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Authors: Walter Walker
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steal honest people’s bikes.
My smile did not seem to be working. I used to have a good one. Now I get the feeling
people regard it as something I just drop over my face, like a page on a flip chart.
Still, what do you do when you’re trying to placate someone like the chief? I tried
words. “Mitch White thought it might be a good idea if I took a look through the file.”
“Mitch White, huh?” The message was clear: Mitch White, another Ivy League prick like
me.
I slowly lifted my hands, palms up, as if there was nothing I could do, Mitch was
my boss. Smile, speak, roll over like a dog with my paws in the air.
The chief hitched his belt, made the leather creak. He was not wearing any weapons,
but the belt was black and three inches thick, the kind that could hold a gun, a truncheon,
a foot-long flashlight. Somehow hitching it, making it creak, passed for a sign of
dominance.
“C’mon,” he said, and led me out of the office and down a corridor in which the walls
were made of cinder blocks painted light green. We had to walk a good hundred feet
and every time we encountered someone, the person would squeeze his back to the wall
and say, “Chief,” as we passed. The chief did not acknowledge anyone by name, just
nodded as he steamrollered toward our destination, a green door with a wired window
at the far end of the corridor.
He grabbed the brass handle, shouted, “Door,” and somebody in an adjoining room buzzed
it open. He did not look back, just flung the door wide and let me catch it on my
forearm before it slammed shut again.
The department’s file room was virtually a warehouse, with rows of adjustable shelves
that looked as if they had been built from an erectorset. There was a little desk just inside the door, but nobody was at it. “Clancy!”
the chief bellowed, and an ancient cop in a faded uniform that looked nearly as old
as he scuttled out from the stacks.
“Right here, Chief.”
Cello DiMasi flung a thumb in my direction, again without looking at me. “This here’s
Assistant D.A. Becket. He wants to look at what we got on the Telford case.”
The old man turned to me with an expression of concern. Worry, maybe. Possibly fear.
“The Telford case, sure. Right this way.” He made another turn and hurried down one
aisle with his shoulders curled forward and his hands splayed in front of him as if
he were sweeping for mines. We followed, me first and then the chief, and Clancy took
us all the way to the end of the aisle, where he began scanning the shelves, looking
over once or twice at the chief as if to tell him not to get excited, the files were
right here somewhere.
Like Clancy, I looked at the chief. Unlike with Clancy, the chief did not look back
at me. He was still seething over whatever insult he thought I had dealt him. I was
in the process of replaying our conversation in my head when Clancy let out a cry
of relief and hauled two cardboard boxes from the back of a shelf, where they had
been obscured by a whole series of other files. The boxes had the name
Telford
written on them in black Magic Marker, and the old man dropped them onto the floor
in triumph.
The chief looked down, poked them with the rounded toe of his shiny black shoe, and
said, “Lemme know if you find anything us dumb cops overlooked.” Then he spun around
and left me to do my own digging.
Once the chief was gone, Clancy began fawning over me. He had a nice desk and chair
for me, he said. He could bring the boxes to me. He offered me coffee, claimed he
had just made a fresh pot. I picked up one of the boxes, nodded to him to pick up
the other, and told him all I needed was his desk and chair.
I HAD COME TO the police station with the idea that it was going to take me hours to go through
the evidence. It took forty minutes. ThenI went back and went through it again, sure that I had missed something.
The contents of one box consisted
My smile did not seem to be working. I used to have a good one. Now I get the feeling
people regard it as something I just drop over my face, like a page on a flip chart.
Still, what do you do when you’re trying to placate someone like the chief? I tried
words. “Mitch White thought it might be a good idea if I took a look through the file.”
“Mitch White, huh?” The message was clear: Mitch White, another Ivy League prick like
me.
I slowly lifted my hands, palms up, as if there was nothing I could do, Mitch was
my boss. Smile, speak, roll over like a dog with my paws in the air.
The chief hitched his belt, made the leather creak. He was not wearing any weapons,
but the belt was black and three inches thick, the kind that could hold a gun, a truncheon,
a foot-long flashlight. Somehow hitching it, making it creak, passed for a sign of
dominance.
“C’mon,” he said, and led me out of the office and down a corridor in which the walls
were made of cinder blocks painted light green. We had to walk a good hundred feet
and every time we encountered someone, the person would squeeze his back to the wall
and say, “Chief,” as we passed. The chief did not acknowledge anyone by name, just
nodded as he steamrollered toward our destination, a green door with a wired window
at the far end of the corridor.
He grabbed the brass handle, shouted, “Door,” and somebody in an adjoining room buzzed
it open. He did not look back, just flung the door wide and let me catch it on my
forearm before it slammed shut again.
The department’s file room was virtually a warehouse, with rows of adjustable shelves
that looked as if they had been built from an erectorset. There was a little desk just inside the door, but nobody was at it. “Clancy!”
the chief bellowed, and an ancient cop in a faded uniform that looked nearly as old
as he scuttled out from the stacks.
“Right here, Chief.”
Cello DiMasi flung a thumb in my direction, again without looking at me. “This here’s
Assistant D.A. Becket. He wants to look at what we got on the Telford case.”
The old man turned to me with an expression of concern. Worry, maybe. Possibly fear.
“The Telford case, sure. Right this way.” He made another turn and hurried down one
aisle with his shoulders curled forward and his hands splayed in front of him as if
he were sweeping for mines. We followed, me first and then the chief, and Clancy took
us all the way to the end of the aisle, where he began scanning the shelves, looking
over once or twice at the chief as if to tell him not to get excited, the files were
right here somewhere.
Like Clancy, I looked at the chief. Unlike with Clancy, the chief did not look back
at me. He was still seething over whatever insult he thought I had dealt him. I was
in the process of replaying our conversation in my head when Clancy let out a cry
of relief and hauled two cardboard boxes from the back of a shelf, where they had
been obscured by a whole series of other files. The boxes had the name
Telford
written on them in black Magic Marker, and the old man dropped them onto the floor
in triumph.
The chief looked down, poked them with the rounded toe of his shiny black shoe, and
said, “Lemme know if you find anything us dumb cops overlooked.” Then he spun around
and left me to do my own digging.
Once the chief was gone, Clancy began fawning over me. He had a nice desk and chair
for me, he said. He could bring the boxes to me. He offered me coffee, claimed he
had just made a fresh pot. I picked up one of the boxes, nodded to him to pick up
the other, and told him all I needed was his desk and chair.
I HAD COME TO the police station with the idea that it was going to take me hours to go through
the evidence. It took forty minutes. ThenI went back and went through it again, sure that I had missed something.
The contents of one box consisted
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