Jodi Compton - The 37th Hour

“No, sir,” I said.

“Family?”

“Shiloh and them really didn’t talk.”

Prewitt lifted his eyebrows and nodded to himself. I’d said nothing untrue, but felt angry with myself, as though I were exposing the most dirty corners of Shiloh’s life to Prewitt, who wasn’t even his superior. Shiloh was MPD, not Hennepin County.

“How was your relationship?”

“It was good.”

“Was Shiloh drinking?”

It doesn’t matter how high you go. Cops are blunt.

“He doesn’t drink,” I said.

Prewitt sighed, like a doctor who couldn’t find anything wrong with the patient before him and had six more in his waiting room. “So,” he said, “what are we going to do about you.” He said it flatly, not like a question at all.

“I’m going to keep investigating.”

“That’s a conflict of interest. I thought we were granting you personal leave.”

“You are. And I know it’s a conflict,” I said. “But it’s not the kind of conflict of interest we usually see. It’s not as if I’m investigating a case in which a family member of mine is a suspect, or being sent to arrest someone who committed a crime against someone close to me.” I paused to collect my thoughts. I wasn’t used to speaking this plainly to superiors. “Shiloh is missing. I can’t just let other people look for him.”

Prewitt nodded and tapped his desk with a pen. He looked back up at me. “Believe me, Detective Pribek, I’m not insensitive to your… to your situation.”

I wondered what unspoken word or words he had tripped over.

“But if you want to be involved unofficially, it has to be just that. Unofficially.” Then he tapped a pen against a folder. “I’m not naive. I realize that your shield may aid you in your search for answers. I can’t expect that you won’t use your status with this department. For that reason, you need to consider yourself, personal leave or not, a representative of the Sheriff’s Department. Your comportment must reflect that.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Another thing, I’m not sure how much support we can give you.”

I didn’t know what to say, and Prewitt, fortunately, went on.

“Shiloh lived-lives-in Minneapolis,” Prewitt said. “It’s MPD’s case to investigate. Generally, we don’t get involved in cases like this, a single missing adult male, when it’s in their jurisdiction.” He didn’t elaborate. “Moreover, unfortunately, we’re down two people now in our investigation division. You and Brown.”

“I know,” I said.

“We’d like to offer you more help, but in light of that, we really can’t.”

“I know,” I repeated.

“Of course, his report’s gone out. Everyone knows he’s one of ours. I’m sure there’s more than the usual concern out there.” He paused. “Did he really not own a car?”

“He used to,” I said. “He’d just sold it a week ago.”

“I see,” he said.

I heard dismissal in his tone and knew I should stand, but there was something else I wanted to say.

Prewitt must have seen it on my face. “What is it, Detective Pribek?”

“It’s something that…” I was trying to step carefully, “… something that I would bring up to you if it happened in our department. In-house. But it’s not, so I’m not sure I should pursue it.”

Prewitt’s eyebrows dipped slightly. “That really doesn’t tell me very much.” His words were a little sardonic, but there was curiosity in them, too. I’d said too much to call the whole thing off; now I had to move on.

“I was in the morgue last night,” I said. “A forensic assistant called me in. He wanted me to make a visual ident on a body he thought was Shiloh. It wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Prewitt said. “It happens.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But Shiloh had a scar on his right palm. It was part of the description in the missing-persons report. Clearly that wasn’t checked. I’m wondering if I should go over there and bring it up with someone.” Over there was the medical examiner’s office. I could see that Prewitt understood, but his face said he didn’t agree.

“It sounds like simple negligence to me. It’s unfortunate that you had to go through that, but mistakes do happen.”

I sat silent, once again missing my cue to take my leave. I wanted to tell him something that had only recently coalesced in my mind: Rossella had said he was sorry I’d had to come in, but now I had the opposite impression, that he was secretly glad. But I couldn’t tell Prewitt that. Feelings were just feelings; I couldn’t expect anyone else to use them as a basis for action.

“Is there something else you’re not saying?” he asked.

I touched the copper wedding ring on my hand. “He said he’d broken some fingers to take prints.”

Finally I had Prewitt’s attention; his eyebrows rose. “He told you that? That’s a little unusual,” he said.

“It’s very unusual,” I said. “As far as he knew, he was talking about my husband. I’ve never heard a pathologist or a forensic assistant say anything like that in the presence of a relative.”

“He may have felt he could speak that openly to you because of what you do for a living. Sometimes people who work closely with police officers overestimate the thickness of their skin; they may even feel the need to speak in raw terms to cops, to impress them,” Prewitt said slowly. “I think it very likely that he meant no offense. Relatives of the dead are sometimes too quick to see innocent behavior as inappropriate.” He paused, and then said, “I don’t think it’s something you should pursue… although that’s up to you, of course.”

“No,” I said. “I’m sure you’re right.”

Well done, Sarah, I thought, angry with myself. Your husband is missing. What would make you feel better? I know! Screwing up the career of a forensic assistant. At least I hadn’t mentioned Rossella by name.

I stood up, to take my leave. But now it was Prewitt’s turn to prolong our meeting.

“Detective Pribek,” he said, catching my attention as I was at the door. “I’m really not impervious to your pain.” It was what he’d meant to say earlier.

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

Alone in the stairwell, I reviewed the conversation in my mind.

Prewitt had been concerned with how I was going to comport myself while I looked for Shiloh; he was preoccupied with the personnel problem that my absence posed for him. He’d made a small effort to sympathize. I’m not impervious to your pain. Vang hadn’t even said that much when he’d heard.

I appreciated Prewitt’s words. But he had also asked the pertinent questions, made the relevant points. Was Shiloh drinking? he’d asked. How were you getting along? he’d wanted to know. I knew what he was really getting at.

Grown men rarely go missing, as a rule, Genevieve had taught me. I knew from experience that was true. They disappear on purpose, leaving town to escape debts and romantic entanglements gone wrong.

That was the unhappy truth behind Vang’s embarrassed silence, Prewitt’s questions. They both believed Shiloh had left me.

I spent the afternoon in more routine procedures. Looking at paperwork first, sitting on the couch with documents spread out on the low, scuffed coffee table.

Shiloh’s credit-card statement showed only one charge to an airline: $325 to Northwest Airlines. That was accounted for. In the absence of a charge to Amtrak or Greyhound, I went to those terminals in person. No ticket agents recognized the photo of Shiloh.

An investigation, when it is fruitless, makes increasingly wide circles. What cops don’t like to admit is that the outer circle of an investigation can be like the uppermost layer of the earth’s atmosphere. It’s thin and unrewarding. There’s not much out there to run across. Usually. But you ignore it at your peril.