Metro South owns a motorcycle.”
“Felons with choppers. That should be a short list.”
“Still.”
“Yes. A start. If any of your convicts bothered to register their bikes. That’s the problem with criminals. They’re fucking criminals. Disorganized messes. They drive unregistered cars, shoot unregistered guns, change jobs like other people change clothes, skip out on rent to crash on their cousin Hector’s couch. Outdated, incomplete files. Which makes them harder to track down.” She grimaced, cut short her tangent. “What the hell makes you choose a job dealing with these people?”
“These people?”
“Hell yes, these people. I grew up with these motherfuckers. Made me want to protect the rest of the world from them.” She chewed the side of her cheek, her eye contact unremitting. “So that’s all you got? Liberal guilt. Save the world. Help the underclass?”
“Nah. Nothing so lofty. It’s just what makes me happy. I like a challenge. And I like underdogs. That’s who I want to help. The guy who’s gotten kicked around. The woman who doesn’t think she can have the life she wants.”
“How do you relate to that?” Something shifted in her face, recognition dawning. “Right,” she said. “Growing up under the heel of the infamous Evelyn Brasher.”
Daniel gave a one-shoulder shrug, a tell he immediately regretted. “I had it easy by most standards,” he said.
But Theresa was already blazing forward. “So that’s what they do in your rehabilitation class? Talk about their abusive childhoods?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes. Okay. Let’s talk about ‘usually.’ Usually piece-of-shit criminals are just flat-out broken. You can’t get through to them. You can’t fix them. And yet you try.”
“With varying success.”
“So tonight? When you see Marisol Vargas laid out, sliced and diced, you want to … what? Cure the guy who did it?”
He wasn’t sure when the conversation had turned, but they were on the far side of the bend, staring at a different view. He felt a pulse beating in his temple, a sure sign to keep his mouth closed.
“What’s the difference between this motherfucker and the patients in those little groups you run?” Theresa said. “That tonight you had to actually see what they do before you decide to treat them for it?” She pointed at the poster of the police badge, the department motto written in Spanish. “‘Oro en paz, fierro en guerra,’” she read in a crisp accent. “Gold in peace, iron in war.” Her nostrils flared. “What happened to Jack Holley? What happened tonight? It calls for iron. ”
His forearm was no longer twitching. “ I was the one with the butcher knife in my hand tonight. So stow the dated ‘I’m from the streets’ class bullshit and either focus and do your job or let me go home to my wife.”
Theresa rose sharply and pounded her hands on her desk, elbows locked. Her face as hard as carved stone, but he could see the emotion moving beneath it now. His words had jarred loose whatever logjam she’d been hammering at.
He pulled back and out of the confrontation, saw them as if from across the room—a cop and an eyewitness, both on no sleep, trying to stay afloat in the aftermath of a gruesome, soul-crushing night. The skin at the side of her neck fluttered. The thin line between rage and grief.
And then he understood.
He took a moment to choose his words. “It’s not your fault you didn’t check the rest of the mail earlier,” he said. “I didn’t think of it either.”
Dooley’s mouth wobbled a bit, and then she pinched her lower lip in her teeth and bit down. Her eyes had gone glassy, and she blinked a few times quickly, discouraging any rising tears. She sat down again. Breathed hard for a minute or two.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was being an asshole. It’s the only thing I’ve been any good at this week.”
“I get it. Don’t worry.”
She swiveled over and rested her feet on that
“Felons with choppers. That should be a short list.”
“Still.”
“Yes. A start. If any of your convicts bothered to register their bikes. That’s the problem with criminals. They’re fucking criminals. Disorganized messes. They drive unregistered cars, shoot unregistered guns, change jobs like other people change clothes, skip out on rent to crash on their cousin Hector’s couch. Outdated, incomplete files. Which makes them harder to track down.” She grimaced, cut short her tangent. “What the hell makes you choose a job dealing with these people?”
“These people?”
“Hell yes, these people. I grew up with these motherfuckers. Made me want to protect the rest of the world from them.” She chewed the side of her cheek, her eye contact unremitting. “So that’s all you got? Liberal guilt. Save the world. Help the underclass?”
“Nah. Nothing so lofty. It’s just what makes me happy. I like a challenge. And I like underdogs. That’s who I want to help. The guy who’s gotten kicked around. The woman who doesn’t think she can have the life she wants.”
“How do you relate to that?” Something shifted in her face, recognition dawning. “Right,” she said. “Growing up under the heel of the infamous Evelyn Brasher.”
Daniel gave a one-shoulder shrug, a tell he immediately regretted. “I had it easy by most standards,” he said.
But Theresa was already blazing forward. “So that’s what they do in your rehabilitation class? Talk about their abusive childhoods?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes. Okay. Let’s talk about ‘usually.’ Usually piece-of-shit criminals are just flat-out broken. You can’t get through to them. You can’t fix them. And yet you try.”
“With varying success.”
“So tonight? When you see Marisol Vargas laid out, sliced and diced, you want to … what? Cure the guy who did it?”
He wasn’t sure when the conversation had turned, but they were on the far side of the bend, staring at a different view. He felt a pulse beating in his temple, a sure sign to keep his mouth closed.
“What’s the difference between this motherfucker and the patients in those little groups you run?” Theresa said. “That tonight you had to actually see what they do before you decide to treat them for it?” She pointed at the poster of the police badge, the department motto written in Spanish. “‘Oro en paz, fierro en guerra,’” she read in a crisp accent. “Gold in peace, iron in war.” Her nostrils flared. “What happened to Jack Holley? What happened tonight? It calls for iron. ”
His forearm was no longer twitching. “ I was the one with the butcher knife in my hand tonight. So stow the dated ‘I’m from the streets’ class bullshit and either focus and do your job or let me go home to my wife.”
Theresa rose sharply and pounded her hands on her desk, elbows locked. Her face as hard as carved stone, but he could see the emotion moving beneath it now. His words had jarred loose whatever logjam she’d been hammering at.
He pulled back and out of the confrontation, saw them as if from across the room—a cop and an eyewitness, both on no sleep, trying to stay afloat in the aftermath of a gruesome, soul-crushing night. The skin at the side of her neck fluttered. The thin line between rage and grief.
And then he understood.
He took a moment to choose his words. “It’s not your fault you didn’t check the rest of the mail earlier,” he said. “I didn’t think of it either.”
Dooley’s mouth wobbled a bit, and then she pinched her lower lip in her teeth and bit down. Her eyes had gone glassy, and she blinked a few times quickly, discouraging any rising tears. She sat down again. Breathed hard for a minute or two.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was being an asshole. It’s the only thing I’ve been any good at this week.”
“I get it. Don’t worry.”
She swiveled over and rested her feet on that
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