J. Bertrand - Pattern of Wounds

“When I ask what he observed, he goes into a rant about the people next-door, how they’re always fighting and screaming, how he’s not surprised what happened. Did he hear them going at it that night? Oh yes. He heard them shouting, he heard her shrieks, he heard furniture crashing-which was the man beating his wife to death-he heard all that. And he did nothing.

“Now, this guy, he was built like a Greek god. The sweat’s dripping off of him and I’m standing there thinking, This is not somebody I’d want to face down. I mean, witnesses standing by and doing nothing, that’s par for the course. They’re afraid, they don’t know what’s happening, it’s all just too much to process. But this guy, he could have stopped it. He knew there was a history there, and he knew whatever was going down had to be serious.

“He could’ve done something, Carter, but he didn’t, and he had his reasons.” My throat feels dry and I realize I’ve been talking too fast, too loud, letting the memory take over. “Whatever you think about his reasons, they made sense to him. He was busy. He couldn’t be bothered. He did not want to get involved. It was no business of his. But, Carter, here’s the point: If I’d been there, I would have done something. And I’ll never feel anything for that man but contempt. So the last thing you want to tell me is, God could do something but doesn’t, and he has his reasons. ’Cause I’m not much, but I’m better than that. And you are, too.”

I put the car in drive and roll out. As we hit the pavement, a car veers around us, forcing me to brake. Next to me, Carter props his elbow on the windowsill, his hand covering his mouth. His jaw tenses and releases like he’s forcing himself not to speak. And I can see the wheels turning in his head, trying to fit back together the thousand pieces I’ve shattered him into. Or maybe he wasn’t listening, I don’t know.

There’s more I could tell, but that would mean bringing Carter deeper into a part of myself I don’t much want to share.

That body builder wasn’t my first.

I started with a bartender at the Paragon, the guy who’d served drinks to the woman who later T-boned Charlotte’s car and mortally injured our daughter. Finding dirt on him wasn’t hard. He was selling more than liquor under the bar. All I had to do was make sure my friends in Narcotics visited just after he’d topped off his stash. He only did a year, but if I’d let him off, he’d have done nothing.

The driver herself would’ve gotten worse, only she helped herself to a bottle of pills before I could get any leverage on her.

Wilcox caught on. He thought I’d planted the drugs-he probably still does-but the fact is, you can find dirt on most anyone if you’re motivated and very patient. I was both. In the end, he decided to let it slide.

Before long, I became obsessed with spotting people on the periphery of an investigation, the ones who’d otherwise slip the net. Settling scores on behalf of Lady Justice, though never in a big way, and never targeting anyone who didn’t have it coming. I framed no one, despite Wilcox’s suspicions. I just made sure the law was enforced in a few instances where it otherwise would not have been.

I don’t apologize for any of this, but there were consequences. My job performance suffered. I cut corners I shouldn’t have, fudging reports, missing court dates. My partner covered for me the way partners do, but he wasn’t happy about it. I was pulling a Fitzpatrick, he told me, and he was right.

With the body builder, everything changed. The guy was squeaky clean, as much a bystander in the rest of life as he’d been for our homicide. I had to get creative on this one: a sting of some kind, opening a door to some criminal enterprise that my subject was sure to walk through. To help flesh out the plan, I made the mistake of bouncing some things off an informant, and my informant went straight to Wilcox.

That was the end of our partnership. He wouldn’t grass on me, but he wouldn’t cover for me, either. I put him in a tight spot, and he extricated himself in the most unexpected way, sacrificing a promising career to make the jump into Internal Affairs. Even now, he’s half convinced I’d stoop to anything, utterly missing the point of my windmill tilting, which had to do with bringing more justice, not less.

Carter would understand none of this, or he’d chide me for trying to play God.

But what was I supposed to do? If the Almighty was gonna sit back and let it all happen, somebody had to step up.

There’s no such thing in my book as an innocent bystander.

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 8–9:14 A.M.

In Homicide the detectives are suiting up, strapping Kevlar over their white dress shirts and patterned silk ties, slipping their arms through the sleeves of reflective POLICE jackets, shifting the paddle holsters tucked into their waistbands with martial anticipation. Aguilar walks over to me with a spare vest.

“You wanna get in on this just for fun?”

I strip off my suit jacket and pull the vest on like a life preserver, battening down the side straps until they’re nice and tight.

“What’s the occasion?” I ask.

“Lorenz found his shooter from Friday. According to the tip, he’s holed up in an apartment right off Antoine, not more than a hundred yards from the scene. The tactical team will take the door, but the captain wants everybody out there for a show of strength.”

“Where is the captain?”

“In his office, probably. Working on the press release.”

“Funny,” I say, knowing that’s not the captain’s style.

While the boys load up on caffeine and testosterone, I bring the recurring 832 phone number from Simone’s records over to one of our non-sworn computer jockeys with instructions to find the matching name. On my way back I come face-to-face with Hedges, who’s wrapped in body armor of his own with a badge dangling from his neck.

“You’re rolling out on this, sir?”

He ignores the question. “How’s your case coming, March?”

“It’s a stone-cold whodunit.”

“I have confidence in you,” he says, patting my shoulder. “Get me that clearance, you hear? If Lorenz is bringing them in, anybody can.”

I give him a halfhearted smile. “True that.”

We head down en masse and I tuck myself into the backseat of an unmarked car with Aguilar, Ordway, and a tense-looking Lt. Bascombe at the wheel. The caravan snakes through downtown and onto the highway, winding around to the Northwest Freeway. The atmosphere in the car doesn’t lend itself to conversation, but I don’t let that stop me.

“We’re certainly gonna make our presence felt. It’s kind of strange, though, the captain charging in like this.”

“March,” Bascombe says, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. “You wanna zip it?”

Ordway rotates his bulk in the passenger seat, giving me a pair of raised eyebrows and some pursed lips.

“I’m just saying-”

“I know what you’re saying, and if you don’t zip it, you’re gonna be saying it on the curb.” With that, Bascombe flips on the radio and cranks up some commercial Nashville bubblegum, only to switch it off when his walkie starts squawking.

There’s an audience already when we arrive on scene, hooking up with the tail end of a stack of armed officers counting down the push. The lead man swings the ram, crunching open the cardboard door, and it’s Go! Go! Go! along the line. By the time my group is in the apartment, everybody’s re-holstering and there’s a skinny little perp in boxer shorts lying facedown on the carpet in cuffs, an upended cereal bowl spilled out next to his head. On the side table by the TV remote is a Glock 9mm that might as well be wrapped in gift paper with a pretty red ribbon.