J Bertrand - Back on Murder

The trio who remain howl in mock protest, then start giggling, proud to have downed enough liquor to warrant intervention. I slip away to the men’s room, where I check the time and feel slightly appalled at the company I’ve kept.

In the mirror I find a hollow-cheeked man in need of a shave, wearing jeans too young for him and a T-shirt too tight, with a rumpled cotton blazer that might as well have been slept in. His nose is off-center, no upper lip to speak of, and his jaw is far from square. In fact, to my eyes, there’s almost a rodent aspect to the face. I’m not sure even a daddy complex and a quart of tequila can explain the drunk girl’s apparent interest.

As I’m drying my hands, the door swings open. Somebody stops on the threshold and does a one-eighty, disappearing from view. I only get a faint glimpse, but I think it’s the familiar-looking cop from the bar. When I emerge, he’s gone.

The table of party girls is empty, too, sparing me the indignity of having to slink past. At the bar, Marta tracks my departure. Leaving the twenty was a mistake.

Out in the parking lot, sweat rises on my forehead and in the small of my back. But I don’t sweat in the heat all that much. This perspiration is psychological. Time to get home to my dead-to-the-world wife.

The pink-skinned blonde leans against the side of a red Jeep, stabbing at the lock with her keys. While I pause to watch, she gets down on one knee, eyeball to eyeball with the lock, slotting the key in with the care of a surgeon.

Later tonight, sitting in my driveway with the ignition off, I’ll try to remember how I crossed the distance between us. Try to recreate the steps, and envision my hand seizing her bicep, jerking her up from the ground. I’ll try to recall the instant before I pushed her, wondering what I was thinking to put so much force behind it.

And I’ll try to forget, too. The sound of her body thumping against the Jeep, her choked-off yelping. The sight of the tears.

But now it all happens in a blur, and the next thing I know she’s screaming and flailing blindly with her bangled arms.

“Are you crazy?” my voice is shouting. “I’m doing you a favor!” My hands shake her silly, leaving marks on the skin. “What’s wrong with you, getting behind the wheel in your condition?”

She’s not listening. She can’t even hear me over her moaning. And then her face changes, her mouth forming an O, her veiny throat jutting like the neck of a teapot. I realize too late what’s coming, and step back just as the first ropey torrent pours out, splashing down my pants leg and all over my shoes. She twists free, staggering toward the bar’s door, her hand over her mouth. Another wave hits, bubbling through her clamped fingers. That image, caught in slow motion by the amber glare of a streetlight, sears me.

What have I done?

She disappears into the bar, and I head off shaking my damp leg. Disgusted with her and with myself. My car is parked on the other side of the lot. I get the door open just as the first patrons stream out of the Paragon, glancing left and right for the man who accosted the glitter-eyed girl.

I don’t bother explaining. I couldn’t if I tried. I just leave, knowing one thing for certain.

They won’t let her drive home like that.

About the paperwork. You spend the first hours and days waiting on reports – crime scene, autopsy, results of various tests both standard and specially requested – then suddenly, it all comes flooding in. And you go from not having enough information, building theories on hunches and the thinnest observations, to positively drowning in the stuff. Sifting the data for what’s important, that’s a skill not everyone possesses.

Take Lorenz, for instance. He sits in his cubicle, scanning an index finger back and forth over the page. I’ve been watching him for a solid minute. Every couple of seconds he licks his fingertip, turns the page, then nods slowly, as if he’s assimilating an important bit of info. Problem is, assuming our boy Octavio died from the shotgun wounds to his gut, there’s nothing in the standard tox screen that warrants assimilation.

“Something interesting?” I ask.

The funny thing is, he looks up in surprise. Like he didn’t even realize I was watching. So the whole act was for no one’s benefit, unless it’s himself he’s trying to convince.

I reach for the stack of paper at his elbow. “Mind if I – ”

His forearm drops like a gate, blocking my reach. Nice. Lorenz had some muscle on him when he joined HPD, but somewhere along the line he reversed the balance between workouts and red-meat consumption. Now his blue blazer, which he keeps buttoned even when sitting, pulls at the belly and his shoulder pads ride up around his ears. On his lapel there are series of discolorations, spilled milk allowed to encrust, then brushed away without being cleaned. For a homicide detective, this verges on the slovenly.

“I’m kind of busy here, March. If you want to make yourself useful, why don’t you start on those call-backs? A couple of tips came in over the weekend.”

“I already looked. Nothing there. Can I just get the blood report? I want to see if there’s an id on the missing victim.”

“If there even was one,” he says, not budging. “Those ties could have been there forever, you know. There’s nothing linking them to this particular incident, is there?”

“You mean it’s just a big coincidence?” I stroke my chin in consideration. “That’s a fascinating theory. Why don’t you pursue that, and meanwhile I’m gonna stick to the more obvious explanations. Maybe we’ll meet in the middle.”

I’m baiting him, I admit. But to his credit Lorenz doesn’t react. He just gives another of his slow, assimilating nods. Then he flips through his stack of reports, apparently hunting for the blood work. After reaching the bottom, he shrugs.

“Not here yet, I guess.”

“Fine. Thanks for checking. I’m gonna call and see what the delay is.”

As I turn, he grabs me by the sleeve. “Hold up a second. Have a seat.”

I try leaning against the cubicle wall, but he shoves a chair my way and I finally relent. Once I’m seated, he leans forward and starts talking in a quiet, reasonable tone.

“Listen,” he says. “I’m not an idiot. I know what’s at stake here for you. You’re thinking if you can make me look bad, the captain’s gonna keep you around – ”

“It’s not about that.”

“Let me finish. This is a big break for you, I get that. But I’ve been on Homicide for – what, a year? – so this is a big break for me, too. You’re not the only one with something to prove. So we can do this one of two ways. You can back my play, in which case I’ll be sure to throw some bones your way. Or you can turn this into a head-to-head match.” He gives me his best psych-out stare. “In which case you’ll lose.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Trust me. You won’t even finish the game.”

I vacate the chair, giving his oversized shoulder a friendly pat. “All right, then. Why don’t we both just focus on the case? You do your thing and I’ll do mine.”

“That’s not what I’m offering, March,” he calls after me. “The deal is, we both do my thing. This is my investigation. Either we’re clear on that, or we have a problem.”

Halfway to my desk I offer an insincere wave. Reading you loud and clear. My brain says I should try keeping this idiot happy, but my gut wants to throw down. The thing about threats is, people make them out of fear. Either they don’t have the power to follow through, or they don’t want to use it. In this case, Lorenz probably could pull some strings, but he’s smart enough to realize his position is only slightly less precarious than mine. At least I hope he is.