Back on Murder

by Mark J. Bertrand

  We are polite not because we are polite, but because we want to send you to Huntsville for the balance of your natural life, or even stick you with that needle of fate. And respect works. It’s as good a way as any to send you down.

  All of this is true about us. Except when it isn’t. And when it isn’t, all bets are off.

  Don’t mind my bluster, though. Like the sick jokes and the pseudo–science, it’s just another way of coping. Because I’m on my way out, and realizing too late I don’t want to go.

  The man with all the power is Captain Drew Hedges, who sits behind glass walls and metal blinds, his door resolutely shut. In a department that’s seen its share of shake-ups, Hedges has shown a knack for hanging on and, in spite of his better judgment, has a soft spot in his heart for others with the same knack, myself included. He doesn’t just run the Homicide Division, he leads it, which means earning the respect of some notoriously independent-minded detectives.

  I rap a knuckle against the wood, then wait. No sound from the other side. I try again. This time the door swings open.

  Just inside, Lieutenant Bascombe stands with his hand on the knob, still listening to the captain’s final instructions. I wait my turn. Bascombe is black, bald, and six foot four, an object lesson in intimidation. His eyes have as many signs for fury as the Eskimos have words for snow, and I’ve grown fluent over the years, having so often been on the receiving end of these glares. Now, fortunately, he doesn’t even look my way.

  “I’m not asking for perfection,” the captain is saying, “but it wouldn’t hurt to get some dictionaries in here. It may not seem like much, but I’m telling you, this is an embarrassment. We look like a bunch of illiterates here. Is that really the impression we want to make?”

  Bascombe’s nodding the whole time, trying to cut off the flow of words. I can tell he’s heard enough, and if I’ve walked in on another lecture about the standard of spelling on reports coming out of Homicide, I can sympathize. Hedges can go from stone-cold cop one second to high school English teacher the next, and the latter incarnation is by far the more frightening.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Bascombe says. Then, noticing me, he seizes on my presence as an excuse. “March’s here to see you, sir. Let me get out of your way.”

  He pushes past, disappearing in the direction of his own, much smaller, office.

  “Come on in,” Hedges says. “Take a seat.”

  His jacket hangs on a rack in the corner, the sweat stains on his shirt all but dry. He’s rolled his sleeves up like a man with hard labor on the agenda. I sink into one of the guest chairs, crossing my leg in an effort to look relaxed. His leathery, nut-brown face is so weatherworn that even a decade under the fluorescents hasn’t raised a hint of pallor.

  To look at him, you’d imagine that squint could see through any persona, plumb the depth of any lie. When I first joined the squad, I was in awe of those narrow-lidded, all-knowing eyes. But I’ve worked for him long enough now to realize that it’s just an expression, no more indicative of insight than his starched shirts or his square, gunmetal glasses.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Instead of answering, he reaches behind him, pulling a book from a shelf bursting with color-coded ring binders. He slides it across the desk so I can see the cover. The Kingwood Killing. Brad Templeton’s true-crime thriller. I feel a twitch under my eye.

  He taps the book. “You ought to read it sometime.”

  “I don’t have to read it. I lived it. Remember?”

  “I remember. The question is, do you? The reason I wanted to talk to you is, that was good police work today.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that out of you.”

  How am I supposed to reply to that? Instead of answering, I give a noncommittal squirm. If I had my way, every copy of that book would be rounded up for incineration. It’s like a yearbook photo, only worse. A reminder of someone I’d rather forget I ever was.

  He sees me looking at the book and clears his throat. “Now, the fact of the matter is, you got lucky. Eventually somebody would have noticed those restraints. It just happened to be you. But I recall you used to be very lucky. You used to make your own luck. Question is, can you do it again?”

  I’m getting tired of his rhetorical questions, but I don’t show it. Instead, I force myself to nod. It isn’t easy. My neck’s as stiff as a corpse’s in rigor.

  “Sir, if you’d give me a chance, I think I could.”

  He shows me his open palms. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Stop loaning me out for these special assignments. Put me back on the regular rotation. Let me work cases again. Hand the suicide cop mantle over to one of the younger guys.”

  His head shakes the whole time I’m talking. “You don’t get it, Roland. I didn’t give you these assignments. You earned them. You haven’t been pulling your weight, so it was either that or cut you loose. And to be honest, that’s what a lot of people have wanted me to do.” His eyes flick toward the door, where Bascombe was standing a few moments before. I know the lieutenant doesn’t have much love for me, but it’s still a blow to realize he wants me out.

  “I have a lot of experience, sir. I didn’t discover those restraints by accident.” His squint tightens, but I press on. “You’ve got Lorenz heading up that investigation, and you know it’s too big a job. Coordinating something like that, it’s a little more complicated than filling out a few reports and interviewing a couple of witnesses.”

  “You don’t think he’s up to it? That’s too bad.”

  My throat dries out all the sudden. “Why’s that?”

  “Because I was thinking of putting you on the case with him.”

  “With him?” I ask. “How about putting me in charge?”

  Hedges laughs. “I admire your nerve, March. But you’ve gotta be kidding. I mean, take a look out there.” He jabs a finger at the blinds. “If I pulled a guy like Lorenz off the case and replaced him with you, I’d have a mutiny on my hands. In case you haven’t noticed, your approval ratings in the bullpen are at an all-time low. Ever since Wilcox bailed – ”

  “But if I get results, people will have to respect that.”

  Whenever he has something to think over, Hedges temples his fingertips, resting his bottom lip on the steeple, bouncing his head slowly until a decision comes to him. He pauses, goes through the motions, and then sits up straight in his chair.

  “Take it or leave it,” he says. “You can work the case alongside Lorenz, with him as the lead, or you can keep doing what you’ve always done and see where it gets you. I’m sorry, Roland, but you’re not in any position to bargain here. I’m throwing you a bone. You want it or not?”

  I used to love this job, and there’s a part of me that wants to love it again. That will take work, though. After a free fall like mine, you don’t expect to summit all at once. This is a good offer. I’d be a fool not to take it.

  “Well?” he asks.

  Two things are holding me back. The first is Lorenz. Not his inexperience, which could be an advantage for me, but the fact that, in spite of his inexperience, he’s made it so far up the ladder. The man is connected. He has friends everywhere. If he wants to, he can make my life difficult.

  “I’d be working for Lorenz?”

  “More or less,” he says. “On this one case.”

  Then there’s the second thing. “Would this mean I’m off the cars-for-criminals detail?”

  “Well,” he says, drawing the word out, widening his hands to show just how much distance he’d have to cross to pull something like that off. “When’s your next show?”

  “Tomorrow morning. The big Labor Day weekend haul. But to be honest, they’re overstaffed as it is. They don’t need me.”

  The hope in my voice must embarrass him, because suddenly he won’t look me in the eye. “Listen, March. I can’t get you out of it before tomorrow, but . . . let me have a talk with Ri
ck Villanueva and see what I can do. You’ll be off the hook by Monday morning, all right? Just one more thankless task and you can start working murders again.”

  “Just one more?”

  He nods. “But keep in mind, this is something of a probation. If you don’t pull your weight on the investigation, if Lorenz comes to me with a problem, well . . . my hands will be tied.”

  “I understand, sir. There won’t be a problem.”

  “Make sure there isn’t.”

  Outside, the detectives are gathering. The buzz of conversation dips as I open the door, then resumes once they realize it’s just me. I pick my way through the crowd, looking for a spot on the periphery. As I walk, I feel eyes on me. Looking up, I see Lieutenant Bascombe sending one of his eloquent glares my way. Next to him, Lorenz practices his scowl. The lieutenant’s lips move and Lorenz nods in reply. Whatever they’re saying about me, I don’t want to know.

  But at least they can’t ignore me anymore.

  CHAPTER 2

  Houston rain comes down like a jungle storm, hammering the windshield and the pavement all around. When the sky darkens and the black clouds pour out their wrath on the city, there’s always this hope at the back of my mind that the temperature will drop. But the effect is closer to emptying water onto sauna rocks. The air thickens. An insinuating heat radiates from the ground, creeping between clothes and skin.

  I wait the weather out, crouching behind the wheel. At the parking lot’s edge, the George R. Brown Convention Center looms gray and ridiculous. Gray because its bright white walls suck up the surrounding gloom. Ridiculous because the building could pass for a grounded cruise ship, with red exhaust pipes trumpeting out of the roof. Blue metal latticework buttresses the eyesore.

  Even my wife, Charlotte, who feels duty-bound to defend the city’s architecture in all its particulars, throws the George R. Brown under the bus, calling it a cut-rate version of a really classy building in Paris whose name I can’t pronounce.

  Most weekends, the George R. Brown plays host to an assortment of gun shows and boat shows, bridal extravaganzas and expos, but today, in spite of the Labor Day weekend crush, a modest corner is set aside for the Houston Police Department, specifically Lieutenant Rick Villanueva and his intrepid band of media hounds. Of which I am one, for the time being.

  Once the rain dies down to a drizzle, I shape a copy of the Chronicle into a makeshift umbrella and venture inside. No gun show today – we schedule our events so there’s no overlap – but the off-roaders of Harris County have turned up in force to ogle a glistening assortment of all-terrain vehicles. We’ll have a competing spectacle for them soon.

  Our room is tucked into the far side of the building, down an escalator and through a wall of glass doors. I make my way through the roped stanchions, past a half-dozen signs flashing slogans like Green Power and Hybrid Houston, complete with a little icon marrying the old Rockets logo with a recycling triangle. A matching symbol adorns the knitted golf shirt I donned this morning for the final time. Burning it in my fire pit tonight will be a particular pleasure.

  As soon as I enter, Rick Villanueva makes a beeline for me.

  “You finally showed up,” he says, flashing his superbly white and insincere grill. “After that call from Hedges, I was afraid you were going to ditch me.”

  “I am after today.”

  He glances around, making sure the other officers on the team are keeping busy. By my watch, we have half an hour before the doors open, but there’s always a chance someone will arrive early. The prospect of a free car will motivate people like that, even if they’re accustomed to waking up at the crack of noon most Saturdays.

  “Are you sure this is what you want to do, Roland?”

  “I’m a homicide detective. All this” – I gesture toward the stage up front, the revolving platform with the mint green Toyota Prius, the television cameras setting up in back – “it’s not what I’m about.”

  The expression on Rick’s face is boyish and grave. “We do important work on this detail, brother. We put bad guys back behind bars. If it wasn’t succeeding, do you think they’d keep it going like this?”

  The last thing I want to do is argue the point. Unlike most of my friends from the old days, Rick’s still talking to me. But I’m not in the mood to hear about how essential our little charade is to the city’s well-being.

  “Do we have to get into this now, Rick?”

  “When else are we gonna talk? You’re unhappy, and the first I hear about it is from Hedges. You were drowning and I threw you a lifeline, buddy. This is the thanks I get?”

  “It’s not like that – ”

  “You’re swimming with the sharks over there, Roland. Don’t you see that? The best thing you can do for yourself is get out of Homicide, and instead you’re putting both feet back in. You really think you’re ready for that, after all you’ve been through?” He shakes his head, answering the question for me. “If you do it, I guarantee they’ll bounce you out in six months. No, sooner than that.”

  “Rick –”

  He raises his hands in surrender. “But hey, it’s your call, man. Just don’t say I never warned you. And don’t come crawling back.”

  I have something to say, but he’s not interested. Before I can get out a word, he’s already backpedaling, already turning toward the stage. He has sound checks to run, cues to go over, warrants to review. The fact that he took time out to chastise me is a testament to how hurt he must feel. These things get him plenty of press, but not much respect within the department. If there’s one thing he’s touchy about, it’s that.

  And here I am, his rehab project, throwing his kindness back in his face. I don’t feel proud or anything. But it had to be done.

  Commensurate with the diminished expectations I came in under, my role in the unfolding drama consists of watching. Rick dubbed the job “troubleshooting,” but a better description would be “trying to look busy.” I’m pretty good at it. Plenty of experience. Before our guests start to arrive, I take up a position near the media pit, chatting with a couple of cameramen who’ve already been briefed on the need for discretion. In theory I’d run interference if anyone actually approached the crews, but in the five shows I’ve done, that’s never happened. Hardened criminals are as docile as anyone when there’s a freebie at stake.

  “This is my last one,” I say to the cameramen.

  “What’s next for you, then?”

  “Homicide. I’m back on murder.”

  They nod, clearly impressed. But why am I showing off for a couple of strangers like this? Why the need to distance myself from what’s about to happen? It looks desperate. I wander away from them, hoping to minimize the temptation, and run straight into Sonia Decker.

  I can’t stand the woman, but she took a shine to me right from the start, spotting a fellow mid-forties burnout. Unlike me, Sonia’s happy with how her career is going. She’s the ideal government employee, content just punching the clock at day’s end. Her wispy hair might be brown, might be blond. Under all that makeup, her skin might be good, might be bad. She touches too readily, knows nothing of personal space, and has a three-pack-a-day laugh.

  “When I started with all this,” she confides with a cynical sneer as close to a smile as I’ve ever seen on her, “it was all sweepstakes prizes and missing inheritances. You gotta hand it to Lieutenant Rick, he’s got a sense of humor. I mean, all this green hybrid rubbish? It’s priceless. So politically correct.”

  I give her a vague nod, hoping she’ll go away.

  “Just look at those suckers.”

  The first guests now shuffle inside, their dreamy eyes glued to the revolving Prius. Imagining themselves behind the wheel, or maybe driving the hybrid over to the nearest chop shop and cashing out. Either way, they’re hooked.

  “Something for nothing.” She rubs her hands together. I’ve heard sandpaper that was smoother. “Not in this lifetime, my friends. Greed goeth before a fall.”

  I’
m tempted to correct her quotation, but that sort of thing just encourages Sonia. Afraid of a five-minute digression on the precise wording of the King James Bible, I keep my mouth shut. Anyway, she may be wrong about the quote, but she’s right about greed. That’s the one lesson of my cars-for-criminals experience.

  If they weren’t blinded by greed, at least some of these baggy pants playas and buttoned-up cholos would take a look around. They’d start asking when random selection started favoring the predominantly male and predominantly minority population. When did chance suddenly take a turn in their favor?

  They might wonder why so many of the giveaway program’s green-shirted minions sport crew cuts and ex-military stares, why they look kind of familiar, a lot like the cops who busted them in the first place. They might even recognize a few of their fellow winners as former cellmates or street competitors. They might realize that what they have in common isn’t that they’re lucky but that they all have outstanding warrants.

  But they don’t. All they see – all they ever see – is the car.

  “So I hear you’re leaving us,” Sonia says, and now I know why we accidentally crossed paths. I guess I was blinded, too.

  “This is my last day. I’m back on the job now, working a real case. You hear about that house off West Bellfort full of dead ltc bangers?”

  “Big loss,” she sniffs. “That’s yours, huh?”

  “I’m working it.”

  She can’t help noticing the way I hedged, which draws a sound from her lungs that might be a cough, might be a laugh. Pats me on the shoulder blade, nodding her head in an exaggerated way. “All I can say is, I wish you the best.”

  “Thanks,” I say to her departing back.

  The room starts filling up, then the lights dim. Onstage, a projection screen comes to life. A silver convertible – not a hybrid, but who’s counting? – threads a series of alpine turns, then an artificially enhanced blonde in a sequined sheath prances around the parked vehicle, running her hands all over its curves.