She paused, opening the driver’s side door. “Not going tobrief you. I want you coming at this cold. You might pick up details we missed.”
We settled in and buckled up and she reached under her seatand tossed me a chunk of worn black folded leather, a badge case like I used tocarry. “You’ll need that to pack iron past airport security.”
I opened it. Inside, I found a well-worn ProfessionalRegulation Division badge and a most sincere state cop ID with my picture andfingerprints on it. I recognized the mug shot, the same photo as on my privatewizard license, they’d have that and the prints on file. I grunted againstclenched teeth. Draft notice.
“Since when do the State Police have a rank of ‘Special Agent’?”
“Since about 8:05 this morning.” She started the cruiser andpulled out into traffic. No chit-chat, just that bit about not wanting me toform any silly notions ahead of the facts. Not like First Cop up in PodunkHollow.
I stared down at the badge in my hand. Funny thing, it feltgood there, looked good. I’d likedbeing a cop. Until I couldn’t stand it anymore, that is, the thing with Maggie.The abstract ideals of Law and Justice don’t offer much solace when you knowsomeone is innocent in the face of the facts. Facts you gathered yourself.
“How many laws does this break?”
She slowed at a light, glanced for crossing traffic, and thenlead-footed through the red. No flashers, no siren, just Cash.
“None, actually. You already are a sworn police officer.Retirement didn’t change that. Mac dug out some fine print in the privatelicense code, sorta like that bit where lawyers get sworn in as officers of thecourt. You put your signature on your license card, your ass belongs to us. ‘Aidand assist the authorities in any way deemed necessary.’ Now ol’ Marshal Dillonthinks Dodge City needs another deputy defending peace and justice. You’re it.”
About two miles down the road, 70 in a 35 zone, she added, “Andcarrying a badge, maybe the hayseeds will think twice before they cuff andstuff you. The Colonel offered us some choice words on that when Mac reported in. Something about hick towns so far backin the hills they still fly the Union Jack.”
I shook my head, keeping my mouth shut. Like I said, thatbadge looked good in my hand, looked like it belonged there.
But.
I kept coming back to Maggie’s case, and evidence that lied —clear, unambiguous evidence, her signature on grand theft with magicalviolence. Theft where the loot never showed up afterward, might as well lie atthe bottom of that river running through town.
She said she didn’t do it. I knew she didn’t do it, but theevidence said I was wrong. And given her age, my age, the statistics on wizardlife-expectancy, “ten-to-twenty” in the Big House might as well be “life.” Oddswere, Maggie would die behind bars.
I’d never felt the same about a badge, after that. Cops knowthat innocent people get suspected, charged, arrested, convicted. It doesn’thappen often, the way we run our system. There’s that old saying in Englishcommon law, better to let a hundred criminals go free than convict one innocentman. Or woman.
Statistics don’t comfort you a damned bit when you run headfirst into the exception.
Those thoughts brought us to the airport, Cash pulling her oldcruiser into a line of flashing blue and red in the no-parking-tow-away “we’llconfiscate your ass” security zone. We climbed out, flashed badges at theharassed city cop minding the curb, and he waved us on. I’d bet some travelersshowed up that morning, took one look at the lineup, and told their cabbies totake them right back home. That would not be a good start to your vacation inJamaica.
Inside, we hiked past the ticket counters and baggage claim,more people milling around under the speakers and flight status displays andlooking nervous, out to a concourse and showing badges again to the screeners,TSA not looking happy. But they let us past, guns and all.
Halfway down the concourse, another uniformed cop stoodsentinel at a numbered door where we flashed badges again. And on the door, thestink of Kratz.
Cash opened the door, must have known the forensics guys werethrough with it. We stepped into more Kratz, nothing subtle here, he’d had afield day. Like so many of those scenes I remembered, his buzz mixed with thesmell of death. Cops get to know that all too well, the mix when bladders andsphincters cut loose and join the pre-rot difference of dead cells that tells awizard he doesn’t need to bother calling the EMTs.
We picked booties and gloves out of a waiting box and put themon while standing on a plastic sheet. Protect the crime scene. Six or eightforensic types prowled the room, flashing lights into corners or wearingmagnifiers over their eyes, picking at this and that with tweezers. Irecognized the city mage and a couple of others. I glanced around and then lookeda question at Cash.
“VIP lounge,” Cash shrugged. “Keycard access. Businesstravelers mostly, not top rank. Those use private jets. Bonded commercialcouriers use it a lot, a place where they can relax behind a locked door whilewaiting for a connecting flight and not worry about some stranger nabbing thatbriefcase full of diamonds or bearer bonds.”
The Kratz we all knew and loved.
“The Feds gonna shove you aside and take over? Interstatecommerce and all that?”
“Probably. That’s why I hauled your ass out here as fast as Icould.”
I’d never even known that places like this existed. You seelots of doors off airport concourses, “Restricted Access” signs with pushbuttoncombination locks or keycard slots, you don’t know what’s behind them.
The room wasn’t
