Неизвестный - 3. In Pursuit Of Justice

“I can’t give them to you.”

“Damn it, Dee.” She pushed away from the wall so quickly, Flanagan actually held out a hand to ward off a blow.

“Jesus,” Flanagan breathed when Rebecca halted a few inches from her. “I don’t have them. The whole file was pulled.”

“Who has it?”

Flanagan shrugged. “It says Homicide. I suspect it’s IAD. You know they’d be looking into any officer related death. That’s SOP.”

“You gave them your file?” Her tone was incredulous. No one got a hand on Flanagan’s files. Impatiently, she swiped moisture from her forehead and considered taking off her jacket. She moved back a step, putting distance between them, searching for some air.

“Fuck, no,” Flanagan said, her composure cracking at last. “The bastards raided my files. I don’t know how, but the data are gone.”

“Don’t you—keep copies, or something?”

“My reports are all computerized, Frye. Supposedly the system backs up automatically. Except it didn’t, or someone is lying to me. All I know is that I can’t find them, and the idiots who are supposed to know something about this can’t tell me jack shit.”

Rebecca looked around the office. Motioning with her head toward a computer nearly buried by stacks of folders and reports, she asked, “Is that where you input all your final data?”

“There and substations in the various lab divisions. Serology, Toxicology, Prints—they all enter their findings under the case file number and it gets stored that way.”

“But one way or another, it’s all generated down here in your section?”

“Yes.” Flanagan could see the wheels turning. “Why? You any good with this kind of thing? I tried but nothing worked.”

“Not me.” Rebecca said with a short mirthless laugh. “But I might know someone. I’ll let you know.”

“There wasn’t much in the file anyhow. There was precious little evidence from the scene. I’ve got a few of my hand written notes from the first walk through. You’re welcome to see them, and I’ll tell you anything I can.”

“Why get involved?” Rebecca asked, her tone not critical, merely curious.

“Because it’s my job.”

Their eyes met in a moment of perfect understanding, and for the first time Rebecca smiled. “Thanks, Flanagan.”

“Don’t mention it. Oh, and Frye?”

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Watch your back.”

“Yeah. I’ll do that.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

CATHERINE UNLOCKED THE door that opened into her office from a hallway off the main corridor and crossed the room to her desk. Normally, her patients exited through this door so that they did not have to go out through the main waiting room and running to other patients who were waiting. It also allowed her to come and go without seeing her patients before or after the session. She glanced at the clock on the opposite wall and saw that it was 5:28 pm. Sighing tiredly, she settled into the high backed leather chair behind her desk and picked up the phone. Dialing the extension for her secretary , she closed her eyes briefly.

“Yes?” Joyce asked.

“Is my 5:30 here yet?”

“Yes,” Joyce answered. Right on time and looking like she’s about to face a firing squad. She smiled faintly at the serious-faced young woman sitting across from her and was rewarded by a brief lift of her surprisingly full lips in return.

“Good. Give me a minute, and then tell her to come in.”

“Anything I can get you? I put fresh coffee on.”

“No, thanks. I’ll grab a cup between this one and the last one.”

“Very well.”

A moment later, Catherine’s door from her waiting room opened and her 5:30 appointment walked in. “Good evening, Officer.”

“Hi.” Mitchell settled into her customary spot, the right hand leather chair of the pair that faced the psychiatrist’s desk. As she sat, she plucked at the thighs of her sharply creased trousers to minimize the wrinkling. Her back did not touch the upright portion of the chair.

“I see you’re in uniform, so you are still working, I take it?”

“More or less,” Mitchell acknowledged. “I’m getting paid. No street duty though. It’s a desk job, more or less. “

“And I assume you find that frustrating?”

“Well, until this morning I would have said so, yes.”

Catherine raised a surprised eyebrow. “Really? I got the impression you considered anything other than a street assignment almost a disciplinary action.”

Mitchell smiled. “Most cops like to think of themselves as street cops. After all, that’s where the action is. That’s where you make your stripes. The only ones who don’t want street duty are the ones who come to law enforcement with the intent to be administrators. They’re the MBAs who want to be commissioner someday and the lawyers who can’t find jobs, and hope that a year or two of police were will give them a step up into the prosecutor’s office. They only put in enough street time to fulfill their basic requirements before angling for something that will get them an administrative position.”

“So most officers would find your present duty undesirable?”

“Well…” she still wasn’t entirely certain how much you should reveal to the psychiatrist. She felt a lot safer talking to her then she would have to the departmental shrink, but there was no telling how much of what they discussed would make its way back to her division commander or into her personal file. Still, it felt good to be able to talk to someone. Carefully, she continued. “The duty Sergeant gave me an assignment that I’m sure he thought would just take me off the streets and put me somewhere where everyone could forget about me. Usually when they want to bury someone they move them to the property room, which is an assignment that most people get when they’ve been disciplined but can’t be fired or older uniformed officers who are approaching retirement and want something easy to do. He probably figured if he did that it would have been a little obvious. Then if I complained to my union rep it would have made things touchy. So he posted me to what he thought would be a dead-end duty, but I think he figured wrong.”

Catherine laughed. “You’re going to have to do some translating for me here, Officer. The intricacies of police politics escape me.”

Laughing, Mitchell relaxed enough to lean back in her seat. “Me too, although I’m learning quickly. He put me on this new task force that’s just getting underway, probably figuring it would be nothing but a bureaucratic nightmare and all I would be doing is filing paperwork. Probably all I will be doing is filing paperwork, but I’m working with someone who almost anyone in uniform would give an arm or a leg to work with.”

“I think I see,” Catherine remarked. “So you think that might be an advantage to this assignment that no one appreciated, is that it?”

“Maybe. First of all, it’s an interesting assignment. Plus, several federal agencies are involved, so there’s a chance it could turn into something really big. If I can contribute something, maybe I can show that I’m not a screw up.”

Catherine didn’t reply, and her face did not show her consternation. There couldn’t possibly be two task forces like this at one time. Rebecca’s assignment. Attempting to redirect the conversation away from the specifics in hopes of avoiding any discussion of her lover, she asked, “So you’re not displeased with your current work situation?”

“No, not at all. The fastest way for someone to get promoted out of the ranks into the detective division is by assisting a detective with their case. And the detective in charge of the PD end of things is Rebecca Frye. You know her, of course, because you were involved with her during the Harker thing. If I can manage to make any kind of impression on her, it could actually end up helping my career.”