Daniel Annechino - Hypocrisy

“I swear.”

Dupree nodded and T.J. led Tesler to the bathroom.

Chuckling to herself, Dupree made her way to the lab. How many times had she encountered a “Bad Ass” like Tesler—defiant, uncooperative, and rebellious—only to learn that even tough guys can be humbled?

She found John Butler viewing the surveillance tapes from Dr. Crawford’s apartment building. Before speaking to him, Dupree looked around the room, totally intrigued with twenty-first century forensics. Much of the equipment was foreign to her. As a homicide detective, she had little time to learn the intricacies of crime scene investigation. She knew the basics, of course. But the highly technical stuff she left to guys like John Butler. Some detectives spent more time in the lab than in the field. But not Dupree. She enjoyed working the streets, loved the chase.

She snuck up behind Butler and squeezed the top of his shoulders. He was so intensely studying the surveillance tapes and startled by Dupree’s sneak attack that he nearly fell backwards.

“You scared the friggin’ crap out of me, Amaris. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Sorry, John. I just couldn’t resist.”

“I owe you one,” Butler warned. “And you know I’ll get even.”

Of this, she had little doubt. “So what’s the deal?”

“Unless the murderer has a twin, the guy who ransacked Dr. Crawford’s apartment is the same guy that killed her.” Butler pushed a few buttons. “Check this out.”

Dupree stood behind Butler and watched the video in slow motion. “So he has the same build as our suspect and he’s wearing a Yankees’ cap and dark sunglasses.”

“But we can’t see the back of his neck,” Butler added, “because just like in the garage, he’s wearing the collar up on his leather coat.”

“Still with the leather coat,” Dupree said. “In sweltering heat no less. This guy is right out of a Soprano’s episode.”

“With or without seeing his neck, he is obviously our guy.”

Dupree and Butler silently watched the video again, looking for anything that might offer a clue.

“Well,” Butler said, “at least we know that he used Dr. Crawford’s key to unlock her door.”

“But how did he get in the building and past the front desk? And what the hell was he looking for that would force him to turn the place upside-down?”

“We can verify this with Cardone, the super,” Butler said, “but this building has tenant parking underground, and I’d bet a king’s ransom that when the killer snatched Dr. Crawford’s keys, he also got a bonus: a key to the elevator in the garage.”

“Makes sense,” Dupree said.

Butler wagged his finger at Dupree. “When have I ever been wrong?”

“I’ll make a list and give it to you in the morning.”

Dupree heard heavy footsteps behind her. She turned and saw T.J. “How’s Bad Ass doing?”

“Warm and comfy,” T.J. said. “His bladder is much happier now.”

Butler looked at T.J. “I’m not even going to ask.”

Dupree updated T.J. on the surveillance video.

“Maybe Bad Ass knows who the bald guy is,” T.J. said. “Why don’t we go rough him up?”

“Let him stew for a while,” Dupree said. “It’ll give him a little time to think about his grim future.”

Dupree and T.J., their desks side by side, took a few precious moments and worked on their daily reports, a part of homicide work that Dupree hated. Detectives had to document everything . From the odometer reading on their Crown Victoria, to expense reports, to a thorough recap of the day’s activities. Dupree often wondered how soon before the hierarchy of law enforcement would require detectives to record their bathroom breaks.

Dupree glanced up at the clock. “I think he’s had enough time to marinade.”

“I’m ready whenever you are,” T.J. said.

Dupree picked up the manila folder holding all the details of the investigation and tucked it under her arm. When they unlocked the door and entered the interrogation room, the strong stench of body odor hit the detectives in the face. Dupree guessed that Tesler’s body hadn’t seen a bar of soap in a long time. Tesler sat stone-still, his hands securely handcuffed to the metal ring screwed into the front of the wooden table. T.J. removed the cuffs and Tesler, noticeably relieved, massaged his wrists. Dupree and T.J. sat down and assumed their positions opposite Tesler. Dupree looked up at the video camera to be sure the red light was flashing.

“Mighty kind of you to remove the handcuffs,” Tesler said, his tone edged with sarcasm. “What did you think I was going to do, crash through the locked door like Superman?”

“Tell me,” T.J. said, “why did you run away when we buzzed your intercom and said we were New York City police?”

“Is this where you guys go through your good-cop, bad-cop routine?”

“Actually,” Dupree said, “we’re both bad asses, just like you. We just don’t have T-shirts to brag about it. Now answer the question: why did you run?”

“Cuz I’m sick and tired of cops hassling me. Every time a bike gets stolen in the neighborhood, you come knocking on my fucking door.”

“Maybe that’s because your criminal history is a city block long. You aren’t exactly a Boy Scout,” Dupree said.

“I ain’t never been convicted of nothing.”

“Well,” Dupree said, “that’s about to change.”

Tesler sat forward and grinned. “You guys are fishin’ in the wrong pond. I ain’t done nothing.”

“What kind of car do you drive?” T.J. asked.

“A Ford Fusion. Always buy American. Don’t want any part of Jap or Nazi cars.”

Dupree opened the folder. “What’s your license plate number?”

“I ain’t got it memorized. But I’d be happy to go look and get back to you.”

“What do you do for a living?” Dupree asked.

“I’m an unemployed brain surgeon.”

Dupree looked at T.J. “We’re wasting our time with this nitwit. Let’s just throw him in a cell, go have some dinner, and come back in the morning. I think he needs some time to think.”

“But tomorrow is the 4 thof July,” T.J. said

“You’re right. I guess we’ll come back in a couple of days.”

T.J. and Dupree stood. Before they even took a step, Tesler said, “You can’t just leave me here. You ain’t charged me with nothing and you got no grounds to arrest me. I know my rights.”

“Your rights?” Dupree said. “Then I guess you know that we can hold you for up to seventy-two hours.”

“That’s fucking bullshit!”

“Let me enlighten you, Mr. Bad Ass,” T.J. said. “When you jumped out the back window, you went from person of interest to suspect in the matter of a felony. In other words, we own your ass for another seventy hours, and we don’t have to charge you or arrest you. If you’d like to call your attorney, we’d be happy to arrange that.”

T.J. picked up the handcuffs lying on the table, stepped behind Tesler, and handcuffed him.

“Wait!” Tesler yelled.

“It’s too late,” Dupree said. “This is not like baseball; you don’t get three strikes.”

“We don’t need some jive-ass-punk busting our balls,” T.J. added. “We’ve got better things to do.”

They stood Tesler upright.

“I’m sorry! I’ll cooperate. I swear.”

“I’m not convinced,” Dupree said. She tightened her grip on Tesler’s bicep. “What do you think, T.J.? Should we give this pinhead another chance?”

“I’d rather have dinner and come back on the 5 th.”

Dupree pretended she was carefully weighing the two options. “Are you going to answer some questions, or would you rather spend the next three days locked in a cage?”