Good Morning, Killer

case, all that matters is whether they, as individuals, get points, because that was the corporate culture they came from, and they’ll argue endlessly from their one little narrow point of view. They haven’t been around long enough to get the bigger picture of what it means to be an agent.

I have noticed the more specialized you are, the more pompous.

“Okay, we’ve got two opposing points of view,” Rick said at last, “which we have to look at in terms of the best interests of this case. We have to go forward without biases on either side.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. All I knew was Kelsey had created a divide in which she, suddenly, had authority. An equal say. And she wasn’t even on the squad.

“Pardon me, but this is bullshit.” Andrew was on his feet. “Why split hairs, when it’s staring you right in the face?”

It threw everybody off. Even Eunice arched her eyebrows and folded her arms skeptically.

“You want academic theory, or how about nailing this cretin?”

I heard some handcuff ratcheting, but I was thrilled. Nobody stood up for you like that at the Bureau.

After a moment Rick composed himself and asked, “Detective Berringer, would you like to share?”

Andrew said, “This guy is former military.”

Now there was interest.

“The victim says the shoes are shined, the belt buckle has to be lined up with the buttons — what do you want, dog tags? He’s former military out of Arizona. Anybody like to place a bet?”

“Just bring me his dick,” said Barry Loomis. “In a paper bag.”

Rick didn’t like wise guys, but he couldn’t argue the logic. Former military made sense. He snapped out assignments: Cross-reference the Arizona sex offenders with military police records. Check for rape charges. Look at the photography angle. Look at the cases on VICAP with this in mind.

The meeting had gone over. We moved out quickly with not a lot of talk. The overhead projector was still running, leaving the amber image of the offender to play against the screen at the front of the emptying room.

All in all, he was having a better day than I was.

Twelve

You can’t go,” I told Andrew. “I have something funny to show you.”

After the briefing I guess I just needed a little contact, so I guided him to Barbara’s office to have a laugh over the bank robbery photograph of our butts, and everything went sideways from there.

Lieutenant Barry Loomis came, too. At first there was professional chatter amongst the four of us, the requisite cooing over Barbara’s baby pictures (she gave me the nod — the detective was hot), and it was nice after the stress of the briefing just to chill, but while we were looking at the doofy surveillance photo from the Mission Impossible caper, the ski mask came up.

“They recovered another piece of evidence, did Ana tell you?” Barbara said.

Andrew looked at me inquiringly. “No.”

“A ski mask,” I said.

“Really?”

“It was kicked under some boxes — in that janitor’s room, remember?”

“Yeah? When’d they find it?”

I shrugged. “A couple of months ago.”

“Where is it now?” Barry immediately wanted to know.

“I guess at Result Associates.”

“The lab?”

I nodded.

“Why weren’t we informed?” Barry demanded.

I have found that supervisors are supervisors, even if they wear funny ties.

“They’re a little chaotic out there,” Barbara answered. “About as organized as my garage.”

“But they notified the Bureau?”

“Somehow I do remember it coming in.”

“Barbara remembers everything.”

Troubled, Andrew had turned away and was picking at a spot on the top of his head. Suddenly he refused to meet my eyes.

“We have a problem,” Barry said, all bristly. “Obviously we are out of the loop.”

“Just call the lab, and I’m sure they’ll—”

“Because it was a bank robbery,” Andrew interrupted, terse as his boss. “The chief has made bank robberies a priority—”

“And also,” Barry cut in, “there is some sensitivity to a federal agency receiving information and not the locals.”

We all knew the name of that tune.

“Why the big secret?” Andrew asked, in a voice edged with something I had not heard before. He was still scratching at the same spot on his scalp, snowy flakes appearing on the dark blue collar of the cowboy shirt.

“I just found out.”

“You knew it was my case.”

“It’s my case, too. I’ve been kind of busy.”

I did not appreciate his big hulk hanging over me. I felt defensive, like a dog that does not like its head patted.

“If it’s such a big deal,” I snapped, “let’s open Mission Impossible up again.”

“Good idea,” soothed Barbara. “Make it a positive. I don’t believe the case was ever officially closed.”

“We’ll make it right with your chief,” I promised Andrew. To Barbara: “I don’t think Mike would mind if I jumped back in on this one,” envisioning working both cases, willing to stretch, if that would fix it.

“He’d have you back on the squad in a New York minute,” she agreed.

I was waiting for a sign from Andrew that we were still okay.

“As soon as we get a handle on this kidnap deal. All right?”

“We better go,” Barry said.

I tried again. “It’ll be fine.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” Andrew said finally.

Well, that was not going to fly. Not with everything else that had been going on. I snagged him on the way out, telling Barry, “I just need Detective Berringer to sign something,” and pulled him out a service door into a cement stairwell filled with unearthly moaning, the Corridor of Winds.

“What is your problem, Andrew? You have been acting really strange.”

“Man, you fucked me up, bad.”

“I did?”

“Withholding information.”

“How can you say that? I was not withholding information—”

“It is humiliating for me not to know about something that important on my case with my supervisor standing right there.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve had other things on my mind—”

“You’re a Fed, you can drop a case with no accountability—”

“What do you mean, no accountability?”

“They can move you all over the map, to fucking Timbuktu, but I live here, I don’t need this shit.”

Suddenly his heavy fist arced the air, so forcefully that I flinched. His shout wafted seventeen floors down.