Dukkha Unloaded. Loren W. Christensen
of my desk.” He closes the door. “Talked with your lieutenant a while ago. He’s drugged up pretty good. Best thing right now, I would think. Took a good beating. His, uh, partner. Sorry, I’ve forgotten his name.”
“David, Chief.”
“Oh yes. He’s in bad shape. Coma, I’m told.”
“Yes. Do you know how the investigation is going?”
“I don’t. I’m to be briefed by Detectives Richard Cary and Richard Daniels at noon. They still call them the Fat Dicks?”
“Yes, sir. They even call themselves that.”
“Good men, the both of them. Excellent investigators.”
“Yes, sir. I agree.”
What’s with all the nicey-nice? Rodriguez get religion or something?
“Are they as good as you?”
“Sir?”
“Your captain and your lieutenant tell me you’re an outstanding investigator.”
Ooookay, I don’t know what I expected to happen this morning but for sure I didn’t expect to be stroked.
“I work Burglary, or I did work it. I’ve never worked serious assault or homicide. The Fat Dicks are experienced experts there.”
“I know.” He leans back in his chair taking my file with him. He crosses his legs and rests the folder on a knee. He scans the pages. “Ah, says you worked hate crimes in Intelligence a few years ago.”
“Sort of. I did a month there while I was still on probation. The bureau had a program where rookies bounced around for two weeks to a month in various units. I thought it was good because you learned quickly about all the different jobs. But someone in their great wisdom nixed it for no reason I can fathom.”
He looks over the folder at me. “That ‘someone’ was me.”
Shit, shit, and triple shit. He looks at me for a moment, no doubt reading my realization—I just stepped on my Mr. Happy. Are his eyes twinkling? The SOB is enjoying my discomfort. Well, I’m not going to apologize because it was a good program and it shouldn’t have gone away.
“Did you like it? Hate crimes?”
“I did. It was different, interesting, and sometimes it angered me.”
“Angered?”
“Just knowing there are people who hurt others because of who they are.”
“Think your lieutenant was hurt because of who he is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your thoughts?”
“Sir?”
“Your boss is a homosexual. Your thoughts?”
“My thoughts on the assault?” I snap. “Or my thoughts on him being a homosexual? Chief, with all due respect, if your question is about him being gay, I think you’re out of line. But I’ll answer it. I don’t give one shit damn if Lieutenant Sanderson is gay or green. He’s a good detective, an outstanding leader, and he’s my personal friend. I find your question offensive and—”
Deputy Chief Rodriguez holds up his palm for me to shut up, and I do. Good thing because when I’m angry my mouth has a mind of its own. His eyes study me.
“Good answer,” he says.
Good answer? So far this meeting hasn’t gone the way I thought it would. Why isn’t he reaming me for the shooting, for embarrassing the Bureau, and for taking so much time off? Where is the Chief Rodriquez I’d heard so much about?
“Good answer, but I hope you don’t always fly off the handle before getting all the facts.
“Sir?”
“Do you have children, Detective?”
“No, sir.”
“I have three. All boys. One is a captain in the Marines. Done two tours in Afghanistan. Married, baby on the way. The other is on the Bureau. You know him?”
“Not well. But I hear he’s a good cop.” Not kissing up. It’s what I’ve heard. “Works nights out of Northeast Precinct, I think.”
Nods. “He’s engaged. To a woman.”
Okay. That was a tad weird. Why is he telling me this? We going to be best buds or something?
“My oldest son, Derek, he’s twenty-seven, lives in New York City in the SoHo district. Sells retro clothing, and urban emo stuff, goth, and punk clothing. Lives with a forty-five-year-old man, a fashion designer. They’ve been lovers for four years.”
Face, stay neutral. Don’t smile, don’t frown, stay neutral. Staaaay.
“He was twenty when he told his mother and me he was gay. Told us from the ER at Good Sam Hospital. He had been walking to the bus stop after a night class at PSU. There were two perps. They broke his jaw and fractured two ribs. Suspects were never found. His mother and I went from being shocked he was hurt, to being shocked he was gay, to being outraged he was hurt for something he is.”
“I’m sorry that happened to him, Chief.” I mean it but I still wonder where he is going with this?
He nods, and looks at me for another long moment. “I can’t put you back in the Burglary Unit.”
Okay. I’m not sure if I even want to stay in police work let alone worry about continuing in Burglary. I’m not going to say anything about it right now, though.
“You’re too high profile. It’s been nearly two months since the shooting and we’re still getting a minimum of two-dozen phone calls a day up here, people wanting your head. Down from a hundred a day. So you need to lay low.”
I don’t say anything.
“I want you to work hate crimes in the Intelligence Unit.”
Say what?
“I understand you’ve been out of town. In Vietnam, of all places,” he says with a shrug as if he can’t imagine anyone ever going there. “There’s been a sudden spike in hate crimes in the last few weeks. A cross burning, a beating of an Asian man up on Twelfth and Southwest Stark, an attempted arson of a Muslim Community Center, your lieutenant’s attack, and a homicide.”
“Damn,” I say. “The lynching. It’s officially a hate crime?”
“Yes to both. We found the word ‘nigger’ carved into his chest. You don’t need a crystal ball to know things are about to explode. So I want to get a jump on the public’s demands by beefing up Intelligence and the hate crimes function. I’m transferring the Fat Dicks there part-time and I’m transferring you. You three will join forces with Officer Steve Nardia and Detective Angela Clemmons. Lieutenant B. J. Sherman is running the unit. Your job is to gather intelligence, to ferret out any existing hate cliques, and gather info on any plans to commit other crimes. Right now, we don’t know if these incidences were done by one person acting alone, two or three individuals acting alone, or a group of people acting in consort. In short, we don’t know shit but that’s going to change.”
Rodriguez tosses my file on a stack of papers and leans his elbows on his desk. “I think this would be a good fit for you, Reeves. Plus, it will keep you out of sight. As you know, the public has a short memory, but I don’t think so with your shooting. The goddamn media will be bringing it up for a long while.”
We look at each other for a moment. He lifts his eyebrows as if to say, well?
* * *
Doctor Kari Stephens sits down in her well-worn burgundy leather chair, and I take my usual place at the end of a matching sofa.
“You look great, Sam,” she says over the rim of her coffee mug, on which there is an image of John Wayne