Neil pulled the stirrer out of his mouth and tossed it out the window. Unconsciously, he began to finger the crucifix chain around his neck. It was another one of his tics. For several minutes, neither of them said anything as they proceeded toward headquarters, Neil looking as if he had put behind them any resentment that Ottoman had corroborated Steve’s murder theory. But Steve was not convinced. Neil was a quiet brooder.
“I don’t care how good a pathologist he is,” he finally said. “He gives me the fucking creeps is all. I mean, how many guys say, ‘Let’s talk strangulation,’ and grin like that?”
“You’d be creepy too if you spent your days cutting up cadavers.”
“Yeah, but I think he gets off on it. I mean, when he was a little kid instead of a fireman or baseball player, did he say he wanted to be a coroner?”
Steve laughed. “He probably made that decision in medical school.”
“That’s what I’m saying. He’s got a whole list of medical options—psychiatry, neurology, cardiology, gynecology, pediatrics, whatever. So, what kind of person decides he’s going to make cadavers his specialty?”
“I don’t think he sees dead people the way most people do. They’re more like scientific problems to be solved. And what about us opting for homicide?”
Neil shrugged. “Maybe we’re a little weird, too. Not like we’ve got lots of cool options—traffic, public safety, cyber crime, domestic violence, harbor patrol. Administration. I think I’d die an early death if I had a desk job.”
“Yeah, me, too.” Only on movie or TV screens was homicide cool—cops rolling into crime scenes in shiny black Hummers, wearing Armani suits, spouting hot-shit platitudes, finding conclusive DNA evidence, getting the bad guy IDed the next day. The real thing is not like that. Nor is the crime sanitized. In Steve’s experience it was a daily confrontation with human depravity: bodies found in a basement, their brains exploded for a fistful of dollars; young kids dead in a playground over sneakers; a wife and child bludgeoned in a moment of madness because of mounting bills; a pregnant woman murdered, her fetus cut out of her. Or shooting dead some kid zonked out on OxyContin and coming at you with a gun. All in a day’s work.
But one never quite gets used to it. You cope for a while, maybe seek counseling for the stress and horror. But eventually it comes back up like a clogged toilet. That’s when you go for the unhealthy solutions—cigarettes, booze, drugs—whatever it takes to anesthetize your emotions to the constantly unfolding human tragedies. Sometimes they work. Sometimes they fail and you find yourself gripped by nightmares and crying jags, overcome by fear, depression, and cynicism.
And then you have to go home to loved ones expecting emotional comfort, intimacy, and normal family life. At least medical forensics is science.
“What about you?” Neil asked. “Why’d you want to become a cop?”
“I just wanted to get out of the house.”
“That bad?”
Steve nodded. “My parents had a rotten marriage, fighting all the time. By the time I went to college, they were dead and I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I thought maybe I’d be an actor. Then it was an English teacher. Then in my junior year I changed to criminal justice. I think it was all those cop shows. They made it look easy. Maybe I should have been a TV cop.”
“Yeah. But I can’t see you as an English teacher.”
“Me neither. The funny thing is when I was a kid I never felt comfortable around cops. They’d look at me twice and I’d feel like I’d done something wrong.”
“Sounds to me like you were paranoid.”
“Yeah. I always felt guilty around them. Pretty weird, huh?”
“So, why’d you want to become one?”
“I guess to get bigger than the things that scared me.”
Neil looked at him with a half smirk. “You there yet?”
“I don’t know. I think the job’s made it worse.”
They arrived at the stoplight at Massachusetts and Columbus Avenues. “Check out this girl.”
Waiting at the light were two young women, one wearing a Northeastern University baseball cap and unremarkable student attire. The other was curvy and dressed in low-slung jeans and a short tight top, leaving most of her midriff exposed. She held a cell phone to her ear and leaned back slightly to hear better, stretching her exposure. “Cute,” Steve said.
“Cute? Her jeans are practically down to her bush.”
“Funny thing is you see a woman’s stomach on the beach all the time and you give it little thought. But cover the rest of her and put her on the street, and it’s provocative.”
“Provocative? It’s goddamn slutty. And that’s the standard-issue mall-girl look. I took Lily to the Cambridge Galleria last weekend, and I swear half the girls are dressed like that—got the belly-baring tops and low-slung spray-on jeans. Their navels got beads and rings and tribal tattoos. And the latest is short shorts with fishnets. I mean, they look like porn stars.”
Since his wife’s death, Neil had been raising Lily on his own. She was a sullen kid who, like her father, suffered from migraines and who had some emotional issues that Neil said they were dealing with. Steve counted the seconds for the light to change.
“You see the same thing in church,” Neil continued. “No modesty. When I was a kid, you showed up in jeans or shorts, they wouldn’t let you in the door.”
“Probably stone you.”
“I’m serious, man. Women wore dresses.”
“Times have changed.”
“Yeah, for the worse. I look at a girl like that and wonder what she was thinking when she looked in the mirror.”
“Probably, ‘This is how I feel like expressing myself.’”
“Yeah, ‘I’m hot. Fuck me.’”
“I was thinking more like, ‘I’m cute. Desire me.’”
“Maybe it’s because you don’t have a daughter.”
“Maybe. But I still don’t think girls consider if boys will be turned-on or not. I think they dress because of what they see on other girls or TV. It’s personal theater.”
“Okay, ‘I’m a ho in a hip-hop video.’”
“I didn’t say it was intelligent theater.”
Behind Neil’s protest was more than a conservative Catholic upbringing. Before joining homicide, he had worked in anticrime initiatives that targeted prostitution in the theater district and nearby Bay Village and Chinatown. Hundreds of arrests of hookers and would-be customers, many drug-related, had been made, but Neil hated the assignment. He couldn’t wait to transfer out. After roughing up a few suspects, he was transferred to homicide.
“The thing is it scares me.”
“What does?”
“All the shit out there—in the media, movies, online—and what it’s doing to Lily. Over the last year she’s developed a woman’s breasts. I don’t know, maybe I’m supposed to be happy for her: ‘Hey, my kid’s really stacked.’ Maybe she’s taking birth control pills, because that’s what sometimes happens—they get overdeveloped. I think she’s getting them from friends because I know it’s not her pediatrician.”
“You’re worried about her being sexually active.”
“Yeah, but it’s not just that. She’s aware how she looks, and she’s beginning to flaunt herself. Her clothes are too revealing and I have to talk to her. But sometimes she slips out of the house looking like that chick. Or worse. Also guys are calling her all the time. And some of them are older—in their twenties. It scares me where it can lead.”
They were silent some more as Steve could sense Neil struggling with something.
Then he said, “I think she’s sending stuff over the Internet to guys.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Photos of herself.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“Yeah,” Neil said, and did not elaborate. “It’s how she hooks up. It’s what kids are doing today—making their
