Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

Herrera just smiled. “Good luck getting probable cause. Now if you don‘t mind, you‘re scaring away my business.”

“Hey, does this work?” Kopzyck held a dusty Pentax.

Lara held her tongue. She turned and headed out the door.

Out on the street, Kopzyck caught up to her at the car. “You know he‘s gonna ditch that gun soon as we drive away.”

“Yeah, probably.”

He held his hands out, palms up. “Where you going? Let‘s toss the place now and get what we came for. That fat fuck won‘t say shit.”

“Don‘t start with that. Let‘s go.”

“Jesus, Mendes. Unclench already. Sometimes you gotta get creative with the probable cause. Drop a dimebag on his floor and bingo. We toss this dump and find our popgun.”

“And have it blow up in our faces when his lawyer smells a rat? No shortcuts, Chris. No dirty busts.”

“Think outside the box, Mendes. For once. You gotta adapt as the situation changes.”

Lara dipped back into the car. “No. I don‘t.”

Chris Kopzyck pointed an index finger to his head and mimicked blowing his brains out. Lara lowered the passenger window and leaned over. “Are you riding with me or do you want to adapt your way back to precinct?”

A WEIRD BUZZ thrummed through the fourth floor cubicles of Central Precinct. Lara felt it all the way back to her desk. She figured it was a good bust or maybe a clean confession issuing from the interview box. Maybe it was just another office party like the one yesterday, a retirement sendoff in Homicide. A retirement in Homicide meant there was a vacancy. She shook it out of her head and hunkered down to write up the incident report and witness‘s statement.

Twenty minutes later Kopzyck buzzed her cubicle and asked if she could send him her report so he could sign his name to it and send it off. She said no and he started bellyaching about how much he hated writing them and her reports were always done so well. When she still refused, he went into a long complaint about time management and pooling resources. Lara couldn‘t take anymore so she packed up her work to take home.

“You guys hear what happened?”

Detective Latimer leaned an elbow on the cubicle wall, looking at them like a schoolyard kid with a big secret.

“You got laid?” Kopzyck turned the page on his newspaper.

“Roberts got hurt. He‘s in the hospital.” Latimer handed her a card. “Sign this.”

“Is he okay?” Lara opened the card, saw the signatures crisscrossed everywhere and looked for an empty space to sign. “What happened?”

Latimer told them what he knew and Lara passed the card on. Kopzyck shook his head and laughed. “Gallagher. What an asshole.”

Latimer took the card back and moved on, hunting down more signatures. The floor was quiet, the lull before the shift change. Lara packed her homework and Kopzyck drifted back to his desk and they spoke no further. Both were thinking the same thing; one more drop in the unit. Someone‘s getting moved up to Homicide.

Kopzyck headed out, not bothering to say goodbye. He wanted a drink at the Pettygrove. See who was there. Maybe he‘d learn more about what happened and if the Lieutenant had anyone in mind to fill the vacancy. He knew he had a good shot at it. Lara Mendes? Not a chance.

OWEN COULDN‘T TAKE anymore. It had been two days since they shot that dog near the bridge. Two days since they saw that thing in the weeds. He had watched the news, listened to the radio and skimmed the newspaper. No mention of a body found by the river.

Run. That‘s what Justin had said. Owen wanted to call 911 but Justin said no. Just get the fuck out of here. They didn‘t do anything wrong. This was not their problem. Somebody else will find it. Just book.

Owen did what he was told. He didn‘t talk to Justin the next day nor did Justin call. He played PS2 and didn‘t leave the house. He kept checking the news, expecting the police to kick down his door any minute. He imagined the cops digging the bullet from the dead dog and tracing it, all CSI-like, back to him. He peeked out the windows, expecting to see a SWAT team creeping up to the house and bursting inside.

But they didn‘t. Nothing happened and that was worse. Maybe the cops found it but didn‘t call the press. They were sneaky fucks like that. Maybe it was still out there.

Owen got his bike and rode it down to the river. He just wanted to take a look. He rode off the bike path into a dirt rut and glided into the shadow of the bridge. Everything was dark. No flashing lights, no cops, no yellow police tape.

It was still down there. Waiting to be found.

He turned around and pedaled home as fast as he could, as if that thing out there would rise from the muck and come after him. He shut his bedroom door, snatched up the phone and just held it for a long time. Justin would kill him. Fuck him. He punched 911.

Copyright © 2012 Tim McGregor

All rights reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imaginationor are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover photograph by Maximilian Jänicke (rawimage)