex mimicked the famous host of Family Feud. “ 'I scccccc a bodyyyyy… a bodyyyyy of water… yes, water… near the body.' So figure it out.”
“ You mean like a lake?”
“ A lake, the Atlantic fucking Ocean, a roadside puddle, a doggie dish with mosquito eggs germinating in it, or maybe a mailbox with the name Walters, Waters or Pond on it, or maybe a goddamned billboard with the words Aqua Velva printed across it, and since aqua is Latin for water and the sign just happens to be fifty feet from the body, or a hundred, or five hundred, the psychic is right on. What the hell does 'near the body' mean in exact feet, Bennett? You got any idea?”
There was some laughter at this.
Alex kept on talking. “It's anybody guess, but you can bet that somewhere in the vicinity of a body you'll find some water somewhere, somehow, and 'cause the psychic says it's so, it's called a psychic hit! Same goes for when the con man calls for a large tree near the body or a whole damned forest. How large is large, and maybe a billboard has a plantation oak pictured across it, so that'll do just as well as a large tree, or the subdivision being advertised is Oak Lawn Lake, so you get two hits with one psychic stone-an oak tree and a goddamned lake!”
More laughter filled the bar, and a few cops hoisted their glasses in a toast of agreement and cheer.
“ It's not mystical so much as it is the law of truly large numbers. So every goddamn year there are thousands of cops nationwide hunting down missing persons who can be found near water and a large tree. No big surprise when some place a psychic actually locates a dead or alive, every year or so.”
“ What about the ones who're really good, Lieutenant? You know, the psychics who've repeatedly been right over and over?” asked one female cop from a booth across the room.
“ They're better at it, smarter, more cunning. 'I see a body, near an old church… a windmill… a road sign.' You know how many damned old churches and waterwheels are out there? These guys, they shotgun information, scatter it about rapid-fire, all generalized until they see some naive cop like you, Bennett, raise an eyebrow, and then they lock on, knowing what you know. They play twenty questions with you and they win every time.”
“ You've worked with 'em before, haven't you, Lieutenant?” asked Kellerman, who was way off his turf for some reason.
“ I have, and without useful results. Bastard says to us, 'You'll find the boy in a shallow grave.' Christ, stands to reason! I mean, if you murder some little kid, you don't go out and buy a coffin and dig a six-foot grave, now do you? Besides, how many murderers you know carry a shovel around with them. Ever try to dig a grave with your bare hands?”
This brought on another bout of laughter while some people were leaving and others entered. Sincebaugh, allowing all his pent-up frustration over the case to bubble over, kept on talking. “Meanwhile, a lot of wasted time, wrong leads, raised hopes, all for nothing except the almighty dollar, the taxpayers' money, which goes direct to the psychic.”
“ No wonder you're not too happy with this.” It was one of the Internal Affairs guys he'd met at the diner where he'd jumped the gun on the two would-be robbers. He hadn't seen him where he'd been sitting in a booth with a couple of other cops, one being the other IAD officer. “You're talking about the Tommy Harkness case a couple years ago?''
Jesus, these assholes 've been climbing around in my file for days, Alex thought “Sleight-of-mouth, that's all this voodoo crap's about, trust me,” he said aloud.
“ Clever, cunning, able to outwit men and leap tall buildings at a single bound; sounds like maybe you're a little afraid of her, Alex,” quipped Kellerman, a man Alex's size and build.
“ Sandwich is up,” shouted the man behind the counter.
Sincebaugh, frowning at Kellerman, now with exactly the right face to punch standing before him, knew he could do nothing, not with IAD men in a nearby booth just waiting for him to do something stupid.
It was all so much like a setup, he began to feel a creeping paranoia come over him. He turned to Stubby, paid for his drink and sandwich and took in a deep breath of air. He was trying desperately to peel back the layers; not only did the onion here stink, but layers of it had to be carefully stripped and pared away to find all the underlying meaning.
When he turned, he had control of himself. He'd once been told by Big Ben that if you felt paranoia down to your bones in a given situation, you probably had good reason to be paranoid, that sometimes paranoia was the healthiest response, the first warning bell on the bullshit detector.
“ I'm not afraid of any goddamned spoon-bender, and maybe now I've said enough on the subject.” He stepped away from the bar, went to his booth and began to slowly consume his meal. Others in the bar sensed his need not only to be alone, but to be left alone over the matter of both the Heart case and the new guns in town, particularly the psychic gun.
Still, he wondered who'd sicced IAD on him, and what connection the young vultures had with Kellerman. Did they have something on Kellerman to force him all the way over here from his precinct to get into a confrontation with Alex, provoke a fight and ultimately send Alex on an undeniably long vacation, maybe land him on the police shrink's list of incorrigibles? If so, Kellerman wasn't trying very hard. At least, not yet anyway.
Through the door bounded Ben deYampert, his hands filled with the files they'd talked about going over. Both men knew they could get next to nothing done at the desk with the phone ringing constantly, so they'd agreed to meet here for something to eat and to glance over some of the documentation on the Hearts crimes. He waved Ben over, and Ben almost made it before Kellerman got in his face with a crude joke he'd heard about the Hearts cases, something to do with the missing organs having been crammed up the anal canals of each of the gay victims and Frank Wardlaw not wanting to get his hands dirty searching there. Ben shoved past Kellerman, ignoring him, but Alex could see the purple anger in his partner's eyes.
Stubby called out for Ben's lunch order.
“ Send those guys over some artichoke hearts on me, Stubby,” shouted Kellerman, drawing a little nervous laughter around the darkened bar and grill.
“ Lame-o, real lame-o, Kellerman. Set me up with one of your famous pig barbecues, Stubby,” Ben replied before squeezing into the booth opposite Alex.
“ This place is crawling with paranoia, pal,” Alex warned him.
“ Is-zat right?” Ben gave an appreciative smile and a wink. “What'd I miss?”
“ You missed the IAD guys at the other booth.”
