'Yes, sir,' Peters replied, his blunt face sulky. He was short and black-haired and built like a prizewinning Angus.
Chuck felt his face redden. 'I didn't hear you, Peters!'
'Yes, sir.'
'And you, O'Connell-do you have anything to say to me?'
'No, sir.' Danny O'Connell was a tall, skinny redhead who followed any lead that Peters set. Chuck knew this, and knew that the rest of them were just playing along. One of the rules of group dynamics-which functioned in station houses exactly as it did in high school locker rooms-was to make fun of others to deflect the possibility that others might make fun of you. Peters was the ringleader, as usual, and Chuck knew he had a mean streak. He came from an unstable home, had a drunken failure for a father, and was angry at the world. Chuck put his face close to Peters's face, so close that he could smell his wintergreen aftershave.
'Or maybe you wanted to transfer out of Homicide? Because that could be arranged.'
'No, sir.'
'You sure about that?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Then you'd better keep your nose clean. You understand me?'
'Yes, sir.'
Chuck took a look around the station to see that he had things under control. He was satisfied with the results. Everyone was looking at him with respect tinged with fear, and that was the way he wanted it. There would be opportunities for joking later, for loosening the reins a bit, but what he needed now was respect. He glanced at Peters one last time and stalked back into his office, being sure to slam the door behind him.
Once inside, he closed the venetian blinds and sank into his chair. Being in command was part theatrics, part intimidation, and part setting an example. He didn't enjoy the theatrics or the intimidation, but he dreaded even more losing control of his men. Once that happened, he knew, you might as well turn in your badge.
He was not a natural leader-he knew that. At Princeton, Lee was always the alpha male, and Chuck had been happy with his role as sidekick. But then a miracle had happened: he had finally attracted the attention of Susan Beaumont, the most glamorous and beautiful woman he had ever known. For a long time she seemed to have fixed her sights on Lee, and then they had broken up and she was pursuing him. Even now it seemed like a dream from which he would awaken someday, but until then, he had resolved to do everything in his power to keep her interested. Being a lowly policeman would not do for the likes of her, so he set his eyes on precinct commander-and he made it, though it was not a natural fit. Chuck Morton was tailor-made to be second-in-command. He was diligent, honest, and intelligent, but not especially imaginative or charismatic. Still, he worked hard-harder than anyone would ever know-to get what he wanted, to please Susan, to make her proud of him.
And now here he was, commander of the Bronx Major Case Unit. It was a demanding job, especially now, after what had happened on the southern tip of Manhattan just a few short months ago. Everyone was jittery, and his men looked to him to set an example. And by God, he would set one if it killed him.
He looked out the window at the soot-covered sill, where a pigeon pecked away at some invisible scraps. He wished there was something he could do to take away his friend's pain, but he knew that the demons dancing in Lee's soul were beyond anyone's reach. But at least he could keep the men from making fun of his friend behind his back. He looked down at his empty coffee mug-he had forgotten to fill it. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. He knew that to go back out there now would spoil the dramatic effect of his stormy exit. The coffee would have to wait.
Lee Campbell stepped out of the police station into the dismal dog days of February, that time of year when all holiday cheer has evaporated, leaving in its place only a lingering shiver of wistfulness. The days were still short, and the cold weather a brusque reminder that spring was still a distant reality.
This year the cheer had been thin in New York, the holiday meetings filled with a sense of loss, of those suddenly gone, ripped brutally from their lives, like a conversation interrupted mid-sentence. There had been much talk in the media about healing, and of a 'return to normalcy,' but he knew that for many people the words were empty ones. The healing process would never be finished, and 'normalcy' would never come. He didn't know about the rest of the country, but New Yorkers now lived in two time zones: before and after.
Lee wrapped his knee-length tweed coat tighter around himself and headed for the subway. Like so many of the nicer things he owned, the Scottish tweed was a present from his mother, brought back from a recent trip to Edinburgh. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a store window, his haggard face looking mismatched with the elegant coat.
He ducked his head low against the biting wind and hurried onward. At times like this, there was one man he could turn to, who always seemed to know what to say, what to do. He smiled as he slipped through the turnstile to make a trip he had made a hundred times before, during his student days at John Jay College of Criminal Justice. He needed to see his old mentor: the irascible, brilliant, moody, and thoroughly misanthropic John Paul Nelson.
Chapter Six
Professor John Paul Farragut Nelson was not a happy man.
'Good God, Lee! Can't you give it a rest? You just got out of the hospital, for Chrissakes!'
Nelson savagely stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette in the glass ashtray on his desk and stalked over to the window. His office at John Jay College was spacious but cluttered, with books and research papers stacked on the floor on both sides of his desk.
Lee shifted in his chair and looked down at his shoes. He had expected a lecture, but his old professor was more worked up than he had anticipated. Nelson jammed one freckled hand into his right pants pocket and ran the other one through his wavy auburn hair.
'Do you really think you can be of any help in this case?'
'Well-'
'You had a nervous breakdown, for God's sake! And you think you can come waltzing back to work a few weeks later as if nothing ever happened?'
Lee stared at the floor. He knew Nelson well enough to know that when he got like this, arguing with him would only infuriate him more, like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Nelson actually resembled a bull at this moment, with his short, thick body tensed, nostrils dilated, his face as red as Lee had ever seen it-redder even than after an evening of Nelson's legendary bar crawling and untold shots of single-malt scotch.
A tall, skinny student with a punk hairstyle and a silver nose ring wandered past the office and poked his head in the door-but after one look at Nelson's face, quickly withdrew. Lee watched as the kid's spiky, bright orange hair disappeared down the hall. He looked back at Nelson, who was rummaging through his desk-probably looking for cigarettes. He never seemed to be able to remember which drawer he kept them in. Lee had always been a little mystified by the interest the celebrated Professor Nelson took in him, an interest that began the first day he took his seat in Nelson's Criminal Psychology 101, nicknamed 'Creeps for Geeks.' It was a required course, even for the technicians who investigated crime scenes, the CSIs who were generally thought of as nerds by the other students.
Nelson's teaching style reflected his personality. Imperious, brilliant, and impatient, he had a temper that could sweep up as suddenly as a storm over the waters of Killarney Bay, where he had traced his ancestry back for centuries. It was rumored that his father had been a member of the notorious Westies, a murderous Irish gang in Hell's Kitchen that flourished in the middle of the twentieth century. It was said their ruthlessness and brutality made the Mafia look like choirboys.
In spite of Nelson's reputation for remoteness, his interest in Lee had been immediate and fatherly. Lee thought maybe it was because he was a good ten years older than the average John Jay student, or perhaps it was their similar Celtic heritage. Nelson treated Lee with a kindness he did not display to the other students. In fact, he didn't seem to regard the human race as worthy of the kind of affection he usually reserved for his Irish setter, Rex. Nelson doted on the animal and spoiled him as extravagantly as any Upper East Side lapdog.
Nelson's interest in Lee's career continued after he left John Jay to join the NYPD as its only criminal profiler,
