J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

I step closer. “You knew about Wanda?”

“I couldn’t say anything,” she says. “I wanted to.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

The hearse doors shut and it begins to roll forward, a line of cars edging into procession behind. Time for bystanders to decide whether attending the church service was enough or if they will continue out to the gravesite.

“That was the last time I saw Jerry. When the two of you came to see me. Was that the same case you were working on. . when it happened?”

“It seems like such a long time ago.”

Cavallo’s husband, who’s been standing with a couple of cops in dress uniform, makes his way over. She bites her lip with indecision.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Wanda’s move. She wants me to go with her. I said I would.”

“You passed up the opportunity when Hedges offered it.”

“Well,” she says, “things are different now.”

She leaves us to meet her husband halfway. Charlotte raises an eyebrow: are we going to the gravesite or not? I mull it over a second, watching Cavallo depart. Things are different now. There’s no doubt about that.

“We’re going,” I say. “I owe it to him.”

The first time I reported for duty to Wanda Mosser, I was a different man, a newly minted detective with a happy marriage and a little girl at home, an up-and-comer with prospects and connections. Though my law enforcement experience up to then had been in uniform, unlike most officers getting their first plainclothes assignment, my resumé included a stint with CID while I was in the Army. Military service is always a plus, but having been an MP was golden. Not only would I shine in my new position, but my colleagues would be lucky to have me.

It took Wanda maybe ten seconds to cut me down to size.

“The question is whether I can make anything of you. With most of the boys they send me, even I can’t turn ’em around.”

We were always boys to Wanda. Even the women under her command, when referred to in the aggregate, were boys. And after a while, if you could endure her constant scrutiny and her blistering lectures, if you could earn every so often one of her reluctant smiles, then you counted yourself fortunate to be one of Wanda’s boys. She tore you down only to build you back up. Wanda was a master of esprit de corps .

No one called her Lt. Mosser. No one called her boss or sir or ma’am. She was Wanda to everyone, and yet you never felt like you were using her first name. I remember a veteran detective, a mustachioed old bull trying to stay young by dyeing what was left of his hair an unnatural black, telling a story that pretty much summed the situation up. He’d gone to a family Christmas party, this man of perhaps fifty, where his widowed mother sat in a wheelchair receiving kisses from a line of kids and grandkids. When he approached and planted a kiss on her forehead, he whispered under his breath, “Merry Christmas, Wanda.” Then, realizing with embarrassment the mistake, he corrected himself. “I mean, Merry Christmas, Mama !”

He told that story once in my hearing, but Wanda must have repeated it a hundred times. Supervising the Missing Persons section wasn’t enough for her; she wanted to be our matriarch, too. Fierce and protective as a mother, amongst her children Wanda also played favorites, pitting us against each other in the struggle for favor. The force of her personality was such that, once you were sucked into the familial mind-set, there was no getting out. She dominated your thoughts, provoking fierce loyalty and simmering anxiety at the same time. You’d cry into your beer after-hours about how Wanda didn’t appreciate you, didn’t even notice all the sacrifices you made, and then she’d bestow an “attaboy” and leave you beaming with pride.

I rode that roller coaster awhile, earning my way into her good graces, getting close enough to see how the Cult of Wanda worked. None of it, I decided, was premeditated. She plied her divide-and-conquer strategy by instinct, unaware she was doing anything at all. Realizing that, I admired her even more. I just didn’t want to work for her.

In my experience, Wanda was not above departmental politics. She even excelled at mid-level intrigues and interagency skirmishes. Before now, though, I would have said she only indulged in the squabbles to protect her territory and back up her people. Necessity drove her rather than ambition.

Last time I walked into Homicide, the captain’s awkward leave-taking had spoiled the atmosphere. The morning after Lorenz’s funeral, the shift hasn’t recovered. If anything, the detectives hunkered down in their individual cubicles give the impression of being shell-shocked. Only a few bother to look up as I pass. My own work space has been tidied by hands other than my own, my briefcase tucked under the footwell, and the one where Lorenz worked is entirely vacated.

I go to the break room for coffee, spend a few minutes at my desk getting my head straight, then lift my briefcase onto the desktop, opening the limp leather flap. From my drawer I transfer Bea Kuykendahl’s file on Ford into my case, along with every bit of paper I can find related to the investigation. The keyed lock on the flap is broken, so I pull the wraparound straps taut before tucking the briefcase back under the desk, ready for a quick exit.

A loud thump on the other side of the cubicle wall gets my attention. Glancing over, I find Cavallo dumping a second cardboard box onto Lorenz’s old desk. The rest of her things are secured by bungee cords to a collapsible luggage cart.

“Moving in?”

“Don’t start in on me, okay? It’s hard enough-”

I lift my hands in surrender. “No offense intended. I’ve been called to the principal’s office, that’s all. I don’t look forward to it. What’s she got in store for me? I’m guessing you already know.”

“Come on, March, you can’t ask me that. My loyalties are complicated enough. I can’t go behind her back. You know that.”

“Just tell me this: should I be worried?”

“If I played the game your way, I’d always be worried.”

I have to smile at that.

The clock is ticking, but before I obey the summons from Wanda, I take Cavallo through the office and introduce her to some of the newer detectives, the ones who weren’t around to witness her work on the Hannah Mayhew case firsthand. I let them know Hedges wanted her in Homicide back then, trying to head off any potential ill will. It’s the least I can do for a friend who’s put her career on the line for me more than once.

While I’m breaking the ice for her, the captain’s door opens and Bascombe peers out. He beckons me with a crook of the finger.

“Wish me luck.”

I don’t know what this place will look like once Wanda’s put her stamp on it. In a lot of ways, it’s changed already. The old stalwarts are gone. Hedges is gone. Lorenz. Of the old guard, there’s just Bascombe and me, and our relationship has always been tenuous. The squad as I knew it is over and I’m turning the page-as always-with a blot on my book.

The captain’s office proves unrecognizable. Everything’s changed, right down to the carpet. The sterile, businesslike style Hedges preferred has been replaced by tufted chairs, warm earth tones, and blond wood. Even the cheap metal blinds have given way to thick white plastic ones with faux grain molded into the slats. Instead of waiting behind her desk, Wanda occupies a wing chair in a new seating area, while Bascombe sits rigid on the low couch, his knees halfway to his shoulders.

“Come in, March,” she says. “Have a seat.”

I take my place beside Bascombe. Wanda crosses her leg and consults a notebook resting in her lap, reminding me of a therapist.