Julia Spencer-Fleming - All Mortal Flesh

“We can handle a murder investigation.”

“I didn’t mean strained to the breaking point because of the demands of the case. I meant psychologically. Emotionally.” She leaned forward, spidering her hands on the table. “Chief Van Alstyne, I guarantee you, every officer in your department is walking around with the same nasty thought in the back of his head: Could it happen to me? Is someone I love going to die next?”

He cleared his throat. “There’s no evidence we’re dealing with some sort of pattern.”

She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s what’s here”-she tapped her heart-“and not here.” She tapped her head.

“Russ, the decision’s been made.” Jim Cameron didn’t look happy, but Russ knew that wouldn’t stop him from doing what he thought was right. “You and the department need the support, and the public needs to know that there’s someone on the case who isn’t involved personally. I want you to take Investigator Jensen back to the station and put her experience to good use.” He stood up. The rest of them followed suit. “We all want the same thing. We want the person responsible for this atrocity behind bars.”

“Or strapped to the gurney in Clinton,” Eddie Palmer mumbled.

Russ stood to one side. “Get your coat and your things,” he said to Jensen. “I’ll walk you over to the station.”

She tripped past him in high heels. He hoped she’d brought something more sensible, or her feet’d be frostbit by nightfall. The aldermen trailed her through the door. The mayor would have followed, but Russ stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“I just want to get one thing straight. Was it the gossip that decided you to call Captain Ireland at Troop F? Or did the board put you up to it?”

Cameron looked surprised. “I didn’t call Ireland,” he said. “He called me.”

She did have boots. In the time it took for Russ to get the mayor’s two-by-four between the eyes- I didn’t call Ireland. He called me -she had changed into mukluks and was zipping up a midsized duffle. “This way,” he said, jerking his head. He didn’t register leaving the town hall and walking to the station. All his attention was inward, trying to construct some Rube Goldberg logic machine that would enable him to believe the staties hadn’t been tipped off by someone in the Millers Kill Police Department.

He couldn’t do it.

They had been keeping a near-blackout in the press. The Post-Star reported the MKPD was investigating “a suspicious death,” a semifiction they carried off because the department, with MacAuley as its affable spokesman, was usually transparent to the local media. It might have become an item of gossip around town, but what civilian would know to call the state police and get them involved? One of the aldermen? But no, Jim Cameron would have said something.

It had to have been one of his own.

“Hey, you’re back.”

Russ blinked. He was startled to find himself standing in front of Harlene, who was staring at Jensen with open curiosity.

“Uh,” he said. “Harlene, this is Investigator Jensen. She’s here from the Troop F BCI to help us with the investigation. This is our dispatcher, Harlene Lendrum.” He didn’t quite turn toward Jensen.

“Chief? That you?” Mark Durkee strode into the dispatch area, his hands full of manila files.

“What are you doing here?” Russ asked.

Mark stared at Jensen stripping off her wool coat, then at Russ. “I got put-I’m on day duty now, remember?”

He didn’t, but that was fine. Mark was the perfect person to unload his unwelcome guest on. “This is Investigator Jensen of the New York State BCI,” he said. “She’s going to be joining us for the investigation.” Durkee’s eyes widened. “Show her the file and get her up to date on everything.” He spun on his heel and disappeared behind his closed office door before either of them could reply.

He needed more information. Who could he call? He leaned against one of the window frames, watching the traffic crawl down Main Street. The plows had shoved the remains of Sunday’s storm off the road, but the parking spots on either side were still clotted with snow. Trucks and SUVs that forced their way into the compacted mess stuck out into the roadway, narrowing the thoroughfare into a single lane at spots. He would have to call in Duane and Tim, the part-time officers, to hand out a few tickets and get the TEMPORARILY CLOSED TO PARKING signs up.

Nathan Bougeron. Of course. He had been a talented young officer when Russ took over the MKPD seven years ago. Too talented-within two years he had been wooed away by the staties. He was in Lafayette now, in plainclothes. Russ dropped into his chair and riffled through his Rolodex. He punched the number in.

“Investigator Bougeron.”

“Nathan, it’s Russ Van Alstyne.”

“Hey, Chief! Good to hear from you. How’s it going?”

The commonplace nicety threatened to swallow Russ whole.

“Chief?”

He decided to skip over the end of his life as he knew it. “I’ve got a situation here, and I was hoping you could give me some information.”

“If I can. What’s up?”

“We’ve been assigned an investigator from the Troop F BCI. Name’s Jensen. She’s young, about your age-”

Bougeron snorted in amusement. “I’m thirty-two, Chief. I don’t know if that qualifies as young.”

“Trust me, when you’re fifty, it does. Anyway, do you know anything about her?”

“She doesn’t sound familiar. What’s her first name?”

“Uh… I don’t know. We haven’t gotten that informal yet.”

“Doesn’t matter. There can’t be too many Jensens working out of Middletown. Let me make a few calls, and I’ll get back to you.”

Russ thanked his former officer and hung up. As soon as his line was free, Harlene buzzed him. “Are you gonna give the morning briefing now?”

“No,” he said. “I’m waiting for a callback. I’ll round up everybody as soon as I’m finished.”

“Sure thing, Chief. I’ll let the guys know not to disturb you.”

He hated the way people talked to him now. Four days ago, if he had told Harlene he was postponing the morning briefing, she would have made a crack about him getting lazy in his old age. It was if he had found himself in a foreign country, surrounded by natives who spoke at him very… slowly… and… clearly so he might understand.

“Wait,” he said. “Is Lyle here yet?”

“Yeah.”

“Will you ask him to come in?”

“Sure thing.”

The door opened within seconds, leading Russ to guess that not only had Lyle been in the building, he had been standing next to Harlene asking her about the morning’s events. The deputy chief strolled in and took one of the chairs, relocating a few file folders onto the floor. He tipped back on the rear legs, balancing himself on the toes of his boots.

“You meet this investigator from the BCI yet?”

If Lyle was surprised at Russ’s brusqueness, he didn’t show it. “Yep. Mark introduced us. She’s in the squad room right now, going over the initial reports and the autopsy.”

“Did you call the BCI in on the case?”

“What?” Lyle lurched forward as the chair crashed onto all four legs. “Hell, no! I’ve been trying to keep the lid on this thing since it happened. Why the hell would I invite the staties in?”

Russ pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve been encouraging me to stay home and back off of the investigation. I thought maybe-”

“You thought wrong, as the saying goes.”

“Sorry.” Russ sighed. “But the only thing I can figure is that one of us blew the whistle. I mean, I’m not being irrational, right? I ought to welcome any and all help to bring in this guy, I know that, but Jesus Christ, the thought of one of my own guys calling down the staties…”