officer’s point of view and discuss department business without distractions. As I was saying, we were on patrol when we found the body of a man nailed to a tree adjacent to Highway 99.”
“A black man,” added the Times reporter, an African-American.
“That’s correct. For the past twenty-four hours the department has made every effort to identify this man.”
“Isn’t it true,” the San Jose TV reporter asked, drawing the attention of both videocams, “that if the police don’t catch the killer in the first twenty-four hours, they most likely never will? And you’re still trying to identify the victim.”
The cameras swung back to Ron.
He took a moment to compose himself.
“Homicide investigations, unless closed by an immediate and credible confession, are never easy. And it’s true the passage of time makes the task ever more difficult. But the idea that a murder must be solved within the span of a single day or it never will be solved is absolute garbage. If it weren’t, it would be reasonable for police departments to conserve their resources and stop looking for killers after the twenty-four hours. How do you think the public would respond if we did that?”
Ron focused his question on the TV reporter who’d implicitly insulted him, and now the cameras were back on the reporter. He turned red and groped for an answer, one that wouldn’t make him sound like a complete jerk.
As much as Ron enjoyed roasting reporters, he didn’t have the time.
“I can also tell you that we have identified the victim.” He held up his hand to forestall the obvious question as the cameras pounced on him again. “I can’t reveal that identity right now as I’ve yet to identify the next of kin. I was on my way to do that when Sergeant Stanley pointed out that the media had arrived.”
“Chief,” The Sacramento Bee said, “you spoke about resources just now. Do you think you have the manpower for this kind of investigation?”
The Times quickly added, “More to the point, do you think you’re the man to investigate the killing of an African-American?”
Annie Stratton slipped into the room in time to hear that last question. She was Clay Steadman’s press secretary. A former journalist herself, she’d gone over to the other side when the mainstream press started picking up stories broken by supermarket tabloids. She’d figured the moral climate couldn’t be any worse working for Clay, and the money was a whole lot better.
She came as naturally by her red hair as she did her incendiary temper. She raised an eyebrow at Ron, silently inquiring whether he’d like her to ream the asshole who had asked the insulting question.
Ron gave a small shake of his head.
“Answering your questions in order,” he said. “Yes, I believe we have both the personnel and other resources we need within the Goldstrike Police Department to successfully complete this investigation. And more to the point, I’m the man who’s going to catch this killer.”
He left the room, letting Annie take it from there.
Now, he’d have the pleasure of dealing with the feds.
Two young FBI agents sat in Ron’s guest chairs and their boss, a pugnacious looking guy in his late forties, had helped himself to Ron’s seat behind his desk. It was a calculated affront, and the grin he gave Ron was both an insult and a further provocation. He wanted to see what kind of rise he could get out of the chief.
Ron regarded him silently for a moment, and then called out through the open door behind him. “Dinah,” he asked his secretary, “has the deputy chief returned yet?”
“Just this minute, Chief.”
“Would you ask him to step in here, please?”
“Right away, Chief.”
“Get Sergeant Stanley, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ron didn’t have to wait ten seconds for his subordinates to join him at the threshold of his office. The feds held their positions silently as the opposition evened the numbers.
“Sarge,” Ron asked,
“A black man,” added the Times reporter, an African-American.
“That’s correct. For the past twenty-four hours the department has made every effort to identify this man.”
“Isn’t it true,” the San Jose TV reporter asked, drawing the attention of both videocams, “that if the police don’t catch the killer in the first twenty-four hours, they most likely never will? And you’re still trying to identify the victim.”
The cameras swung back to Ron.
He took a moment to compose himself.
“Homicide investigations, unless closed by an immediate and credible confession, are never easy. And it’s true the passage of time makes the task ever more difficult. But the idea that a murder must be solved within the span of a single day or it never will be solved is absolute garbage. If it weren’t, it would be reasonable for police departments to conserve their resources and stop looking for killers after the twenty-four hours. How do you think the public would respond if we did that?”
Ron focused his question on the TV reporter who’d implicitly insulted him, and now the cameras were back on the reporter. He turned red and groped for an answer, one that wouldn’t make him sound like a complete jerk.
As much as Ron enjoyed roasting reporters, he didn’t have the time.
“I can also tell you that we have identified the victim.” He held up his hand to forestall the obvious question as the cameras pounced on him again. “I can’t reveal that identity right now as I’ve yet to identify the next of kin. I was on my way to do that when Sergeant Stanley pointed out that the media had arrived.”
“Chief,” The Sacramento Bee said, “you spoke about resources just now. Do you think you have the manpower for this kind of investigation?”
The Times quickly added, “More to the point, do you think you’re the man to investigate the killing of an African-American?”
Annie Stratton slipped into the room in time to hear that last question. She was Clay Steadman’s press secretary. A former journalist herself, she’d gone over to the other side when the mainstream press started picking up stories broken by supermarket tabloids. She’d figured the moral climate couldn’t be any worse working for Clay, and the money was a whole lot better.
She came as naturally by her red hair as she did her incendiary temper. She raised an eyebrow at Ron, silently inquiring whether he’d like her to ream the asshole who had asked the insulting question.
Ron gave a small shake of his head.
“Answering your questions in order,” he said. “Yes, I believe we have both the personnel and other resources we need within the Goldstrike Police Department to successfully complete this investigation. And more to the point, I’m the man who’s going to catch this killer.”
He left the room, letting Annie take it from there.
Now, he’d have the pleasure of dealing with the feds.
Two young FBI agents sat in Ron’s guest chairs and their boss, a pugnacious looking guy in his late forties, had helped himself to Ron’s seat behind his desk. It was a calculated affront, and the grin he gave Ron was both an insult and a further provocation. He wanted to see what kind of rise he could get out of the chief.
Ron regarded him silently for a moment, and then called out through the open door behind him. “Dinah,” he asked his secretary, “has the deputy chief returned yet?”
“Just this minute, Chief.”
“Would you ask him to step in here, please?”
“Right away, Chief.”
“Get Sergeant Stanley, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ron didn’t have to wait ten seconds for his subordinates to join him at the threshold of his office. The feds held their positions silently as the opposition evened the numbers.
“Sarge,” Ron asked,
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