William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

It would be a good long time before I stopped talking like that, even longer before I stopped thinking of myself in those terms. That may seem stupid to you, dear diary. After all, we don’t live in the eighteenth century. But fear can be a powerful motivator. And the fear of being different is the greatest of them all. In the face of abject hate, even the most stalwart may become cowards.

Tulsa County Police Department

Downtown Tulsa, Oklahoma

Sergeant Baxter found her partner hunched over his desk, as usual. It was piled sky-high with paper, files, books, and about a week’s worth of coffee cups. With his furrowed brow and intense eyes, he brought to mind those comics where Snoopy pretends to be a vulture.

“Still at it?”

Mike grunted.

“Metzger case?”

“Mmmm.”

“Any new leads?”

“Nnnnnnn.”

Well, this conversation wasn’t getting her anywhere. Maybe she shouldn’t barge in and start talking when he was obviously working, but it was hard to restrain herself. After the remodel five years ago, everyone on the floor worked in cubicles with no doors, no windows, and no ceilings, so privacy was hard to come by. “Morelli, I know you go for that brooding monosyllabic thing, and you do that somber Heathcliff look better than anyone I know, but if I’m going to be your partner, you’re going to have to open up more.”

He lowered his pencil. “You used a conditional clause.”

“Excuse me?”

“You should have used the subordinate: Since I’m going to be your partner, you’re going to have to open up more.”

“Don’t English major me, Morelli.”

“But instead, you said if . As if there was some question about it.” He looked up. “Is there?”

At least now she had his attention. “Why? Do you want there to be?”

“You tell me.”

“I thought it was a done deal. We told Chief Blackwell we could work together.”

“True enough. Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t had a change of heart.”

“Why? Have you?”

“I asked you first.”

She crinkled her nose in disgust. It seemed as if every time she found herself almost liking him, he did something to remind her that she didn’t. Sure, she was grateful; coming to Tulsa after that fiasco in Oklahoma City had salvaged her career. And after he got over his initial opposition-well, actually, it had lasted about a month-Mike had been quite kind to her. But she never forgot what a total pain in the butt he was to work with. “Look, I know obsession is your middle name and all that, but I think you need to give this Metzger case a rest.”

“Never.”

“It would be different if you were getting somewhere, but-”

“I let those murderers slip right between my fingers.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Whether it was or wasn’t, it should’ve been my collar.”

“No cop nabs every perp. It’s part of the game. Don’t ruin your life with this.”

“This is my life.” He returned his attention to his desk.

And if that was the way he wanted it, why not leave him to it? she asked herself, not for the first time. No skin off her nose, right? It’s not as if they were dating. It was just a working relationship, pure and simple. Okay, there had been that one kiss. One and a half, if you counted the near miss in his office. But that had been an accident. Happened months ago, and he hadn’t shown any interest since. They were partners, that was all. It was a professional relationship, and it would be best for all concerned if it stayed that way. Let him bust a gut over that kidnapping case.

Except that she couldn’t.

“Been talking to Tomlinson,” she said. “He told me you get like this.”

“Did he now?”

“Told me about the Kindergarten Killer case. Said you were like a drooling Looney Tune during that one.”

“He would know.”

“And then there was the poisoned water case with the Sick Murder Method of the Month Club guy.”

“You and Tomlinson must’ve had a long chat.”

“I brought Starbucks.” It had been a good talk. She knew how to bring people out. When she was growing up with her mom in Longdale-really more an expanded trailer park than a town-they’d had lots of time to talk. No money, but loads of chitchat. Her mother may not have been college educated, but she was quite the philosopher, in her own homespun way. Baxter’s mama had taught her that she could do anything she wanted to do, could be anyone she wanted to be. Those had become the watchwords of her life. If her mama were alive, she’d be proud to see that the daughter of a small town beauty shop stylist had become a homicide detective. She’d done all right for herself, no doubt about it. Now if she could just get over this habit of falling for men she worked with-another legacy of her mother, come to think of it-her life would be perfect.

She peered at Mike through the tall stacks of books on his desk. He was working hard at giving the appearance of paying no attention to her. But she noticed he hadn’t turned a page since she came into his office. “The point is Tomlinson says you always become intense and driven and monomaniacal when you’ve got an unsolved case. And that isn’t healthy.”

“It isn’t?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Just isn’t.”

“Gets the job done.”

“Occasionally. But some cases can’t be solved, you dunderhead. Ever.”

Mike pursed his lips. “Are you suggesting this is one of them?”

“It has been a while since we had a lead.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Of course it does. Unless you’re a dunderhead.”

“You know, Baxter, I always enjoy sparring with you. Really I do. But I am somewhat busy at the moment. Don’t you have any work that needs your attention?”

“As a matter of fact, we do.” She tossed a newly minted manila file on top of his littered desk. “Blackwell just sent this over. As of this moment, you’re officially off the Metzger case. And on this one.”

Mike frowned, fingered the edge of the file. “Where are we going?”

“Sapulpa, I’m afraid. I know you were probably hoping for Paris.”

“What’s the case about?”

Baxter pulled a face. “Do the words power drill mean anything to you?”

“That’s the most inhumane killing I’ve heard about in my entire career. And I’ve seen some pretty damn bad ones.”

Mike drove crosstown while Baxter read him the salient details of the murder. It would’ve been more sensible for him to read the file himself, but that would have required Baxter to drive, and only he drove his Trans Am. No exceptions.

This was the part of the job Mike hated most. After the crime scene-that was the fun part. Then it was all Sherlock Holmes logic and Popeye Doyle browbeating and all the other good stuff. But the crime scene itself! Well, the fact that he still got sick every time he saw a corpse-after seeing more than three dozen of them-told the whole story.

“Consider yourself lucky you can’t see the pictures,” Baxter said.

True, but he was about to visit the crime scene. And even if the coroner had preceded him, there was bound to be a mess. Something like this would take days to clean up. “Any likely suspects?”

“They don’t even know who the victim was.”

Mike swerved into the fast lane behind a Jag coupe. “This SOB is speeding.” He reached into the back for his siren.

“Morelli. We’re on our way to a homicide.”

“But he’s speeding!”

“Focus, Detective. Leave it to the traffic cops. We have pressing business.”

He dropped the siren. “Spoilsport.”