Джонатан Келлерман - Crime Scene

“Bang bang,” Ming said.

“They’re fighting,” I said. “It goes off by accident.”

“Don’t be stupid, stupid,” Ming said.

I looked at him.

“No sign of struggle,” he said. “No holes in the walls. No holes in the windows.”

“So?”

“So,” he said, “how’s he hit the tree?”

I traced the imaginary path of the bullet. “Through the open doorway.”

“Who opened it.”

I let the scene play in my mind.

A big body, crashing onto the landing.

Slamming into the banister, jarring it loose.

Slipping on the wet wood. Tumbling down the stairs.

“Linstad,” I said. “He was trying to get away.”

I looked at Ming. “Rennert shot at him as he ran.”

Ming smiled dreamily. “In the back, I think.”

Midnight; rain; blood everywhere. I could understand why Rennert mistakenly thought his shot had been fatal.

“Never forget,” the woman yelled.

“You gonna tell his daughter?” Ming asked.

Let me know what you find.

I shook my head.

Ming cackled. He dropped the bullet fragment in his breast pocket. “For a stupid guy, you pretty smart.”

In July, our team threw a party to celebrate Moffett’s promotion to sergeant. Sully baked a carrot cake. Carmen Woolsey brought five-layer Mexican dip. Even Shupfer got into the act, slopping down a Costco bag of caramel corn.

A strong showing, considering that, until quite recently, none of us — not me, not Zaragoza, not even Dani Botero — had any idea Moffett had taken the exam, let alone passed. Let alone gotten the highest score in four years.

“Ninety- six, ” Vitti said. He juked and jived, proud as if it were his own son. He’d known, of course.

The man of the hour held court at his cubicle, bumping fists and toasting with ginger ale beside a glittery sign: CONGRAD BRAD! He was to oversee graveyard shift, and we’d scheduled the festivities for the five p.m. changeover, enabling members of both teams to attend. The outgoing sergeant was there, as was Lindsey Bagoyo. In two weeks’ time, she would be joining us to fill the vacancy.

I wondered if she and I would ever get around to discussing my call from Reno.

Noticing me staring, she gave a friendly little wave.

I tipped my cup to her, went over to shake Moffett’s hand.

He grinned. “Thanks, hoss.”

“This whole goofy-dude vibe,” Zaragoza said. “I get that that’s an act. My question is: How deep does it go? Are we supposed to think you’re an idiot? Or is the idea that first we think you’re an idiot, then go, No, he can’t be that dumb, he must actually be a secret genius. Or is it a triple-cross: No, he can’t possibly be smart enough to act that dumb, he must actually be an idiot, and so we miss the fact that you aren’t. ” He paused. “Which is it?”

Moffett said, “I’m just good at standardized tests.”

Standing in the burnished evening, tapping our feet to the sound of pop music through portable speakers, we laughed readily, talked more quickly than normal. Hurry up and live, because at any moment a call could come in. The dead don’t care.

Not long after, returning from a removal on Alameda Island, I peeled a folded Post-it from my computer screen.

my office

The handwriting was Vitti’s.

I scanned the squad room. Nobody paying me any special attention. Either they didn’t know I was in trouble or they were determined not to become collateral damage.

As usual, his door was open. I found him reading at his desk.

“What’s up, Sarge?”

He told me to shut the door and have a seat.

I crossed my legs, aiming for casual. My body didn’t cooperate. I was perspiring madly. It was a scorcher out, and in my haste I’d neglected to remove my vest. The ceiling vent thundered frigid air, patches at my lower back and chest going clammy.

Vitti let me stew a little before handing me the sheet of paper he’d been reading.

It was the intake form for a body that had come in several nights prior. The primary making the report was Rex Jurow. The decedent was a white male, age thirty-seven, found in an abandoned house near Oakland Airport, a needle jutting from his arm. Marital status as yet unknown. Manner of death accidental, pending autopsy. Identification was made from a California driver’s license, found in a wallet in the vicinity, stripped of cash.

The decedent, Samuel Afton, stood five-five and weighed a hundred and twenty-one pounds. He had brown hair and blue eyes. He resided at an address in West Oakland.

“You knew him,” Vitti said.

“His father was one of mine.” I set the page down. “Mind if I ask how it landed on your desk?”

Vitti said, “Moffett saw him come up in queue and remembered you mentioning the name. He thought you might want to know. He asked would I pass it along.”

“Right,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, thank him.”

“Will do,” I said. Silence. “That all?”

Vitti scrunched his eyes, rubbed them. “Why’re you doing this to me, Clay?”

“Sir?”

“Did I do something to you, in this life or another, that you feel the need to put me in this position?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

Vitti said, “I see the name, I go, ‘Why’s that sound so familiar?’ I’m bananas, tryna figure it out. Then it hits me: this is the same guy who called to make a complaint about you.”

I said nothing.

“Which gets me thinking,” he said, “about our conversation that we had last year. You know the one I’m talking about.”

“Yes sir.”

He grimaced. “So? You like to tell me why you’re doing this to me?”

I didn’t answer, and he made an exasperated sound, grabbing at his computer screen and swiveling it around to show me my own queue. He pointed to the bottom of the list.

RENNERT, WALTER J.

He said, “I asked you — I ordered you — to close that case out. Did I not?”

“Yes sir, you did.”

He drummed the desk with his fingers.

I said, “It slipped my mind.”

“I’m giving you a chance to explain yourself, you’re gonna sit here and tell me that?”

“I’ll do it right now,” I said, starting to stand.

“Sit your ass down,” he said.

I obeyed.

He said, “Something like this, I have to ask myself, What else is he doing? Huh? What else is he up to, that he’s not supposed to be? Because clearly, whatever the deal is with you and this case, clearly it’s affecting your judgment.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” I said. “It wasn’t my—”

He waved me silent. “I called Berkeley PD,” he said. “Turns out Chief Ames has nothing but nice things to say about you. You and this homicide guy, all the good things you’re doing. I have to play along like I know what the hell he’s talking about. How’s that make me look? How’s it make me feel. ”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Wrong answer, Deputy. Try again.”

“Like a prick,” I said.

“Ding ding ding ding ding. Like a grade-A prick.”

I said, “I’m truly sorry, sir.”

He regarded me with a pained expression. “That’s not what we’re about here.”

“I know.”

“We’re a family. Family doesn’t treat each other like this.”

I thought: Maybe not yours.

“What’m I supposed to do here?” he said. “Huh? You know me. Am I the kind of guy who goes around, Blah this, blah that, Big Me in charge ? Huh? I don’t want to be like that. That’s not me. I hate it. But this, here? What you’re doing? You’re basically forcing me.”