here suspected of beating on that female officer. There ’ s videotape. You know how many requests I ’ ve been getting for alone time with him?”
“Every single County employee?” Behr asked back.
“You know it. I could be in Florida golfing and fishing on odd days with the gratuities I ’ ve been offered.” Silva allowed himself a moment ’ s departure at the image.
“Why am I so lucky?”
“I let a cop in the room with him, that cop can call it a career. State of civil liberties these days.” Silva let out a snort of disgust. “But with you…” He trailed off.
“With me, what?” Behr asked, suddenly on edge. “What do I have to lose?”
“It ’ s not that way, Frank. I ’ d be costing someone his badge if I let ’ em in there. I couldn ’ t live good with that. Besides, I don ’ t want to get well off of the situation. And then you called. I can give you five minutes.”
Behr nodded. “Been a long time coming.”
Silva nodded, too. “Been a real long time. Coming to even.”
“Yep. That ’ s where we ’ re at.”
Behr rejoined Paul, Silva didn ’ t speak another word, and they were led through a pair of man-trap doors and into a cinder-block interview room.
“We only have five minutes,” Behr muttered low as the door was unlocked. The hurry in Behr ’ s voice made Paul feel unready. He wondered exactly what kind of monster would come walking through the door. It didn ’ t take long to get his answer. The door was swung open by a guard and a red-haired man dressed in a faded County jumpsuit, rubber shower thongs on his feet, and listening to a CD Walkman, sauntered in. The guard removed handcuffs and the door closed behind him, leaving only the three of them in the room.
He ’ s small was Paul ’ s first impression. Muscled up, his second. That was all there was time for, as Behr was up out of his chair. He cuffed the man in the head, hard, slapping his headphones off.
“Hey,” the man protested. “Who the fuck ’ re you — ”
“Shut up,” Behr grunted, and grabbed at him.
The CD player, knocked loose, clattered to the floor and got kicked into a corner. Behr wrapped the headphone cord around the smaller man ’ s neck and choked him, snapping the wires and leaving red and white stripes across his throat. Behr threw the broken headphones aside and pushed Garth “Rooster” Mintz into a chair. The man rubbed his throat and wiped away the water that had come to his bulging eyes.
“You know why we ’ re here?” Behr began, anthracite hardness in his voice that Paul hadn ’ t heard before, not just from Behr but also from anyone else.
Mintz kept rubbing his throat and shook his head. “That cop thing?”
“Not the cop.” Behr slid a picture of Jamie across the desk toward Mintz, who didn ’ t even acknowledge it.
“Look at it,” Behr ordered. Mintz only held his gaze for a moment before tilting his glance down over the photo. Then he looked back up at them, his face betraying no signs of recognition.
“Okay, I scoped it.”
“Have you seen this kid?” Behr demanded.
“I don ’ t know.” The answer wasn ’ t taunting; if anything, it was respectful. For Paul ’ s money the guy actually didn ’ t know.
“You ’ re gonna come across, you son of a bitch,” Behr breathed close into the man ’ s face, causing him to blink twice.
“What do you want me to say? Cute kid.”
Behr stuffed Mintz into the chair back, moved around behind him, and pinned his arms. He looked to Paul.
“Give him one.”
Paul ’ s scrotum tightened and his bladder threatened to release. He knew what Behr was asking but couldn ’ t believe it.
“Hold up. Are we sure he even knew Jamie?” The situation felt all wrong to Paul, like he was on some insane quest and Behr had roped him into meting out punishment on a guy who ’ d hurt a cop and had nothing to do with him.
Then Paul flashed on his one fight, the only time he had hit a man in anger. It was back in college. Senior year. He and his friends were juiced up on pitchers of Milwaukee ’ s Best. They were at the Spaghetti Bender off Washtenaw, a place Carol liked to go just after they ’ d started dating. A guy from the football fraternity had touched Carol ’ s hair as he walked toward the men ’ s room. The guy ran his hand down her blond ponytail before continuing on his way. It was a proprietary gesture that caused Paul to go white-hot with anger. Despite his size, the guy never made it to the john. Paul clocked him in the side of the jaw and followed him, swinging, as he went down. He landed two or three more clean punches, then he was pulled off by the guy ’ s friends and his own. They all scraped and tussled before being thrown out by bouncers and braced by the local authorities. His friends started calling him “Clubber,” after Mr. T ’ s character in one of the Rocky movies, and Paul had felt guilty for what he ’ d done for a long time.
Behr ’ s words cut through his thoughts.
“This guy ’ s done unspeakable shit. Whatever he gets he deserves.” Behr wrestled the smaller man up out of the chair and held him. Paul stood.
Nothing smells like a jail, Behr thought when they ’ d entered — floor wax, bad cafeteria food, sweat, human filth, and hate. He ’ d been wondering if bringing Paul Gabriel there had been his biggest mistake to date. Although the man had showed some nerve so far, he had no experience in these matters or places. Or people. The second Rooster Mintz entered the interview room Behr ’ s old cop radar blipped and bleeped and bonged. The little grease ball was radioactive with bad energy. He seemed to be riding high on the respect that cop killers and cop hurters received in the joint. One look told Behr that the man in front of him lived in a world of foul darkness, and that beating the female officer nearly to death wasn ’ t the ends or depths of what he ’ d done.
Behr had hoped the unexpectedness and intensity of the father of a victim would help extract information from Mintz in a way no organized professional pressure might. At the least, Paul deserved a moment of indirect payback. Behr ’ s wisdom, or lack of it, was about to be seen. Paul got up from his chair and moved awkwardly, his arms stiff, and threw a tentative right that landed with a clop to the left side of Rooster ’ s chin.
“Not the face,” Behr corrected, and watched with growing concern as Paul redirected his attack to the body, the punches brittle and weak. He swung for a bit, to no effect, then stepped back, panting. Mintz took the shots no problem and seemed to be smirking. Paul was nervous, afraid, and Behr knew well what fear did to punchers: It sapped them of power. It made them feeble. Behr had seen it before many times, in overworked cops on high- pressure cases who suddenly began to function at a quarter of their capacity and then started to fail in important ways. He ’ d seen it in the ring, at the Police Firefighter Smokers. Strong, fit men who were suddenly unable to stop their opponents even when landing clean shots, while their respective departments cheered rabidly for them. He ’ d felt it in the ring himself, at the same smokers, but had managed to overcome it and stop the Kelly brothers two years running, one on cuts, one by clean knockout. Now Behr grew concerned. They weren ’ t getting to Mintz, and it would soon ruin their play. He was tempted to spin the con around and chop into him personally. He certainly had enough bad feeling for the task. He didn ’ t want to, though. It wasn ’ t how he figured they would succeed.
“Drop your shoulders…see your son…and hit this bastard,” Behr said sternly.
Paul ’ s eyes went distant. He swallowed a gout of air, rolled his shoulders, and waded in close. Now his blows came with more fluidity. He punched with controlled intent, with anger so old and compressed it didn ’ t flame but rather glowed like burning coal. Paul stayed with it as if he wanted to carve through Rooster ’ s abdomen and tear out his organs, which is exactly how it ’ s supposed to be done. Behr felt the man in his arms, who had been loose and active in his defensive posture at first, go tight with pain and then, finally, start to sag with damage. Behr could see that the fury had started to flow in Paul and it just kept flowing.
I can take this, ran through Rooster ’ s head, all damn day. It was a stroke of luck that the big fucker was just holding him and not beating on him. Hells, I ’ m lucky, he mused as the other guy ’ s peashooter rights and lefts rattled off his stone abs. Always been lucky. It didn ’ t look good for a minute there, when he ’ d walked in and Big Fucker had jumped up on him. He recognized them from Sebo ’ s, and then the big one had looked clean through him and fixed him with a glare of hate that made his guts slide. He felt the man ’ s power when he stretched the headphone cord across his larynx and felt it again when the man ’ s viselike hands pinned back his arms, fingers of
