Dave Zeltserman - Outsourced

Shortly after eight o’clock, Hadley wandered in, spotted Resnick and chewed the fat with him for a few minutes, remarking several times how glad he was they’d been able to wrap up that nasty business from the other day so quickly. Resnick was no longer so sure of that, but he held his tongue. Hadley seemed, for him anyway, buoyant, almost a sparkle in his dull eyes, and Resnick didn’t see any reason to ruin that over a hunch. But his gut kept telling him that this was something other than what it looked like.

He was surprised there were still no leads concerning the dead man. That meant the guy was either from out of state or a loner with no family or friends. He checked the Lynn police logs, saw that there were no reports of abandoned vehicles and then got on the phone to neighboring police stations, asking the desk sergeants to call him back if they found any vehicles that had been abandoned recently. With some luck they’d track down the dead man’s car. If he had a car.

Maguire came in a little after nine carrying a bag of donuts and two cups of coffee, one of which he handed to Resnick when they headed out together for the FBI building in Boston.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” Maguire confided. “I dunno. I wish I hadn’t seen that videotape.”

He didn’t look like he had slept much, his complexion grayish, the skin under his eyes swollen. Resnick didn’t bother saying anything. After all, what was there to say? That you get used to seeing young girls shot to death? It wasn’t true. Maybe you get hardened to it, maybe you get to the point where you don’t lose sleep over it, but how can you ever get used to something like that?

When they arrived at the FBI building, Resnick found Kathleen Liciano in her office. Her handshake had a cool, dry quality to it. She looked more relaxed than the other day, more professional and matter-of-fact than rigid. Resnick told her they still hadn’t identified the dead man they had found behind the bank. He gave her a copy of the surveillance tape showing the robbery.

“I was hoping you could help us build a profile of the men involved,” Resnick said. “Heights, weights, other physical characteristics you might be able to detect.”

“We have computer modeling software I can use. I’ll start working on this today.” She took a folder from her desk and handed it to him. “This copy’s yours,” she said. “Ballistics showed that the same gun was used on all three victims. Death was instantaneous for both Williams and the unidentified man-”

“You mean the Grateful Dead man,” Maguire interjected, smirking.

“…found in the back lot,” Liciano continued, ignoring Maguire’s miserable pun as her eyes held steady on Resnick. “Concerning the dead man, height is six foot one, weight two hundred and twenty-three pounds. Age sixty to sixty-five. He had a scar along his left thigh where I found a fragment of shrapnel consistent with mortar that was used during Vietnam.”

“So he was a Vietnam vet, probably decorated with a purple heart,” Resnick said.

Liciano nodded. “Hopefully that will help in identifying him,” she said. “No other distinguishing scars or marks. No calluses or cuts on his hands. He was probably a white-collar professional.”

Maguire inspected his own hands. “Could also be a cop,” he said.

Liciano continued to ignore him. She said to Resnick, “If I can help you in any other way or you’d like to talk about this report, call me any time.”

“Thanks, I appreciate your help.” They shook hands again, her grip still cool and dry like before, but there was also a firmness to it that Resnick liked. Maguire, still sulking, didn’t bother to offer his hand and Liciano didn’t seem to notice or mind.

While they were leaving her office, Maguire muttered to Resnick, “Damn, that’s one uptight lady. Someone should take that stick out of her ass.”

Resnick ignored him.

“So how do you suppose she’d like to help you?” Maguire asked, and then answered his own question by making an obscene gesture using his thumb and forefinger on one hand and his middle finger on his other.

“That’s not very nice,” Resnick told him. At first Maguire thought his partner was joking, but the look on his face made Maguire realize quickly that he wasn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Maguire said. “I told you before I didn’t sleep well. I spent the whole night thinking about that girl, how she was shot down like a dog… I don’t know, I guess it put me in a lousy mood. Besides, I thought my Grateful Dead man joke was funny.”

“Forget it.”

“But it’s still pretty obvious she’s interested in you, partner.”

“Just shut up, okay?”

“Man, your first wife must’ve really fucked you over.”

Resnick stopped in his tracks. “How do you know I had a wife?” he asked coldly.

“Stillwall told me-”

Resnick raised a finger and pointed it at his partner as hard lines showed along his jaw. “Here’s the deal, Walt. You don’t talk about my personal life, ever, and I don’t demand that Ken assign me a new partner. Deal?”

Maguire was taken aback by Resnick’s tone. “Excuse me for taking an interest,” he said. “Fine, whatever. Be a miserable fucking hermit for all I care.”

“Thanks for your permission.”

It was a quarter to ten when they got back to the front security desk. Resnick called Agent Spitzer on his cell phone. The security desk was then called back and an arrangement was made for them to be escorted to one of the interrogation rooms. Stillwall and Hollings were already there, Stillwall with his eyes closed, hands clasped behind his neck and feet up on the desk, giving the impression that he was napping. Hollings wore a thin, sarcastic smile and greeted his two fellow detectives with a wink. Also sitting at the table was a big linebacker type with a square jaw and wearing a suit stretched too tight across his chest and shoulders. He was introduced as Jim Taylor, an investigator out of the FBI’s organized crime unit. He acknowledged them with a short nod. Spitzer’s long dour face looked almost cheerful as he shook hands with Resnick and then Maguire.

“This could end up being very big,” Spitzer said. “We’ve been trying to loosen up Raymond Lombardo for over a year now. I think we’ve finally got him.”

“Let me guess, you’re going to let him walk on this,” Maguire said. “It doesn’t matter that two people are dead, another critically wounded.”

Spitzer gave him a stern look, any previous signs of cheerfulness fading fast from his long face. “Sometimes you have to look at the big picture.”

“This could help us shut down mob operations from Boston to Providence,” Taylor stated.

“What if he’s not involved?” Resnick asked.

“What?”

“Something’s not quite right about that tape.”

Stillwall had opened an eye. “Tell me more, boyo.”

“Before he takes his ski mask off, you can catch an eye movement as if he’s trying to spot where the surveillance camera is.”

Spitzer’s thin lips disappeared into two pale lines while he considered Resnick. “Sometimes if you look too hard you can see things that don’t exist,” Spitzer said, his voice thin, tight. “There’s no question the man on that surveillance tape is Raymond Lombardo.”

“Why would he take off his ski mask?” Resnick asked.

A slight twitch showed near Spitzer’s right eye. “Maybe he got hot,” Spitzer said. “Maybe he was pissed off about what happened inside the bank. Who knows, and you want to know something, who the fuck cares?”

“Maybe there’s some computer analysis you could do-”

“Can you believe this guy?” Taylor interrupted. He was staring at Resnick as if his head were a football that needed to be separated from his body. “It’s bad enough what we have to deal with now with defense lawyers who pull every underhanded trick imaginable and juries who won’t convict unless we can play them back the crime on videotape, but now that we actually have a videotape, this joker’s trying to claim that’s not even good enough.”