Read Online Lucifer's Tears by James Thompson - Free Book Online Page B

thought I had made that clear to him. “I thought we were here to talk about a duty-related incident.”
    “I’m sorry, Kari, but indirectly, we are.”
    “How so?”
    “You’re here because of severe trauma. You pursued the Sufia Elmi investigation-forgive me for imposing my opinion-and it was beyond your emotional ability. You told me that you believe your errors in judgment led to deaths that could have been prevented.”
    He’s right. It was beyond my emotional ability. The case taught me several things about myself and life that I don’t like. I found out I’m obsessive and reckless. I discovered that justice doesn’t exist. I solved the crime, but failed all the people involved, including myself. I thought I had escaped my past, but found out that a part of me remained a beaten child who believed he killed his sister.
    I picture my ex-wife’s little scorched body. Hairless. Faceless. “Facts are facts,” I say. “I fucked up. We’ve covered this ground before.”
    “Yes, but we haven’t covered other related ground. Your wife begged you to recuse yourself from the investigation, but you refused. I’d like you to consider the possibility that you blame yourself for her miscarriage, and that this, more than what you consider your failures during the investigation, is causing you extreme guilt.”
    He makes more notes.
    For reasons I don’t understand, he’s pissing me off even more than usual. “You think you know something about me,” I say. “You think you can manipulate me into some kind of self-revelation, but you don’t and you can’t.”
    He looks at me, appraising, and rubs the top of his pen against the side of his head. Another tiny action that seems feigned. He’s careful not to muss his suave politician hair. “Why not?”
    “We’re in the same business,” I say. “We look beneath surfaces for the truth. If you’re going to do that with me, you’re going to have to work just a little bit harder, because I see through you.”
    He takes a second and sits back in his glossy leather chair, puffs his pipe, sips his mint tea. “Please explain.”
    “People are easy to decipher,” I say. “Listen to what’s said on the surface. Ask yourself why they said it. Ask yourself what they didn’t say, then ask yourself why they didn’t say it. When all those questions are answered, the truth becomes evident.”
    “Simplistic perhaps, but nicely put,” Torsten says.
    I feel like reversing our roles and watching his reaction. “Let me give you a little lesson about people,” I say. “Look at them as well as listen to them. Check out their hands and their feet. Hands tell a life story. Muscle and scars speak of hard work and usually outdoor life or the lack thereof. The condition of fingernails, whether they’re clean or dirty or well-kept or maybe bitten goes toward self-esteem. The shoes people wear give away their taste, hence self-perception, and usually reveal their socioeconomic status.”
    I got him. He tries not to, but he glances at his Gucci loafers, then his thin, lily-white hands and manicured nails. Then he looks at my boots and stubby hands, almost as thick as they are long, and I’m certain he pictures those hands bouncing Vesa Legion Korhonen’s face off the fence in front of Ebeneser School.
    A gift box of Fazer chocolates and a bowl of chestnuts with a nutcracker sitting in it, left over from the holidays, rest on the coffee table. I take a nut from the bowl but leave the nutcracker, give it a one-handed squeeze and break it open. He winces. I’m not sure why I intimidated him. I munch the nut, place the shells in a neat pile on the table.
    He’s left speechless for a moment, then says, “Well done.”
    I made him feel like an effeminate fop and a fraud. I feel awful and find myself apologizing twice in the same day. A rarity for me. “Shit,” I say, “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. You didn’t deserve it.”
    He nods acknowledgment of my