Stanley Buchan’s arms were propped on his desk, his face in his hands, the bald spot at the top of his head shining in the light.
“Come in, Dillon,” he said without looking up, his voice tired.
Jen walked across the office to his desk and sat in the chair in front of it. She watched him as he sat there, the picture of a man worn down by the strain of leadership, her feelings alternating between amusement and loathing. She had seen this particular act before. Most of the department had at one time or another. She wondered if he practiced in front of a mirror to get it right. She glanced at the clock on the wall. He usually allowed thirty seconds for this part of the routine, thirty seconds of silence from God intended to strike fear into the heart of the transgressor.
He went thirty-five. Pretty good, Jen thought. Maybe he's been practicing.
“Would you care to explain what happened tonight?” He took his hands from his face and folded them on the desk. He stared at her without blinking, his face a mask of disapproval.
She stared back for a few seconds before answering. It always amused her to give him a taste of his own medicine. It always ticked him off when she did.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware of it,” she said, “but we’ve established a possible connection between the murder victims and The Factory. In case you’re not familiar with it, The Factory is a club located in the Forest Park Mall.”
She saw him stiffen at the implication that he didn’t know the latest developments in the case and that he didn’t know the names of all the businesses in his city.
“Tonight Officers Peters and I went there to get a feel for the place. After we left, we witnessed a hit-skip. The victim is not expected to live. Officer Peters stayed with him, and I gave chase. The hit-skip vehicle was struck by a train at Jackson and Jericho. The passenger, a sixteen-year old girl, was badly injured and might not live. The driver, a seventeen-year old male, was intoxicated or on some kind of drugs and received only minor injuries.”
“I assume you were in your own vehicle. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“Explain to me again just why you were on this detail.”
“As I said, we’ve established a possible connection between The Factory and the murder victims. The latest victim, Victoria Kaufmann, had gone there with a friend the night she was killed, and we’ve since discovered that the county’s victim was a regular. Officer Peters and I were there to scope the place, see if anyone showed an unusual interest in two single women.”
“Did they?”
“Not that we noticed, no.”
“How much had you had to drink, Detective Dillon?”
He had added her title to her name, and that was always a bad sign.
“Nothing, sir. I stuck to Pepsi.”
“What about Officer Peters?”
“I believe she had Seven-Up.”
He stared at her for half a minute, skepticism written all over his face. Finally, realizing it was getting him nowhere, he shook his head and stood up. Jen waited while he paced the width of the office, rubbing his temples, and shaking his head, as if he were trying to get himself under control before he spoke. She had seen this act before, too. Still, she felt herself tensing. It had been a bitch of a night, and pressure from this egotistical despot was the last thing she needed.
“Dillon, I’m going to tell you what our problem is.” He glared at her. “And, make no mistake, it is our problem. I’m getting sick and tired of taking the heat for all the so-called professional officers I’ve got working for me. I don’t need the aggravation.”
Then maybe you should resign, Jen thought, but was smart enough not to say.
He stepped behind the desk and leaned his hands on it, his eyes blazing. He apparently expected a response. Jen simply looked at him, waiting.
“I’ve already received a call from Lesley Barnes, attorney-at-law. He’s been retained jointly by the parents of the two young people in question. They want your ass, Dillon. Any reason you can think of why I shouldn’t give it to them?”
“One very good one, as I see it.”
Jen fought to keep her mounting anger under control. She was close to tears, too close, and she’d be damned if she’d let Buchan see her like that.
“The young man in question hit a man with his car tonight. He probably killed him, but he didn’t stop to find out. The last I heard that’s a pretty serious offense.”
“Don’t get cute, Dillon!” Buchan snapped. “Can you prove that those kids left the scene intentionally? That’s the real question, isn’t it? Because Mr. Barnes has advised me that his client simply had an accident, that he was preparing to stop when he saw your car barreling down on him, and he panicked. He didn’t know you were a police officer. He was scared.”
“That’s bull! He was accelerating before I even started moving.
“That sounds real good, Dillon, but can you prove it?”
“There was a witness other than Officer Peters and myself. From what I’ve heard already, he was convinced the driver meant to leave the scene.”
“I certainly hope you’re right.” Stanley Buchan sighed. “Because the bottom line is it looks like you and the department are going to be right smack dab in the middle of the biggest bunch of crap anyone has seen in a while. We’re talking civil suit at best and criminal negligence at worst.”
“This is just great!” Jen could feel her fragile control slipping. “Anybody can go out and kill a man with his car, and if I—or any ordinary citizen, for that matter—try to keep him from getting away, we’re the bad guys! Christ,
