The house at 4120 Little Rocky Trail wasn’t half the size of the Nicholsons’ place, but it did afford Nathan his first experience with a water bed, and a full pantry more than compensated for the lack of a big-screen television and supersoft carpeting. After awakening around 10:30 and treating himself to another long hot shower, he’d spent what was left of the morning down in the living room, stretched out on the sofa, barefoot, watching cartoons and pigging out on Doritos and root beer.
The good cartoons ended at noon, when his only remaining options were the life sucks shows, soaps, or stomach-wrenching junk like Barney and Friends or Smurfs. He turned the TV off. Within minutes, he was bored. Whoever lived in the house had no kids, he figured, because there wasn’t anything that even resembled a toy anywhere to be found, not even Nintendo. He decided to explore.
Figuring that people kept the good stuff in their bedrooms, he started there, returning upstairs to the master suite. The first order of business, before he forgot, was to strip the bed and wash the sheets. It went a long way toward easing his conscience about all this burglary stuff. One thing 4120 had over the Nicholsons’ was a laundry on the second floor. After gathering the sheets into his arms, he walked them out into the hallway and dumped them on the floor in front of the washer. He’d wash them in a minute, but first he wanted to look around.
The master suite was done in a mismatched assortment of light pine and heavy oak. Everything was immaculately clean, evidence of owners who cared about their things. Except for the bed, there were only two major pieces of furniture. The double dresser was chock-full of ladies’ things, underwear on the left and sweaters and blouses on the right. Nathan was aware of a curious stirring in his loins as he handled a bra, and he quickly tucked the garment back in the drawer and slid it shut.
On the other side of the room from the oak collection was a tall highboy. The lower drawers had men’s clothes: socks and underwear in the bottom two, and T-shirts in the next tier. The tag on one of the shirts said SIZE 44. There’d be no additions to his wardrobe from this house.
He slid the chair from a small makeup table over to the highboy to see into the upper drawers. The topmost full-size drawer held dress shirts, ties, and assorted jewelry—cuff links, tie tacks, that sort of thing. The last two drawers were small ones, arranged side by side at the top. In them, he found the neatest kind of toys. The drawer on the left had a box of bullets. On the right was the revolver itself. It was big, blue-black, and heavy as a brick. Nathan had seen such things on TV and in the movies hundreds of times, but he had never actually handled one before. It was another one of those things his father had promised they would do when he got older.
He could see the heads of four bullets peeking out through the cylinder openings. There was a way to make the ammunition cylinder flop out of the side of the gun, and he was determined to find out how. Maybe you had to pull the hammer back. He rolled it back to the first click, and nothing happened. The next click took a lot of effort, but as the hammer moved, the cylinder began to turn. As it did, the fifth and sixth bullets peeked their noses out. He got nervous before he had the hammer all the way back, and eased it down slowly.
The hell with it, he thought. He could play with it just the way it was, so long as he didn’t pull the trigger for real. For the next twenty minutes, he did room searches the way he saw them done in Cops, with the weapon held at arm’s length, gripped by both hands. When he played that he was holstering the gun, he stuffed it up to the trigger guard down the back of his pants, the way Mel Gibson did it in Lethal Weapon.
With the upstairs cleared of bad guys, of which he’d had to shoot at least half a dozen while catching two bullets himself—one in each shoulder—he paused long enough to put the sheets in the washer and took his battle to the first floor.
He noticed the telephone at about the same time that he was getting bored again. He wondered what The Bitch was talking about today. After hesitating for just a moment, he picked up the phone and dialed. This time he had to keep his pacing to a minimum, because he was tethered by a real phone cord. Like the day before, it took many tries to get through, but when he finally did, he went right to the front of the line.
Denise was talking to Quinn in Milwaukee about the caller’s fears for Nathan’s safety when she got the note that the real star of today’s show was on line fourteen.
“Hey, Quinn?” she interrupted.
“What?”
“I’ve got a surprise for you on our other line here.” She stabbed the button. “Nathan Bailey, are you there?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the voice said. This afternoon, he sounded like the boy he was, his tone free of the burdens it carried the day before.
“Try not to call me ‘ma’am,’ okay, Nathan?” Denise said. “I’ve got a reputation, you know.”
He giggled. “Yes, ma…Okay.”
“Say hi to Quinn, Nathan. She’s from Milwaukee, and she thinks you’re pretty cool.”
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi, Nathan!” Quinn nearly shouted. “I just want to tell you that I believe you, and I hope all of this works out for you. For what it’s worth, if I ever have a little boy, I hope he’s every bit as polite as you.”
“Thanks,” he said a little sheepishly. He wasn’t sure he knew what she was talking about, and he was certain that he didn’t like that “little boy” crap, but it was a nice thing for her to say.
“Listen, Quinn,” Denise said, “what do you say I hang up on you and chat with Nathan for a little while?”
“Of course,” Quinn said agreeably. “You’ve got a great show, Bitch. Keep up the good work. And Nathan, you be careful.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll do my best.”
“So, have you been listening to the show this morning?” Denise asked. “You’re quite the celebrity today.”
“No, I’m sorry, I haven’t,” he said, his tone genuinely apologetic. “I’ve been sleeping.”
“Well, I don’t wonder,” Denise laughed. “I guess doing all that laundry tires a boy out, huh?”
Nathan’s bowels turned to ice. “What?” he gasped. His voice was cold as stone. How did she know? How could…
“You didn’t see the press conference, either?”
Press conference? What the hell is she talking about? His mind raced to put the pieces together, but they weren’t there. He said nothing.
“So you don’t know!” Denise announced, clearly tickled to be the one breaking the news on the air. Talk about great radio! “Your hosts from last night—the Nicholsons—came home this morning and found some things missing. Like a car. They also found your note.”
Nathan’s heart began to race. His hands were shaking. This wasn’t going right. Not the way he had planned it at all. He didn’t think they’d get home so soon. And if they got the note, then how come everyone knows? He asked them specifically…
“CNN had you tagged this morning as the world’s favorite burglar,” Denise explained. “It’s hard to think bad thoughts about a kid who does laundry.”
Nathan still didn’t see what was so funny. It was great that people thought nice things about him, but what did that matter? What it really meant was that the cops were still only a few hours behind him. How long could it be before they found the Beemer, especially if they were looking for it? The good news was that people didn’t go to church in the middle of the week, and the car wasn’t visible from the road.
It’ll be okay, he thought, calming himself down. I only need a few more hours.
A thousand questions flooded his mind all at once. He needed to get caught up fast on what everyone else knew. So he started asking.
Lyle Pointer watched the press conference live from his living room as he slowly and methodically reassembled his just-cleaned .357 Magnum. The Nicholsons looked like they had stepped out of Little House on the Damn Prairie. Steve looked like the ex–college football star type, probably a quarterback or maybe a kicker. Kendra, no doubt, was the drooling cheerleader, though Pointer was willing to bet that she’d put on a good thirty pounds since they were married.
The kids were like all other kids, nondescript. Both had dark hair and dark eyes. Jamie, the older of the two at maybe thirteen, was clearly thrilled to be on television, though like his mother he could’ve afforded to drop a few pounds. His sister, Amy, was about nine, Pointer figured, and far too shy to say anything to the reporters.
Considering the work that had to be done, Pointer was none too pleased with the attention the Bailey kid and his antics were getting in the media. The more people watched, the tougher it was going to be to whack the kid and get away. But he had done tough hits before, and within a day or two this business would be done and Mr. Slater would be off his back. And the reporters, God love them, would have plenty to report.
The very fact that CNN had chosen to carry the Nicholsons’ comments live spoke volumes about how out-of-control this media frenzy was spinning. The questions were all shouted at once, and each family member would take a shot at giving a rambling, disjointed answer consisting mainly of incomplete sentences. Jamie, in particular, was intent on getting his two cents’ worth in at every conceivable opportunity, and nearly beamed with pride that America’s criminal du jour had chosen to dress himself in his clothes.
Yes, they said, Nathan had broken into their home through the French doors in the back. Except for clothes and the car, nothing appeared to have been stolen, though he had consumed three frozen pizzas. From what they could tell, Nathan had slept in the master bedroom and showered in the master bath, and believe it or not, he had washed all the linens and towels and made the bed before he left.
When Jamie described the pile of bloody clothes in the downstairs bath, a huge flurry of enthusiastic questions followed, which only served to confirm that the family didn’t have any real details to share.
Then Kendra read the note:
Dear Mr. & Mrs. Nicholson and Kids,
I hope I got your name right. It was the one on your Time magazine. I’m sorry I broke into your house. I tried to be careful, but I broke a window out of your back door. I cleaned up the glass, and when I get the chance, I’ll be happy to pay you back.
You have a really nice house. You have the best TVs I’ve ever seen. Please tell your boy that I had to take some of his clothes. Please tell him thank you and I’m sorry. I found some laundry and I did it along with the sheets I slept in last night. I didn’t use any bleach because I’m not very good with it and sometimes people don’t like it.
I also had to take your other car. I’ve drove before and I promise I’ll be really really careful. So don’t worry. I’ll figure out a way to tell you where it is when I’m done.
You probably figured out by now that I’m in pretty bad trouble with the police. I did some bad things but it’s not like they think, honest. If it’s okay with you, please don’t call them for a day or so or maybe even a week after you find this. I really will take care of your stuff.
Your friend,
Nathan Bailey
P.S., sorry about the mess in the bathroom. It’s pretty grose.
As soon as Kendra raised her head from the page to signal that she was finished reading, the media mob erupted with new questions. She answered them as best she could, with Jamie’s perpetual help. The note had been left on the kitchen table. It was written with a ballpoint pen on plain notebook paper. No, the paper in her hand was not the original, and she didn’t know if the press could get a copy; they’d have to talk to the police. On and on it went, simple answers to inane questions, until a single inquiry from the local paper rendered her silent.
“In the note, Nathan asked you not to call the police for a couple of days, yet you called them right away. How does that make you feel?”
Kendra blushed and looked to Steve for help with the answer, but he was preoccupied with the detailed study of a fingernail. Even Jamie fell silent.
Pointer laughed out loud. “Ha! Shut you up, didn’t she, bitch?” He was still smiling as he turned his gaze down to his work and slid six Hydra-shock Magnum rounds into his weapon and squeezed the cylinder home.
He knew he’d get the break he needed soon. Now he was ready for it.
Michaels left the Nicholsons’ house in a rush to get back to the station in time to pass along to Patrolman Thompkins the County Executive’s best wishes, and to excavate a new asshole in the young officer’s butt. Whether or not Thompkins had any kind of a career left would depend largely on how he took his ass-kicking. If he copped an attitude, he was done.
As Warren pulled out of the driveway, reporters flocked to his car, shouting questions that he pretended not to hear. They tried to block his progress by pressing against the vehicle, a tactic they often used, on the assumption that their prey would stop to avoid the risk of running someone over. Obviously, they didn’t know Warren well enough. At this stage of this investigation, he’d have welcomed the opportunity to flatten a reporter, though it proved unnecessary. He just kept rolling along at a snail’s pace, with the windows rolled up, until they finally chose to save their feet and stepped out of the way.
Once on the road, Warren tuned his car radio to NewsTalk 990 for The Bitch. He wondered if Nathan would be brazen enough to call a second time. As soon as the digital display on the radio locked onto 990, he heard the boy’s voice. He noted with vicarious pleasure that a day of freedom had greatly lifted Nathan’s spirits. The boy was gleefully telling the story of how he had evaded a roadblock the night before, though he was careful not to give the location. Smart kid, Warren thought, but if you keep talking, you’re going to tell me something that I can use.
And when that moment came, Warren admitted, he was going to have to push himself hard to put the information to use. Among the many feelings he had dissected and analyzed last night on the front porch was one that he had not yet had to confront in a meaningful way. Deep in his heart, Warren hoped that Nathan would get away. Whatever doubts he had harbored on the issue were washed away by his conversation with Aces. That talk in the empty classroom of the JDC reinforced in Warren’s mind two undeniable truths: First, the juvenile court system created criminals, it did not reform them, and second, Nathan was not a danger to society.
Without a doubt, he was a killer—he had said so himself. But he was no murderer.
“If you get away, what are you going to do?” asked Nadine from Pleasantville, New Jersey.
Nathan used his thumb to pick the dirt from under a toenail as he considered the question. “I don’t know,” he answered at length, as honestly as he could. “I guess I’ll just start over.”
“But how can you do that?” Nadine pushed. “You’re a celebrity now. Everyone knows what you look like. Everyone’s going to be watching for you.”
It was a very good point, Nathan thought, but another one on which he couldn’t afford to dwell. “If I’m such a celebrity, and if people want to help, maybe they’ll just look the other way for a while.” And not shoot their mouths off like the Nicholsons, he didn’t say.
“Thank you, Nadine,” The Bitch said, moving on. “Frank from Coronado, California, you’re on the air with The Bitch and Nathan the Kid.”
“Hi, Bitch. Hi, Nathan,” Frank said. “Great show today.”
“Thank you,” Denise said.
“Nathan, yesterday you told us that your mom died when you were a baby and that you were raised by your dad, but then you wouldn’t talk about him. What happened to him?”
Nathan took a deep breath before he answered. Thinking about these things was so much harder yesterday. Today, he felt calm, collected, like he could talk without breaking down in tears. “He was killed in a car wreck when I was ten,” he answered clearly.
“What happened?”
“You mean in the car wreck?”
“Yeah. I mean, did he hit a tree, another car or what?”
“Frank, I’m ashamed of you,” Denise scolded. “Don’t you think the kid has enough on his mind without dredging up more bad memories?” She said it because it was the appropriate thing to say. In her heart, she hoped he’d answer.
“That’s okay,” Nathan said agreeably, fulfilling Denise’s wish. “I don’t mind. Not today, anyway. He was crossing some railroad tracks—not the kind with lights and gates and stuff, but the unmarked kind—when he got hit by the train. The doctor told me he was killed right away.”
“So how did you find out?” Frank persisted. “Did the police come to your door or what?” This line of questioning made Denise nervous. Her hand remained poised over the dump button in case she had to get rid of Frank in a hurry.
“No,” Nathan explained, “I was staying over at my best friend Jacob Protsky’s house that night. They’re our next-door neighbors. I guess the police told them, and then Jacob’s dad told me. It was pretty sad.” Like so many of the images that played on the movie screen of his mind, this one was as vivid as it could be. They waited until he awoke that morning to break the news, and he remembered how Mr. Protsky cried harder than he did. He remembered that he stayed with the Protskys through the funeral, until Uncle Mark finally sobered up enough to come pick him up and take him to his hive.
You remember to give us a call if you need anything, Nathan remembered Mrs. Protsky telling him as she gave him a hug, big tears balanced on her lids.
Then the memories turned bitter as he remembered calling her from a pay phone after the first belt-licking, begging her to take him back as blood trickled down the back of his legs under his jeans. He remembered how cold and flat her voice was as she ordered him to stop calling them. You have a new life now, Nathan, she had said. We can’t be a part of it anymore.
“You also implied yesterday that you were abused…”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Nathan said abruptly.
“Good,” Denise said, stabbing the dump button. “Neither do I. Sometimes people just don’t know when to quit.”
“My dad was the nicest guy in the world,” Nathan announced.
“I’m sure he was, honey,” Denise said soothingly. “And the reason I’m sure is because I think he raised a pretty nice son.”
“Thanks,” Nathan said warmly, “but there’s lots of folks who don’t think much of me at all.”
“Well, what do they know?”
Nathan smiled and stretched his back. “Um, ma’am? I mean B-Bitch?”
Denise laughed heartily at Nathan’s continued discomfort with her name. “Tell you what, Nathan,” she said. “Because we’re such buddies now, and I want to make you as comfortable as I can, I’m gonna let you call me Denise, okay?”
Nathan sighed audibly, genuinely relieved. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Sure. But to my other listeners, I warn you. Unless you’re a runaway with as cute a voice as Nathan’s, don’t you go trying to call me by my real name. Now, sweetie, what can I do for you?”
“If I ask you a question, will you promise to give me an honest answer?”
Denise shot a look to Enrique, who just shrugged, as usual. “Sure,” she said.
“Even if you think your honest answer would make me feel bad?”
“Okay.”
Nathan took another deep breath. The answer to the question he was about to ask was important to him, but he didn’t know why. He was far from certain that he even wanted to hear it. Pushing his doubts aside, he asked, “I know that if I was just some kid, you’d never put me on the radio. But if I did get through, would you still like me, even if I didn’t make your ratings go up?”
Denise thought for a moment before answering, then went to commercials so she could think some more. When they came back, she still wasn’t ready, but she owed him an answer.
“Nathan, I can’t deny that your calls have been good to my show. For example, I know that I’d have never been invited on Good Morning America if it weren’t for your phone call. You remember yourself that I didn’t believe a word you said at the beginning of yesterday’s call. But I’ve gotta tell you, there is something about your voice and your personality that is really very charming, and your situation is truly heart-wrenching. As a mother, I want to help you, just as most of our listeners would come to your aid however possible. So, yes, Nathan, I think I can honestly say that I would like you even if you made our ratings go down. And if you knew me better, you’d know that that’s a whole lot of liking.”
Her answer made Nathan smile; made him feel warm in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It had been two years since anyone had been kind to him, two years since anyone had clapped him on the back or given him a hug. For the first ten years of his life, he’d never had to worry about being tough or being brave, and the thought of fighting other people for the very essentials of life—food and rest or even a place to sit unmolested—had never entered his mind for even an instant. Ever since that train had sheared away everything that was good and kind, Nathan’s life had been one continuous fight, first with Uncle Mark, then with the assholes at the JDC, and now with hundreds of cops. The stakes were always the same, always his very survival. He longed for the times when his biggest worries centered on where he’d be assigned on the soccer field or whether or not he’d get an A on his spelling test.
Nathan refused to believe that those times were gone forever. If he worked hard, told the truth, and stayed lucky, he’d get another chance. To hear someone as hardassed as The Bitch say something nice bolstered his faith in himself, but more importantly, renewed his faith in other people. They weren’t all cops and lawyers and judges and supervisors. There were still people out there who were willing to listen. Not everyone made their living by calling you a liar, or gaveling you out of order when you tried to tell the truth. And if The Bitch could think nice things about him, and believe him, then maybe other people could do that, too. Even if he got caught, at least maybe now people would pay attention to what he had to say.
“Are you still there?” Denise prodded.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m sorry.” Nathan paused again, gathering his strength to execute the plan that had flashed through his mind just an instant before. “I was just thinking about something. Do you think it would be all right if I asked the people listening to tell their friends that I’m really not a bad kid? And that I might need help? Maybe the news-people could stop showing my picture all the time, so that I might be able to start over without everyone recognizing me?”
As Denise replied, her tone was all mother. “Honestly, Nathan, I think it’s too late for that. You’re already a news item, and I think you’re destined to remain that way until this thing is resolved. As far as people are concerned, they’ve already made up their minds about you, good or bad, but what they think really doesn’t matter. What matters to everyone, Nathan, is your safety. Whether they think you’re a good guy or a bad guy, I don’t think anyone wants harm to come to you.
“What worries me,” Denise continued, leaning on the words, “is the thought of you driving cars and running roadblocks, and just being out alone at night. You’re in very real danger every minute you’re on the run. Sometimes I think the safest thing for you to do would be to turn yourself back in, and let the justice system work for you.”
“The justice system got me into this,” Nathan snorted.
“It works for an awful lot of people.”
“Not for kids. Not for me.”
“Listen, Nathan…”
“I can’t go back, Denise,” Nathan said with finality. “I won’t go back. Not if they don’t catch me first. You don’t know what it’s like to be in a concrete box. You don’t know how it feels to be bent over a chair and held down by five people bigger than you while somebody pulls down your pants in front of everybody and rams a broom handle up your butt…”
“Oh, my God,” Denise gasped.
“…or how it makes you feel when the supervisor laughs at you when you report it, or how the other residents beat the crap out of you for squealing on them.” Nathan was shouting now. “I killed Ricky Harris because he was trying to kill me! If I go back, somebody else is going to try again, and if I fight back and win, they’ll call me the murderer. That’s the way the system works, Denise. The grown-ups are always right, and the kids are always wrong, and no matter what you say, you lose. Don’t tell me I’ve got to go back there, because I won’t do it!”
Nathan slammed the phone down on its cradle, then picked it up and slammed it again. And again, knocking the lamp off the end table and onto the floor. He stood there in the middle of a strange living room breathing heavily, his hands trembling. Suddenly he was alone. And it was quiet, so terribly quiet that he could hear his heart beating. In the silence, he could taste his anger and his shame and his sorrow. He was ready for a new dealer, because whoever was in charge of this game kept handing him piss-poor cards. But most of all, he felt terribly, terribly lonely.
Nathan desperately needed to do violence to something. He needed something to punch or to throw or to kick, but he was barehanded, barefooted, and in the home of a stranger whom he had no cause to harm. Like a caged animal, he paced around the living room twice, finally stopping dead-center in the middle. Clenching his fists at his side, he raised his face to the ceiling and shouted loudly enough to crack the plaster.
“SHIT!!”
Police Officer Greg Preminger thanked Sister Elizabeth for her assistance and walked back up the stairs toward the sanctuary. Greg’s daughter would be starting first grade in the fall, and he wanted to make sure that she was registered for the proper CCD classes—the Catholic version of Sunday school. A native of Jenkins Township, Greg had been going to Saint Sebastian’s his entire life. It was hard to believe that ten years had passed since Sister Elizabeth had taught him English during his senior year at Paul VI High School.
Because this mission was technically a personal one and he was still on duty, Greg was in a hurry to get back to his squad car before he missed a call. The dispatcher was carrying him 10–7, which usually implied a bathroom stop, but he’d been out of the vehicle for nearly fifteen minutes. It wouldn’t be long before they started to check up on him. He took the stairs two at a time.
As he got to his car, he noticed a fire-engine-red BMW convertible parked way off in the back of the parking lot. Interesting that he hadn’t seen it on his way in. Once back in the driver’s seat, he picked up the microphone and marked 10–8, back in service, then drove across the lot to check out the vehicle. Nobody had said anything at roll call that morning about a stolen BMW, and normally cars of that value got specific mention by the sergeant. There was nothing on his hot sheet, either.
He decided to let it go, but when he got back to the main road, he had a change of heart. It was just a damned suspicious way to park a good car. He returned to the Beemer and called in the license number, just in case.
Patrolman Thompkins was waiting in Michaels’s office when Warren Michaels arrived, and jumped to his feet at the sound of the opening door.
“Sit,” commanded Warren, in exactly the same tone he would have used for a dog.
Harry sat, his back perfectly straight, his butt barely on the seat. The man looked scared to death, and Warren had to bite his tongue to keep from smiling. From the outside, there was no trace of a smile, only the glare that so many police officers had witnessed at one point or another in their careers. It was a look of disgust, of disapproval. No first offender ever knew if there was an undercurrent of anger, because so few had ever seen Lieutenant Michaels angry. He was one of the good ones. And if he was disappointed in you, then by God the entire department was disappointed in you.
In Warren’s mind, the ass-chewings for which he had become so well known were never ass-chewings at all. He never raised his voice—well, rarely—and it was always his intent to end sessions such as this on a positive note. When he took the time to pencil these meetings onto his calendar, he always used the term “attitude adjustment session.”
Warren leaned way back in his squeaky vinyl chair and folded his hands across his chest, his elbows perched on the armrests. As he glared at Thompkins, the young officer made a valiant attempt for about five seconds to hold his own, but quickly looked down to a spot on the lieutenant’s desk. Warren let him stew in the silence for a full minute before he said anything.
“So, you’re our radio star, eh, Thompkins?” he asked evenly.
Harry’s head snapped up, and his eyes locked on to Warren. He was ready to take what was coming to him like a man. “Yes, sir,” he said firmly.
Warren leaned forward and made a show of opening the other man’s personnel file. “Your career’s important to you, isn’t it, Thompkins?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“I notice from your file here that you seem to finish first in everything that you do. That’s quite an accomplishment. You should be proud.”
Harry shifted in his seat. The course of the conversation made him uneasy. He was expecting to get yelled at, not complimented. “I try, sir,” he said.
“Sergeant Hackner told me a few weeks ago that you have your heart set on a gold shield,” Warren went on. “Is that important to you as well?”
Uh-oh, here it comes, Harry thought. “Yes, sir, that’s very important. You might say that’s my career ambition.”
Michaels pondered the response for a long moment, gauging sincerity. “Did you cheat on your entrance exam into the Academy?”
“No, sir!” Harry’s response was instant and unequivocal.
“How about all the other tests and programs you’ve been involved with since you got your badge. How many of them have you cheated on?”
Harry’s control of his anger was slipping. “None at all, Lieutenant Michaels. And, frankly, sir, I resent…”
“Shut up, Patrolman Thompkins, before you say something you’ll regret. Resent things on your own time. On mine, I’ll thank you to answer my questions. Do we understand each other?”
Harry’s jaw locked tightly. “Yes, sir,” he hissed.
“So you expect me to believe that you’ve performed the way you have thus far in your career by working hard and following the rules?” Michaels continued. “No cheating, no shortcuts?”
Harry’s eyes now bored directly through the lieutenant’s forehead. “I can’t dictate what you’ll believe, sir, but I have in fact done it all by the book.”
Warren grew quiet again and drew in a deep breath through his nose. “I gather, then, from your responses that you think cheating is wrong?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Even when the rewards are great? Even when it makes the difference between getting into the Academy and washing out?”
“I was raised right, Lieutenant Michaels. I was always taught that if you can’t get what you want by working for it, then you shouldn’t have it at all.” He seemed to grow taller with pride as he made his response.
“Why, then, do you have a lesser standard for the collection of evidence?” As he spoke, Warren’s eyes narrowed and he leaned all the way forward until his chest was pressed against his desk.
Harry looked puzzled for a moment, then he got it. His shoulders sagged visibly, as though deflated.
Warren didn’t need a verbal response; the body language said what he wanted to hear. “You probably thought I was going to yell at you this afternoon for making a fool of yourself on the radio yesterday, didn’t you?”
Harry nodded. His demeanor was suddenly that of a schoolboy in the principal’s office.
“Well, take heart, Thompkins,” Warren went on. “This is America, and it’s your absolute, unalienable right to make a fool of yourself anytime you want, though next time I’d appreciate it if you’d go it alone, and leave the department out of it.
“The reason we’re having this little chat, Patrolman, is because you cheated yesterday, and you got caught. There is a right way and a wrong way to obtain evidence, and your actions tell me that you’re well aware that the right way almost always takes longer. You see this?” He held up the personnel folder.
“Yes, sir,” Harry mumbled. “That’s my jacket.”
“That’s right. And it’s your career. It’s the reason you’re not out on the street looking for a job. You’ve had a long string of successes, Harry, and one huge screwup.”
Harry was startled to hear the lieutenant use his first name.
“I’ll cut to the chase. This department has a skewed memory. Fact is, one ‘oh shit’ wipes out a lifetime of ‘atta boys.’ You’ve had your oh shit, Harry. One more and I won’t be able to run interference for you, do you understand?” Warren’s phone rang.
“Yes, sir,” Harry responded, wondering what had happened to the shouting, and how he could be made to feel this badly about himself without it.
As the phone rang a second time, Warren put his hand on it. “Next time I see your name in writing, I want it to be on a commendation or on the committee’s recommendation for the next detective’s slot, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.” Harry braved a smile, which Warren returned.
The phone rang a fourth time. “Now get out of here and go to work. And don’t ask Petrelli or the County Executive for any favors for a while.”
Harry exited and closed the door. The others were right, he concluded. Michaels was one of the good guys. He couldn’t help but wonder, though, what kind of chewing out the big man himself had received after shooting his reflection in that mirror.
Michaels took the steps down to the parking lot two at a time, cradling his flip-phone on his shoulder as he fitted his weapon into its holster. He could hear his heart racing. A few seconds passed, then Jed answered on the third ring.
“Nicholson residence, Detective Sergeant Hackner.”
“Jed, Warren. They’ve found the car in Pennsylvania, just north of Harrisburg. I’m on my way up there now.”