I intend this to be an informational interview only, so I can find out about the local law enforcement and get the lay of the land. Present my bona fides. Tell some war stories. Let them know I’m available to help. Except, I’ve never actually done this before — gone fishing for a job. I’d gone from the Denver Police Academy straight to the Denver Police Department and stayed there. Hopefully, I can learn something about the local process; find out who makes the big picture decisions.
I decide the best approach is straight-up cop-to-cop honesty, and so I tell Detective Olafson about my twenty years of work in the Denver Police Department, and my rise as a successful homicide detective within that jurisdiction. It sounds good — I’m feeling hopeful, and closer to normal than I have in days, here in a place I know the ropes. Plus, wouldn’t it be nice to have colleagues again, people to shoot the breeze with who know what it’s like to be in law enforcement.
Olafson leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. He’s a bulky man, but I doubt much of it is fat. His hair is dark blond, nicked off in a brush cut that ends at the top of his ears. He's clean-shaven, but his tie is at half-mast. The overhead fluorescents don’t do his complexion any favors.
“Sounds like you’ve seen some action in Denver,” he drawls. “We don’t get much in the way of murders here. There’s just a couple of us detectives, and we handle everything that comes our way. Robbery, drug busts, the occasional missing person. We don’t specialize. Can’t.”
I nod. “That’s pretty standard for small towns. I wouldn’t mind having less violence in my life, that’s for sure. One reason I wanted to get away from Denver.”
“Can’t back away from what comes,” he says. “Gotta be willing to take the cases on, regardless.”
“Of course,” I say. “I wasn’t implying —”
“The fact is,” he rolls on, looking at the ceiling tiles, “I find that it’s the relationships I have with the community that are responsible for most of our success in solving crimes. I’ve been here all my life, and I know the people. They trust me.”
“Sometimes an outside perspective, an outside experience, can be valuable. That’s where I could lend a hand.”
“Sometimes. Maybe. Haven’t seemed to need it much, myself.” He places his palms flat on the table. “I appreciate that you’ve had a successful career, maybe a good solve rate, and you’ve probably seen more dead bodies than all of us here at the APD put together. But we know our territory. And that’s not something you can fake. It’s something you need to build, and develop.”
I struggle to control my annoyance at his patronizing tone. “I’m aware of that, thanks.”
“No need to be touchy.” Olafson smiles. His canine teeth seem overlong. “But you’re not from here,” he continues. “You’ve got no local connections whatsoever. And that matters. Believe me, it matters.”
Before I can say anything more, another detective walks in to the interview room. She’s younger than me, but with a hardness around the eyes and lines that run from her nose to her chin. She walks with a bold aggression that makes the air seem to wrinkle in front of her.
Detective Olafson says, “Ms. Lake, meet my partner, Detective Jane Candide. Jane also started out in the big city — in her case, Portland. So, we have all the urban experience we need.”
We shake hands. Jane’s fingers are cold and hard. I’m trying to be congenial and mask my anger, which I’m aware is out of proportion.
“Jane, Ms. Lake is looking for a job as a consulting detective.”
“Really. I wasn’t aware we needed any help.” She looks at me like a ferret eyeing a Roosevelt elk. Wondering if it has what it takes to bring the bigger prey down.
“We don’t.” Olafson’s voice is decisive. “Ms. Lake, I appreciate your coming in to acquaint me with your qualifications. If we ever need someone with your capabilities, we’ll be in touch. Jane, please show Ms. Lake how to find her way out.”
The plate glass door clicks shut behind us. I’m shaking, surprised at my own reaction but unable to moderate the feelings of humiliation, anger, disappointment — a thousand tiny barbs that make me want to lash out, or get away to some dark hole like a wounded animal.
What the hell is wrong with me? The overcast sky is uniformly bright and I squint against the glare.
Detective Candide has followed me outside. Now she tugs her blazer closed against the chill and says, “Sorry about that, but he’s the big dog. You know how it is.”
So does that make her the bitch?
My inner voice has a warped sense of humor. I struggle not to guffaw and end up making what is probably a strange grimace. “I take it I won’t be getting a call any time soon.”
“‘Fraid not. And it’s true, we don’t really need any help. Why did you come here?”
“To learn about the department. See if I can help you guys out.” My voice shakes, and I have to swallow. I’m hyped on adrenaline, and now that the interview is over I’m jittering down. Candide probably thinks I have a whole host of weird tics.
“I mean, why did you come to our town? To Astoria?” Jane waves a hand, taking in the wide river with its anchored freighters and the hillside covered with pre-World War II houses. “Why would you want to leave Denver?”
I certainly can’t tell her the truth. At least, not all of it. “I got tired of the big city. All the stress.”
“I’m surprised. Tecs like us thrive under pressure and steam. To hear you tell it, you crushed that job.”
Shrug. “You left Portland.” I’ve never been to the Rose City myself, but I’ve heard it’s on a lot of top ten lists.
“I had my reasons. And I’m still wondering what yours are.”
