Daniel Annechino - Hypocrisy

“Well, there you have it, Amaris. The whole agonizing story. Unabridged and unedited.”

For the remainder of the ride, the few words they shared were strictly incidental.

Dupree and T.J. finally arrived at Ivan Tesler’s apartment. Dupree looked up and down the street but didn’t see a white Ford Fusion. That didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t home. Most of the big homes in this neighborhood had multiple apartments and some of the garages were behind the structures, hidden from the street.

To the left of the front door, Dupree saw an intercom system with four call buttons and the name of each resident glued to the side of each button.

“Interesting,” Dupree said. “There’s no name next to unit 3.”

She pushed the button.

Nothing.

She pushed it a second time.

“Who is it?” The man’s voice crackled through the small speaker.

“New York City Police. We’re looking for Ivan Tesler.”

No response.

Dupree pushed the call button again. “Hello.”

Still no answer.

“I’ll stay here,” Dupree said, “You go around back.”

T.J., showing his athleticism, didn’t even use the steps. He held onto the wobbly railing with one hand, braced himself, and like a gymnast, sailed over the railing and landed a perfect 10 on the driveway. Watching T.J. hit the asphalt, thinking about the ACL he had torn, Dupree didn’t quite understand why he’d risk another knee injury. He took off, sprinting toward the back of the home. When she heard T.J. yelling, she hopped down the front steps and jogged to the driveway. T.J. was nowhere in sight. Dupree drew her handgun, pulled back the slide, and cautiously moved towards the backyard.

“T.J.,” she yelled, picking up the pace.

“Back here!” he shouted When Dupree reached the end of the driveway, she cautiously came around the corner. About twenty feet away, she saw a man lying face down on the grass, just past the end of the sidewalk. T.J. straddled the man’s body and was in the process of cuffing him. Dupree eased off the trigger and holstered her handgun.

“What have we got here?” Dupree asked, slightly out of breath. She recognized Tesler from his rap sheet.

“I caught him hopping out of the back window and tackled him just before he made it to the fence.”

T.J. stood the man upright. “Detective Dupree, meet Ivan Tesler—in the flesh.”

The man was tall and lean, his hair greasy. It hung in his eyes and over his ears. Pockmarks covered his cheeks. Tesler’s jeans looked like they’d never been washed and printed on the front of his grease-stained T-shirt were the words, “Bad Ass Motherfucker.”

“It doesn’t bode well that you tried to run away,” Dupree said.

“Why are you pigs always hassling me?”

“Maybe because your rap sheet is thicker than a New York City telephone book.”

“What the hell is a rap sheet?”

With that statement, Dupree guessed that Tesler probably wasn’t a scholar.

T.J. pushed the man forward. “Let’s take a ride, Bad Ass.”

“Hey you,” Dupree said, “Why the hell did you jump over the porch railing? Weren’t you afraid of reinjuring your knee?”

“The Navy doesn’t agree, but my orthopedic surgeon says my knee is one-hundred percent.”

“Well, you sure proved that.”

With Ivan Tesler restlessly fidgeting in the back seat, his wrists still handcuffed, Dupree and T.J. headed back to the 40 thprecinct. Their car was not equipped with a protective cage separating the front and back seats, so for most of the ride, T.J. sat sideways and kept his eyes on Tesler. Although neither of the detectives talked much during the ride—they didn’t want to unintentionally disclose anything about the investigation—Tesler had no problem expressing his irritation.

“Are we almost there?” Tesler repeatedly asked. “I really have to take a piss.”

“Go ahead. Let it go,” T.J. had answered. “The upholstery is Scotch-Guarded. Just don’t shit your pants.”

Dupree just shook her head.

She couldn’t wait to get Tesler in an interrogation room. Although she had no strong evidence to link Tesler to Dr. Crawford’s murder, at the least, he was indirectly involved. Why else would he have been following her?

Just as Dupree was searching for a parking spot, Adele once again was singing “Set Fire to the Rain” on Dupree’s cell phone.

“Go ahead, John, make my day.” She did her best Dirty Harry impersonation.

“Sorry, Clint, but I’ve got nothing for you. We dusted every flat surface, doorknob, door jamb, counter top, drawer handle—everything in the entire place—and other than Dr. Crawford’s and Jonathan Lentz’s prints, we found nada.”

“Terrific,” Dupree said. She could understand why Lentz’s fingerprints showed up, but it seemed odd that nobody else’s did. Based on what she already knew about Dr. Crawford and the fact that she probably didn’t do much entertaining, finding no other prints seemed reasonable. She glanced at Tesler, not wanting him to hear any more of her conversation with Butler. He was dancing around in the backseat as if he’d drunk a pot of espresso. Obviously, he really had to pee. “Where are you, John?”

“In the lab.”

“T.J. and I just pulled in the garage. We’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting with bated breath.”

Dupree eyed T.J. and shook her head ever so slightly, signaling him that Butler and company hadn’t found any prints. He acknowledged with a tight-lipped nod.

T.J. got out of the car, opened the rear door, pulled on Tesler’s arm, and not-so-gently yanked him out of the backseat. With one detective on either side of Tesler, they led him to the entrance. Once inside, they walked the suspect down a long hallway and stopped in front of the bathroom door.

“Still have to go potty?” T.J. asked, his tone sounding like a parent speaking to a child.

“Like a fucking racehorse.”

“You escort our friend here to the little boy’s room,” Dupree said. “Once he’s done with his business, sit his ass down in room 3. I’ll be in the lab talking to Butler.”

Just as Dupree turned to walk away, Tesler said, “Hey, Detective.”

Dupree turned, cocked her head, and stared at him.

“I’ve got a great idea.” Tesler flashed a dirty little grin and exposed a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. “Instead of this homo playing with my dick, why don’t you hold it and help me pee?”

Dupree glanced at T.J. and knew that he wanted to backhand the asshole, but he kept calm.

“You really want me to hold it for you?”

“Sure do.”

“Tell you what, Mr. Tesler. You just lost your bathroom privileges. We’re going to sit you and your piss-filled bladder down in an interrogation room all by yourself, and we’ll be back to speak with you in about an hour. Feel free to piss and shit all over yourself. How’s that, Mr. Bad Ass?”

Tesler’s defiant look faded to alarm. “You can’t do that.”

“Watch us.” Dupree grasped one of his arms and T.J. held onto the other. With her free hand, Dupree pushed on the center of his back, and moved him down the hall. She stopped in front of room 3 and opened the door.

“Have a seat, Bad Ass,” Dupree said. “And don’t worry about making a mess. The chair is aluminum and the floor is water-resistant vinyl. Piss as much as you like.”

“Stop! Please! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Should we give him another chance?” Dupree asked T.J.

“I don’t think he deserves it.”

Tesler squeezed his knees together, obviously in pain and ready to let loose.

“Are you finished fucking around with us?” Dupree asked.