“So, why are you telling me this?”
“I am preparing your mind,” I said. “I’ll call later.”
Ten minutes later, I parked outside Phoenix Police Headquarters, a sterile monstrosity of the 1970s that uglies up the corner of Seventh Avenue and Washington Street. On the Washington side, about thirty protesters walked in a long circle, carrying signs: “Stop killing us!” and “NO Police War on Minorities.” In a vacant lot off Van Buren Street last night a sixteen-year-old Hispanic kid decided to get in a gun battle with the cops. Nobody knew why. The newspaper said he was hit by sixteen bullets. Sixteen years and sixteen bullets. I limped around the corner, feeling the Advil I had taken for my ankle wear off, took the side entrance and checked in with the desk cop.
Half an hour passed before I was given a visitor’s badge and sent up to the investigations division. It took up most of a floor, but with its cubicles, computers, and neutral-tone decor, it looked more like an insurance office than a police station. A receptionist sent me back to a glass office where a man sat staring at a messy desk. All I could see was the top of his head: dark, straight, dry hair, parted on one side. The name-card on the door said, lt. augustus hawkins. He sure as hell didn’t look like a Roman emperor.
I rapped on the doorjamb and stepped inside. “David Mapstone, MCSO.”
“I know who you are,” the lowered head spoke.
The bullshit cop hazing was well under way. The long wait downstairs. Now he would let me stand awkwardly while he balanced his checkbook or wrote to his girlfriend, or whatever. It was like dealing with a tenure committee and I was really bad at it.
I waited at least a minute before speaking. “Look, Hawkins, I don’t want to be here any more than you want me to be. But I’ve got orders, same as you do.”
The dry, dark hair went back and a face rose up. A most ordinary, suburban face with thin, pale lips, and blotchy, pale skin. A face that would always be just a few hours ahead of needing a shave. Below the face was a wrinkled gray dress shirt and a goldish pattern tie with an enormous knot. The face regarded me and nodded grimly.
“Yeah, well, right. Sit.”
I did.
“This is a city case.”
“No!”
“We have a cold-case squad.”
“Seriously?”
“We don’t need your help.”
“I’m crushed.”
“We don’t want your help.”
“So call Chief Wilson and tell him that.”
He sighed heavily from somewhere south of his lungs and went back to staring at his papers. He didn’t like eye contact. “My orders are to cooperate. I follow my orders. This is just a job. Not a crusade.” He signed a document and looked at me again, briefly.
