clichés, all quoting the quoting. It’s the way he’s
always talked.
Except when he talked very very slow, which was worse, much worse.
“Captain,” I lie, blandly, “I appreciate your concern.”
It’s a struggle to keep the tone out of my voice. He’s looking toward me but a little off at an angle.
He looks toward Ali; then he looks back at me. Then he puts on the big wide smile.
He says, “So we talked to all the ‘ right people ,’ and all the ‘right people’ said you were good to go. They couldn’t figure out why you’d want to make this choice, but they felt you were…uh…” he raises his fingers in the air again, quoting, “
‘sufficiently…uh…well-adjusted such that it should not significantly affect your day-to-day operational performance.’
”
A wide empty smile creases his face.
I stay with the noncommittal grin, with my teeth clenched behind it.
“That’s what they said, Ken.”
I nod. Once. There is so much I could say, so little I dare to. He’ll talk again soon. He can’t help himself. The silence
will make him crazy. He thinks the world would disappear if he stopped filling it up with himself.
“So you have my blessings, Detective. I know that Ken Ridlin will always be a good cop, and an honor to the force .” No little quotation marks in the air this time, but still plenty of emphasis. As I try to consider whether there are any
clichés he’s left out, he pushes himself up out of the seat again. I’m remembering that he’s a lot quicker than he looks.
I rise from my chair. He leans over, grabs my right hand again, puts his left on top. Two short pumps again. Then he drops
his eyes, stands back.
Ali wheels me toward the door. We take two paces. It’s over. I start to relax. My muscles unclench.
Then that big voice blasts out again from behind my back, “So, Kenny , what’ve we got you working on, to start? Anything interesting? ”
Ali jumps in. This is his job: to interpret, to remember, to fill the void. “Ken is working that shooting last night at the
1812 Club, that jazz joint up on Lincoln, sir, you remember—”
He stops, turns, looks at us. His head angles toward the floor.
“Of course,” he mutters. “We touched upon it earlier this morning.”
“—Ken here was on his way home when he caught the call, and was the first one on the scene. We figured, since the swearing-in
is later today, and since Ken has some history with the force, maybe we shouldn’t let the red tape get in the way right off
the bat, and maybe he should take the case,” he says.
The captain looks at Ali. He’s not giving much away. He swivels his neck to look at me, cocks his head. “Is that what you want, Ken?” he asks. He still has that big smile in his mouth. But now there is an almost wistful sadness in his eyes.
“Sure, sir, if you say so,” I say. “Whatever you need me for.”
He keeps staring at me. There is a pause. Then he leans his head back, nods. He looks away. As I leave he is reaching for
his phone and sitting down all at once. His eyes are gazing at the portrait wall.
Welcome back.
CHAPTER 8
Ken Ridlin
1100 South State Street
Friday, January 10
Ali opens the door and nudges me through. I am considering how I feel about what just happened. I am feeling vindication,
I am feeling apprehension, I am feeling relief.
Ali is feeling a need to get on with it.
“So, what do you think we’ve got here with this 1812 thing, Ken? You have a chance to think about it yet?” He pivots, turns
me out of the foot traffic, backs me up against a pillar.
“It doesn’t really add up,” I say. “The victim is just getting into town. Here for a convention, some legal thing. He checks
into his hotel, leaves his bag sitting on the bed, heads on up Lincoln to the club. He sits at the bar for twenty minutes,
nursing a Scotch-and-soda.”
Ali waits, patiently. I look at my notes, like I’m checking, and continue.
“He asks the
always talked.
Except when he talked very very slow, which was worse, much worse.
“Captain,” I lie, blandly, “I appreciate your concern.”
It’s a struggle to keep the tone out of my voice. He’s looking toward me but a little off at an angle.
He looks toward Ali; then he looks back at me. Then he puts on the big wide smile.
He says, “So we talked to all the ‘ right people ,’ and all the ‘right people’ said you were good to go. They couldn’t figure out why you’d want to make this choice, but they felt you were…uh…” he raises his fingers in the air again, quoting, “
‘sufficiently…uh…well-adjusted such that it should not significantly affect your day-to-day operational performance.’
”
A wide empty smile creases his face.
I stay with the noncommittal grin, with my teeth clenched behind it.
“That’s what they said, Ken.”
I nod. Once. There is so much I could say, so little I dare to. He’ll talk again soon. He can’t help himself. The silence
will make him crazy. He thinks the world would disappear if he stopped filling it up with himself.
“So you have my blessings, Detective. I know that Ken Ridlin will always be a good cop, and an honor to the force .” No little quotation marks in the air this time, but still plenty of emphasis. As I try to consider whether there are any
clichés he’s left out, he pushes himself up out of the seat again. I’m remembering that he’s a lot quicker than he looks.
I rise from my chair. He leans over, grabs my right hand again, puts his left on top. Two short pumps again. Then he drops
his eyes, stands back.
Ali wheels me toward the door. We take two paces. It’s over. I start to relax. My muscles unclench.
Then that big voice blasts out again from behind my back, “So, Kenny , what’ve we got you working on, to start? Anything interesting? ”
Ali jumps in. This is his job: to interpret, to remember, to fill the void. “Ken is working that shooting last night at the
1812 Club, that jazz joint up on Lincoln, sir, you remember—”
He stops, turns, looks at us. His head angles toward the floor.
“Of course,” he mutters. “We touched upon it earlier this morning.”
“—Ken here was on his way home when he caught the call, and was the first one on the scene. We figured, since the swearing-in
is later today, and since Ken has some history with the force, maybe we shouldn’t let the red tape get in the way right off
the bat, and maybe he should take the case,” he says.
The captain looks at Ali. He’s not giving much away. He swivels his neck to look at me, cocks his head. “Is that what you want, Ken?” he asks. He still has that big smile in his mouth. But now there is an almost wistful sadness in his eyes.
“Sure, sir, if you say so,” I say. “Whatever you need me for.”
He keeps staring at me. There is a pause. Then he leans his head back, nods. He looks away. As I leave he is reaching for
his phone and sitting down all at once. His eyes are gazing at the portrait wall.
Welcome back.
CHAPTER 8
Ken Ridlin
1100 South State Street
Friday, January 10
Ali opens the door and nudges me through. I am considering how I feel about what just happened. I am feeling vindication,
I am feeling apprehension, I am feeling relief.
Ali is feeling a need to get on with it.
“So, what do you think we’ve got here with this 1812 thing, Ken? You have a chance to think about it yet?” He pivots, turns
me out of the foot traffic, backs me up against a pillar.
“It doesn’t really add up,” I say. “The victim is just getting into town. Here for a convention, some legal thing. He checks
into his hotel, leaves his bag sitting on the bed, heads on up Lincoln to the club. He sits at the bar for twenty minutes,
nursing a Scotch-and-soda.”
Ali waits, patiently. I look at my notes, like I’m checking, and continue.
“He asks the
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