Read Online Every Wickedness by Cathy Vasas-Brown - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cathy Vasas-Brown
Ads: Link
best law enforcement possible.”
Kearns had assumed the article would generate empathy and support from the public. Instead, it merely served to make the police look inept and weak. Now, with frustrations at epidemic high and morale at rock bottom, that traditional back-patting,shoulder-punching camaraderie among fellow cops, though superficial, was nearly non-existent. If the public’s desire for a macho, fearless police force was strong, the determination to maintain this image was trebled within the task force itself. Kearns’s team would compensate for this latest attack on their infallibility and puff their chests with adolescent bravado.
Everything Kearns had worked so hard to change had come undone with the press’s coverage of the murders. At all costs, Kearns had to continue to conceal his depression, his use of Paxil, and his visits to a therapist.
Fuentes shook his head. “I don’t know how much more of this cop-slamming any of us can take.”
Too often, Kearns was overhearing complaints from his team. The vicap forms were too long, took forever to fill out. No one wanted to be bothered, and what was the use anyway? Kearns praised his task force when he could, and gave them shit when he had to, though recently, the latter was more the norm. If he had to offer them chocolate cake, then stab them with the fork, well, that was an inconsistency they would have to live with. Kearns was determined there would be no repeat of the Green River Killer fiasco, the Seattle madman who eluded capture because of monstrous egos and law enforcement’s refusal to share information between jurisdictions. All the cracks would be sealed, and if it took a rainforest ofpaperwork and thousands of telephone calls, that was a price worth paying.
Kearns stared at the sheet of yellow paper he’d been doodling on. The page was covered with drawings of spiders.
“Your artwork’s improving, Jimmy, but it’s getting us nowhere,” Fuentes said.
Fuentes, along with everyone else, was fed up with the investigation’s inertia. Kearns saw the stress building daily, and now Fuentes was in it up to his eyeballs, with much of his frustration directed at Kearns. “Let’s go over what we’ve got and see if anything fresh surfaces,” he said, the futility of the suggestion clear in his voice.
Kearns resisted a groan, yawned instead, then forced himself to sit up straight. Time for the Kearns-Fuentes tango, where each would take turns reciting what they knew, hoping that, hearing a phrase reworded, a fact presented from a different voice, something important might be triggered. Kearns hoped that with a positive attitude, the exercise in tedium might yield more than a yawn and the desire for a Johnny Walker’s. He stifled a second yawn.
“Five victims,” Fuentes began. “All with WASP names. Two blondes, two brunettes, one redhead.”
“Esthetician, flight attendant, model, salesgirl, dancer,” Kearns chanted, trying to muster enthusiasm. Fuentes had chosen the victimology route, hoping that the women’s profiles would somehow create a link to the killer’s psyche.
“Occupations requiring some level of physical attractiveness—”
“They were lookers, all right. But they didn’t know any of the same people, none had steady boyfriends — God, it feels so good every time I bang my head against a wall.”
“They were more than just pretty, Jimmy. They worked hard to enhance their femaleness.”
“What?”
“Each of them presented her best face and body to the public. They were all in excellent physical shape, they had great skin —”
“Where’s this going, Manny?”
“Remember Lydia Price? Salesgirl’s wages. Not big bucks. What did her older brother tell us she liked to spend money on?”
Kearns scratched his head and tried to conjure an image of Price’s brother, sort his face out from among the hundreds of friends and relatives he had interviewed. “Got it,” he said. “Clothes. Simple, classic
Kearns had assumed the article would generate empathy and support from the public. Instead, it merely served to make the police look inept and weak. Now, with frustrations at epidemic high and morale at rock bottom, that traditional back-patting,shoulder-punching camaraderie among fellow cops, though superficial, was nearly non-existent. If the public’s desire for a macho, fearless police force was strong, the determination to maintain this image was trebled within the task force itself. Kearns’s team would compensate for this latest attack on their infallibility and puff their chests with adolescent bravado.
Everything Kearns had worked so hard to change had come undone with the press’s coverage of the murders. At all costs, Kearns had to continue to conceal his depression, his use of Paxil, and his visits to a therapist.
Fuentes shook his head. “I don’t know how much more of this cop-slamming any of us can take.”
Too often, Kearns was overhearing complaints from his team. The vicap forms were too long, took forever to fill out. No one wanted to be bothered, and what was the use anyway? Kearns praised his task force when he could, and gave them shit when he had to, though recently, the latter was more the norm. If he had to offer them chocolate cake, then stab them with the fork, well, that was an inconsistency they would have to live with. Kearns was determined there would be no repeat of the Green River Killer fiasco, the Seattle madman who eluded capture because of monstrous egos and law enforcement’s refusal to share information between jurisdictions. All the cracks would be sealed, and if it took a rainforest ofpaperwork and thousands of telephone calls, that was a price worth paying.
Kearns stared at the sheet of yellow paper he’d been doodling on. The page was covered with drawings of spiders.
“Your artwork’s improving, Jimmy, but it’s getting us nowhere,” Fuentes said.
Fuentes, along with everyone else, was fed up with the investigation’s inertia. Kearns saw the stress building daily, and now Fuentes was in it up to his eyeballs, with much of his frustration directed at Kearns. “Let’s go over what we’ve got and see if anything fresh surfaces,” he said, the futility of the suggestion clear in his voice.
Kearns resisted a groan, yawned instead, then forced himself to sit up straight. Time for the Kearns-Fuentes tango, where each would take turns reciting what they knew, hoping that, hearing a phrase reworded, a fact presented from a different voice, something important might be triggered. Kearns hoped that with a positive attitude, the exercise in tedium might yield more than a yawn and the desire for a Johnny Walker’s. He stifled a second yawn.
“Five victims,” Fuentes began. “All with WASP names. Two blondes, two brunettes, one redhead.”
“Esthetician, flight attendant, model, salesgirl, dancer,” Kearns chanted, trying to muster enthusiasm. Fuentes had chosen the victimology route, hoping that the women’s profiles would somehow create a link to the killer’s psyche.
“Occupations requiring some level of physical attractiveness—”
“They were lookers, all right. But they didn’t know any of the same people, none had steady boyfriends — God, it feels so good every time I bang my head against a wall.”
“They were more than just pretty, Jimmy. They worked hard to enhance their femaleness.”
“What?”
“Each of them presented her best face and body to the public. They were all in excellent physical shape, they had great skin —”
“Where’s this going, Manny?”
“Remember Lydia Price? Salesgirl’s wages. Not big bucks. What did her older brother tell us she liked to spend money on?”
Kearns scratched his head and tried to conjure an image of Price’s brother, sort his face out from among the hundreds of friends and relatives he had interviewed. “Got it,” he said. “Clothes. Simple, classic
Similar Books
