Edward Lee - Incubi

“How do you know!”

Deputy Police Commissioner Larrel Olsher’s face looked as rigid as a black marble bust of Attila the Hun. He didn’t like to be told that his best efforts were futile, especially from a flatfoot drunk who was two steps away from the rubber gun squad. Olsher was black and ugly and bad. Some called him “The Shadow,” for his 6’2”, 270-pound frame tended to darken any office he saw fit to step into. Beneath the veneer, though, was an unselfish man who cared about people. He cared about Jack, which was probably why he’d been stepping on his tail for the last ten years.

“I know because I know,” Jack responded with noteworthy articulation. “The Triangle thing was intricate and premeditated.”

“It wasn’t premeditated.”

“Yes, it was.”

Olsher frowned his displeasure. A decade-old bullet scar on his neck looked like a dark zipper. “Why the hard-on for TSD?”

“It’s no hard-on,” Jack said. It was 2 p.m., and already he wanted a drink. “But this isn’t the kind of thing TSD can break. Chromatographs and hair-core indexes won’t work on this one.”

“What will, smart boy?”

“Competent field investigative work.”

“Which you, of course, are an expert on, right?”

“That’s right, Larrel.” But Jack thought: What’s he hedging? He had Olsher’s psychology down pat; it was easy to tell when this big black golem had something bubbling underneath.

“You still drinking?”

Thar she blows , Jack thought. “Sure. Off duty. So what?”

“A uniform said he smelled booze on your breath last night.”

“I wasn’t even on the clock. I got the 64 at home.”

“You hung over?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “You ever been?”

“That’s not the point, Jack.”

“I can’t predict when someone’s gonna get 64’d.”

“That’s not the point either, and you know it.”

Yeah, I guess I do .

Olsher sat down and lit an El Producto. Gobs of smoke obscured his face, which Jack was grateful for.

“Word’s going around, Jack.”

“Okay, so I wear a little lingerie on weekends.”

“Word’s going around that Veronica dumped you and you’re falling apart, and that you’re hitting the booze worse than you did after the Longford case.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jack said.

Olsher adjusted his paunch in the chair. “County exec’s office calls me today. They say it might be ‘prudent’ to ‘extract’ you from the Triangle case. They don’t want any ‘incongruities’ that might ‘impoverish’ the stature of the department. Then the comm’s liaison calls and says, ‘If that shitfaced walking lawsuit fucks up this case, I’ll have his goddamn balls hanging from my rearview mirror like sponge dice.’”

That’s what I call confidence , Jack thought.

“They want the Triangle case solved quick and clean.”

Jack’s heart slowed. “Don’t take me off it, Larrel.”

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.”

“I’ll give you three. One, I’m a Yankees fan. Two, I drink good Scotch, not rail brands. And three, I’m the best homicide investigator on your fucking department.”

“You gonna get this guy?”

“Probably not, but I’ve got a better shot than TSD or the rest of your homicide apes. Christ, Larrel, most of those guys couldn’t investigate their own bowel movements.”

Olsher toked further. Creases in his big, dark face looked like corded suet. “I like you, Jack. Did you know that?”

“Yeah, you wanna hold hands? Kiss, maybe?”

“You’ve crashed in the last year and a half. I think you’re letting the job get to you, and I think this shit with Veronica blew your last seal. I think maybe you should see the shrink.”

“Give me a break,” Jack groaned. He doodled triangles on his blotter. “Why does everyone think I’m a basket case because of a girl?”

“You tell me. And furthermore, you look like shit. You’re paler than a trout belly.”

“Can I help it I wasn’t born black?”

“And your clothes — Christ, Jack. Are wrinkles the new fashion or do you sleep in a cement mixer?”

“I sleep in a cement mixer,” Jack said. “That’s between us.”

“You look worse than some of the skell we lock up.”

“I work the street, Larrel. I work with snitches. How effective would I be with a whitewall and black shoes and white socks?” But then he thought Oops , noting Olsher’s black shoes and white socks.

“You’re not even the same guy anymore,” the DPC went on. “You used to have spark, enthusiasm, and a sense of humor. I just don’t want to see you go down. Everything about you says. ‘I don’t give a shit anymore.’”

This was getting too close to home. Jack felt like a cordon stake being hammered into soil . I’m getting my ass gnawed by my boss, I’m one hair away from reassignment and two away from early retirement, I’ve got a killer who just carved a girl up like lunch meat, and all I can think about is Veronica. Maybe I am a basket case.

Olsher let the moment pass. “What have you got so far?”

“The girl’s not even cold yet,” Jack said. “Give me some time. Eliot’s squad is doing the make, but I don’t think it’ll amount to much. I think she was random.”

“You just told me it was premeditated.”

“The murder, not the victim. The guy’s been planning this. For him, it’s the act . That’s why I think the latents’ll be useless. He left them because he knows they’re not on file. This guy’s not a delusional psychopath or a psychotic. Psychopaths tend to think they’ll never make a mistake, but they always do. This guy won’t.”

“You think he’d do it again?”

“Probably. It depends on the nature of his delusion.”

“You just got done telling me he’s not delusional.”

“That’s not what I meant. He’s delusional. But the crime scene shows someone who’s not psychopathic; he’s what a crime shrink would probably call ‘tripolar.’ He executes his crimes according to his delusion but without losing sight of reality. He’s afraid of getting caught.” Jack paused to light a Camel. “I want to fork my strategies, let Eliot and his guys follow the normal SOPs while I—”

“Go off on the other fork in the road?” Olsher said.

“Right. It works. Remember the Jamake hitter we had a couple years ago? Or the guy at the CES convention who ripped those three hookers? And there’s always the Longford case…”

“I remember. You don’t have to blow your horn for me.”

“Good. I’ll need slush money for consulting fees—”

Olsher winced like gas pains.

“I’ll need a researcher and a forensic shrink, maybe that woman from Perkins. But what I need more than any of that is for you to trust me.”

Olsher rose. No DPC enjoyed the headache of cash authorization; getting it was like standing before a Senate subcommittee. Nevertheless, Olsher said, “You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you? Maybe you do give a shit. So get on it.”

“You’re giving me the case?”

“What do you think, Jack? You’re a ragass. You’re a longhair. You’re probably a drunk. You can’t handle the psychological pressure of the job anymore, and you’re letting a busted romance pull you to pieces. The Yankees are only good because they buy players, and I’ve seen you drink house booze many times. But you probably are the best homicide investigator on my fucking department.”

Jack smiled.

“But don’t make a dick of me on this, or you’ll be the best unemployed homicide investigator…”

“Loud and clear, boss.” Jack crushed out his Camel and lit another. “If I’m lucky — and sometimes I am — I can get a line on this fucker. To catch a killer, you have to know him before you can find him. He can be the smartest killer in the world, but no matter how well he covers his tracks, there’s always one little thing he always leaves behind.”