Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

He crunched toast. Crumbs cascaded down his shirtfront. He made no effort to brush them off.

I said, “Thanks, Milo, but I’m not ready for a ghostwriter yet.” I went to make coffee.

“Whatsamatter?” he said with a full mouth. “Don’t trust me?”

“This is scientific writing. The Hale shooting for a psych journal.”

“So?”

“So we’re talking dry. Maybe a hundred pages of dry.”

“Big deal,” he said. “No worse than your basic homicide file.” He used a crescent of rye crust to tick his fingers: “Roman Numeral One: Synopsis of Crime. Roman Numeral Two: Chronological Narrative. Roman Numeral Three: Victim Information. Roman-”

“I get the point.”

He shoved the crust in his mouth. “The key to excellent report writing,” he said between chews, “is to take every bit of passion out of it. Use an extra heaping portion of superfluously extraneous tautological redundancies in order to make it mind-numbingly boring. So that when one’s superior officers read it, they zone out and start skimming and maybe don’t notice the fact that one has been spinning one’s wheels since the body turned up and hasn’t solved a goddam thing. Now tell me, is that so different from what you’re doing?”

I laughed. “Up till now I’ve been telling myself I was after the truth. Thanks for setting me straight.”

“No problem. It’s my job.”

“Speaking of job, how’d it go downtown?”

He gave a very long, very dark look. “More of the same. Desk jockeys with smiling faces. This time they brought in the department shrink.”

“Thought you refused counseling.”

“They got around it by calling it a stress evaluation. Terms of the penalty- read the small print.”

He shook his head. “All those greasy-faced fuckers talking real softly and slowly, as if I was senile. Inquiring about my adjustment. My stress level. Sharing their concern. Ever notice how people who talk about sharing never really do? They were also careful to let me know that all my medical bills had been picked up by the department- therefore the department had received copies of all my lab tests and there was some concern over my cholesterol level, triglycerides, whatever. Was I really feeling up to returning to active duty?”

He scowled. “What a bunch of princes, huh? I smiled back and said it was funny how they never gave a shit about my stress level or triglycerides when I was out there doing the job.”

“How’d they react to that bit of charm?”

“More smiles, then this greasy silence you could deep-fry potatoes in. Mind-tripping. No doubt the asshole shrink prepped them- no offense. But that’s the military mind: Destroy the individual.”

He looked at the milk carton, said, “Ah, low-fat. That’s good. Here’s to triglycerides.”

I filled the coffee-maker carafe with water, spooned Kenyan into the hatch.

“Give the assholes one thing,” he said. “They’re getting more assertive. This time they came right out and talked pension. Dollars and cents. Actuarial tables, how much more it added up to when you threw in the interest I could earn if I invested wisely. How nice life could be with what I had coming after fourteen years. When I didn’t slaver and snap, they dropped the carrot and picked up the stick, started hinting around about how the pension was by no means a foregone conclusion, given the circumstances. Blah blah blah. How timing was of the essence. Blah blah blah.”

He started to work on another piece of bread.

I said, “Bottom line?”

“I let them blah on for a while, then got up, said I had a pressing engagement, and left.”

“Well,” I said, “if you ever do decide to quit, there’s always the diplomatic corps.”

“Hey,” he said, “I’ve had it to here.” Running a finger across his throat. “Give me the half-year boot, okay. Take my gun and shield and pay, okay. But just let me do my time in peace and quiet, and cool it with the fucking follow-ups. All that phony sensitivity.”

He drank and ate. “Course, guess I can’t expect much better, given the circumstances.” He smiled.

“A-plus in reality testing, Milo.”

He said, “Assaulting a superior officer.” Bigger smile. “Has a nice ring to it, wouldn’t you say?”

“You forgot the crucial part. On TV.”

He grinned, started to drink more milk but was smiling too broadly and lowered the carton. “What the hell, this is the media age, right? The chief wears pancake when he plays meet-the-press. I gave them some soundbites they’ll never forget.”

“That you did. What’s the situation with Frisk?”

“Word has it his cute little nose has healed quite nicely. The new teeth look almost as good as the old ones- amazing what they can do with plastic nowadays, huh? But he is gonna look a little different. Less Tom Selleck, more… Karl Malden. Which isn’t bad for a superior officer, right? That shopworn look- implied wisdom and experience.”

“He back on duty?”

“Nooo. Seems Kenny-poo’s stress level is still pretty high, he’s taking a long recuperation. But he’ll be back, eventually. Kicked upstairs, where he can screw up on a higher level and do systematic damage.”

“He’s the assistant chief’s son-in-law, Milo. You’re lucky to still be on the force.”

He put down the carton and glared. “Don’t you think if they could have shafted me, they would have? They’re in a one-down position and they know it- that’s why they’re going the weasel route.”

He slammed his big hand down on the counter. “Asshole used me for fucking bait. The lawyer Rick had me talk to told me I had grounds for a major-league civil suit, could have taken it to the papers and kept it there for months. He would have loved it- the shyster. Big contingency fee. Rick wanted me to do it, too. On principle. But I refused because that wasn’t what it was about- bunch of goddam shysters quibbling about technicalities for ten years. This was one-on-one; it needed to be handled one-on-one. Going the TV route was my extra insurance- couple of million witnesses, so no one could say it didn’t happen the way it did. That’s why I hit him after he said what a great hero I was and gave me the commendation. So no one could say it was sour grapes. The department owes me, Alex. They should be grateful all I did was mess up his face. And if Frisk is smart, he’ll be grateful, too- stay out of my face. Permanently. Fuck his family connections. He’s lucky I didn’t rip his lungs out and toss them at the cameras.”

His eyes had cleared and his complexion had deepened to hot pink. With his hair over his forehead and thick lips, he resembled a disgruntled gorilla.

I applauded.

He rose a few inches, stared at me, then started laughing. “Ah, nothing like adrenaline to make the day take on a rosy glow. Sure you don’t want to golf?”

“Sorry. I really have to get the paper done and there’s a patient coming at noon. And, frankly, knocking balls around the green isn’t my idea of recreation, Milo.”

“I know, I know,” he said. “No ae ro bic benefit. Bet your triglycerides are just peachy.”

I shrugged. The coffee was done. I poured two cups, gave one to him.

“So,” I said, “what else have you been doing to fill the time?”

He gave an expansive gesture and put on a brogue: “Oh, it’s been just grand, lad. Needlepoint, papier-mÂchÉ, decoupage, crocheting. Little schooners and yachts made of ice-cream sticks and glitter - there’s a wonderful world of crafts out there just waiting to be explored.” He drank coffee. “It’s been shit. Worse than a desk job. At first I thought I’d get into gardening- grab some sun, a little exercise. Back to the earth- to my roots, praise Hibernia.”