Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 1–3: The Hundredth Man, The Death Collectors, The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.
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“Psychopathological and Sociopathological Investigative Team, Bill,” Harry said. “Piss-it’s a lot easier to remember.”
Tomorrow Harry and I were meeting second district’s homicide dicks about canvassing Nelson’s neighborhood and checking the haunts he favored. They were, in fact, already doing it, since the killing had occurred in their territory. But under PSIT procedures information had to be routed past Harry and me, since we were the sole members of the team.
Cantwell nodded slowly. “I guess it makes sense Piss-it handles things. The case’s got crazy writ all over it, a chopped-off head and writing by the peter. There’ll be some grumbling from the guys, it’ll mean extra paperwork. But we’ll be fine with it, even if Squill ain’t.”
“What you mean, Bill?” Harry said. “Squill ain’t?”
“He was in this afternoon making noises, y’know. Like we didn’t have to be real cooperative if we didn’t want.” Cantwell scratched at an incisor and flicked something unwanted to the floor. “I got the notion ol’ Captain Squill ain’t real fond of Piss-it.”
Harry raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t worry, Harry; we’ll be going by Piss-it procedures. We’re in till we hear otherwise.”
Cantwell rapped the table with his knuckles and drifted back to his group. I looked at Harry. “Why is Squill sticking his finger in our eyes?”
Harry shrugged. “It’s Squill. We have eyes and he has fingers.”
When there was more crumpled paper than room to work, we called it a night, heading outside as Burlew was coming in, his gray raincoat a sodden tent. Harry was already on the street and Burlew and I passed in the narrow vestibule between outside and inside doors. I nodded and gave him room, but he took a sidestep stumble and shouldered me into the wall. I turned to see if he was drunk, but he’d already passed into Flanagan’s, chewing his wad of paper, a tight smile at the edges of his doll-baby mouth.
The next morning we were summoned to Squill’s office. He was on the phone and ignored us. We sat in hard chairs before his uncluttered desk and studied his ego wall. If any political or law-enforcement celebrity had passed within three states, Squill’d been there with hand out and teeth shining. After five minutes of listening and grunting, Squill hung up his phone and spun his chair to look out the window, his back to our faces.
“Tell me about the Nelson case,” he commanded the sky.
“Indeterminate,” I said. “Yesterday we talked with his aunt, Billie Messer—”
“I’m talking to the ranking detective, Ryder. In this office you wait your turn.”
I felt my face flush with anger and my fists ball involuntarily. Squill said, “I’ll try again. What’s happening on the Nelson case?”
Harry looked at me, rolled his eyes, and addressed the back of Squill’s head.
“We talked with his aunt, Billie Messer, plus some other folks. They confirm the lowlife lifestyle indicated on Nelson’s rap sheet. He used people. We interviewed a former girlfriend, the one who filed the charges. She’s a confused woman who still has tender feelings for Nelson, but basically said the same. Today we’re meeting with the D-Two homicide dicks to set up a mechanism to review the—”
Squill spun to face us. “No,” he said, “you’re not.”
Harry said, “Pardon me, Captain?”
“You’re not doing anything. I’ve spoken with the chief and he agrees this isn’t a psycho case. It stinks of fag revenge killing. We’re dumping the file back to Second District. Your involvement in the Nelson case is officially over.”
I braced my hands on my knees and leaned forward. “What if it’s not vengeance, but the start of a killing spree?”
“I’m not talking to listen to myself. Dismissed.”
“It doesn’t fit a vengeance pattern. Here’s what I’m—”
“Did you hear me?”
“Let me finish, Captain. We don’t yet have enough information to decide whether or not this is—”
Squill spun back to the window. He said, “Get him out of here, Nautilus, I’ve got work to do.”
I was shaking my head before we hit the hall. “That didn’t make sense. Why pull us before we’ve done an overview? We don’t have the info to decide either way if this is PSIT status. What’s buzzing in his shorts?”
Harry said, “I got some fresh milk this morning.”
“Spill it.”
“Remember the rumor Chief Hyrum is retiring next year?”
“Thumping and bumping, you said.”
Harry sighed. “I’d never have said that, it doesn’t fit. I said rolling and strolling. Only it’s not next summer, it’s this September.”
I said, “Two months away. The hatchet jobs have to be done in double time?”
Harry nodded. “Pop an umbrella; the blood’s gonna fly.”
“That doesn’t concern us, remember? You told me that.”
“The only constant is change, bro, you told me that. There’s two deputy chiefs tussling for the job of Big Chief: Belvidere and Plackett. Squill’s hitched his wagon to Plackett’s star, been buttering his biscuits for years. If the commission recommends Plackett for chief, guess who he’ll slip in as a deputy chief?”
My stomach churned. “Squill?”
Harry slapped my back. “Now you’re seeing the big picture, Carson. Like Squill, Plackett’s more politico than cop. Guy couldn’t find his ass with a mirror and tongs, but he knows how to work the newsies; Squill gave him pointers about sound bites, eye contact, spinning a story. On the other hand, Belvidere’s a cop. Knows his shit, but has a personality like instant potatoes. A lot of little things add up in the police commission’s selection process, but remember who floated the idea of the PSIT…”
“Belvidere,” I said. “Plackett opposed it.”
“Probably at Squill’s advice,” Harry said. “Push it.”
“If we do good, it makes Belvidere look good, which steals thunder from Plackett, which works to Squill’s disfavor?”
“Hocused and pocused,” Harry said. “Now try and focus.”
I rolled my eyes. “C’mon, Harry, try it in English.”
“Look hard. Take it one more step.”
I focused. “In the best of all possible worlds to Squill, the entire concept of PSIT would be floating facedown in the Mobile River?”
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