Джонатан Келлерман - Crime Scene

“It doesn’t, directly. But—”

“Jesus.”

I said, “We’re still cops, sir.”

“There are cops whose job it is to deal with things like that and we’re not them.”

“I don’t see anyone else volunteering.”

“Did you bother to ask?”

“No one seems interested, sir. And I know when someone’s screwed up.”

“Ames doesn’t see it that way,” he said. “He told me the guy’s a decorated veteran.”

“Veterans make mistakes.”

“I don’t care,” Vitti said. “All right? I do not care. What I — what we — have to worry about is relationships. We gotta work with these people. Not just today. Every single day. People, agencies, they rely on us. They need to know that when we show up we’re there to handle our business, and nothing else. I can’t have you running around stirring up shit.”

He paused. “Is everything good with you?”

“Sir?”

“Is there something in your life going on I need to know about?”

Was he really going to do this? Play Papa Bear? “No sir.”

“You can tell me,” he said. “We look after each other, that’s how we do around here. You are an important member of this team.”

What supermarket checkout aisle management handbook had he picked up? “I appreciate that, sir.”

“I checked your logs. You worked Thanksgiving.”

“Yes sir.”

“You’re signed up to work Christmas.”

“Yes sir, I am.”

“You worked Christmas last year,” he said. “Year before that, too. I checked.”

He waited for an explanation.

I said, “I don’t believe in Santa Claus.”

“Don’t be a wiseass.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Vitti looked at me pleadingly. His instincts were to ream me out, but he wanted so badly to be a Good Guy. “I think you need a break.”

“I’m good.”

“You haven’t taken time in two years,” he said.

He’d never complained about it before. “Trying to do my bit, sir.”

“That’s fine, Clay, but it’s not good for the soul.” He plucked a tissue, blew his nose. “Look, I know how shit gets, okay? I been there. I wasn’t even going to mention it to you, but now, in light of this Bascombe thing, I feel like I gotta say something. This is the second call I’ve had about you in the last week.”

I said, “Pardon me?”

“A guy phoned up hollering about you cremated his father against his wishes.”

Samuel Afton.

I said, “That is a hundred percent not what happened.”

“Be that as it may, he’s going on about he wants to make a formal complaint.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I talked him out of it. I went to bat for you, same way I did with Ames. You’re welcome. But now sitting here listening to you argue with me I’m starting to feel like a prick. Don’t make me into a prick, Clay. If you’re starting to get overwhelmed—”

“Honestly, sir, I’m not.”

“—you need to be clear with me about your state of mind. Things pile up, understandable. But you need to be self-aware. Okay? You need to come to me: Sarge, I’m starting to feel it. Nobody’s going to judge you for that.”

His eyes said otherwise.

“Sir—”

“Overall,” he said, “I appreciate your contributions. But if this isn’t working for you, you can be at a new duty station in twenty-four hours.”

“I don’t want that.”

Interminable silence. “I’ll assume for the moment that’s true.”

I nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“The case led you to Bascombe,” he said. “What’s the decedent’s name?”

“Walter Rennert.”

He swiveled to his computer, moused, clicked. “You’ve had this open since September.”

“Yes sir.”

His lips moved as he ran over the narrative. “What am I missing here? Cause to me this reads like a straightforward natural.”

“I agree, sir.”

“What are you waiting on?”

I said nothing.

Vitti squinted at me, as though I’d receded into the distance. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. First thing, you need to call this Bascombe guy up and apologize.”

“Sarge—”

“Just do it, all right? Be the bigger person. Call the guy up and make it right.”

He slid his desk phone toward me.

I stared at him. “Now?”

“No time like the present.”

I brought up the number on my cell and keyed it into the desk phone.

It rang and rang.

“He’s not answering,” I said, hanging up.

“Then leave a message.” He leaned over and turned on the speakerphone.

I gritted my teeth, redialed.

This is Ken, I’m gone fishin.

Beep.

Vitti prompted me with a hand flourish.

“Mr. Bascombe, Deputy Coroner Edison calling” — tasting bile, swallowing it — “calling to say I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m sorry if it came across that way. All best.”

I punched off.

“Good,” Vitti said. “Thank you. Now I want you to be done with the Rennert case. Get it out of your system. And — hey. While you’re at it, take some time off.”

“You’re suspending me?”

“Clay. Will you listen to yourself? Stop being paranoid. I’m saying go home. Visit your family. Whatever you need to do. See a fuckin movie. Get your head right and then let’s get back on track. Okay? I don’t want to hear no more about this. Go home.”

“Can I get my coffee mug first?”

He said, “Mind your tone, Deputy. You’re dismissed.”

If I owed anyone an apology, it was Nate Schickman. I could guess he’d paid for helping me out. I called him the next day.

“No worries,” he said, unconvincingly. “Ames is annoyed, but nothing I can’t survive.”

“Annoyed at you or at me?”

“Both. Bascombe, too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He seemed more put out than angry. Like — pissed about having to go through the motions. I get the impression the two of them aren’t friends.”

I filed that tidbit away. “I owe you one.”

“I’d say we’re up to three or four by now.”

“True. Speaking of, any sign of Triplett?”

“None. I have an eye out.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Schickman said. “I gotta ask, though. You seriously hit him?”

Trucking in gossip. Good trait for a detective.

“Bascombe? Hell no. He tried to hit me.”

“Damn,” Schickman said. “What’d you say to get him so mad?”

I hesitated.

“Hey,” Schickman said. “All that owing deserves no bullshit.”

“I might’ve implied that he arrested the wrong guy.”

He laughed for a good long time. “No shit. Really?”

“Really.”

“Balls,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“I pulled down the Donna Zhao file again,” he said. “After you left? I took another peek at it. It seemed solid to me.”

“First glance, it does.”

“What does second glance do?”

I said, “You really want to hear this?”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

Get it out of your system.

Whatever you need to do.

Ask me, that sounded like permission.

An order, even.

Vitti hadn’t meant it that way.

Next time, Sarge, choose your words more carefully.

“Tell you what,” I said to Schickman. “Let me buy you a drink. You be the judge.”

We met at a bar of his choosing, on San Pablo near the Albany-Berkeley line. The place had a Day of the Dead theme, the menu boasting a hundred thirty-one different tequilas and mezcals. Schickman asked for a Dos Equis. I asked for water. The waitress smiled in desperation and beat a retreat.

I laid out the case for him, just as I had for Bascombe.