by E A Comiskey
Ben’s grip on my arm slackens. “Mother fucker.”
I move past him and head to the bedroom. “No, that was a different case.”
“That’s not funny.”
I want to tell him it would’ve had the whole homicide department rolling, but he never understood the desperate need for dark humor when dealing with the worst of humanity and the horrors that follow in their wake. “Sorry.”
As I’m pulling black slacks, a white blouse, and a black blazer I never thought I’d have to wear again from the closet, Ben appears in the bedroom doorway. “She’s not going to get off, is she? You said there’s new evidence?”
“Chester’s going to rot in jail for the rest of her life. This is just… I’ll be home in a few hours.” I head for the bathroom, but Ben blocks the door.
“Sylvia—”
“Look, Ben, I can’t just turn off being a cop. I can’t just say screw you to all of those victims’ families and tell them I’m sorry, but I’m too busy packing to tie up any loose ends with my old cases. You know I have to go.”
His eyes go soft. “But it’s Chester.”
I move him out of my way with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I know.”
***
Ben says little more until he’s kissing me goodbye at the door. “Text me when you’re heading home.”
“I will.”
Then I’m driving to the precinct, focusing on the road in front of me as best I can while, in my mind, the gruesome crime scenes of Chester’s case play back on fast forward. If this is a copycat killer, it will be my first, but it isn’t terribly surprising. The case made national news not only because of the brutal nature of the crimes or the fact she was a female serial killer, but because Chester has a WHISP. The overcharged media exploded when she was arrested. While the pro-WHISP lobby debated the ethics of punishing a WHISP for its human’s crimes, the anti-WHISP lobby used the case as proof of the inherent evil of WHISPs. You had to be living under a rock or in a tech-free cabin in the wilds of Montana not to have heard about Rachel Chester.
So, in retrospect, a copycat seemed inevitable. But why the hell did NYPD need my input to deal with one? I’d kept painstaking notes on Chester throughout the investigation. Those notes should’ve contained more than enough details to deal with a copycat. There had to be more to the story, but as I fought through traffic, I couldn’t figure out what. Whoever this Chester-wannabe was, I damned him or her for not waiting just another couple of months to start their killing spree. By then Ben and I would have been on the road with no turning back, not ten minutes away where some jackass detective on a power trip felt like he could order me to come down to my old precinct. I pull into a visitor spot, turn off the car and stare up at the rearview mirror. “Yeah, but you’re the idiot who can’t let it go.”
Sighing, I get out of the car and stride up to the front door. A young, blond officer exiting the precinct holds the door for me before a spark of recognition fires in his eyes and a wide smile spreads across his face like a sunrise. “Lieutenant Harbinger! Nice to see you, Ma’am. I take it you haven’t headed west yet?”
“Not quite yet, Schmitty. How’s the works?”
“Can’t complain. But what brings you down here? Forget your favorite stapler?”
I smile. “Give you three guesses and the first two don’t count.”
His blue eyes narrow and his smile sags. “It’s that 187 they’re all talking about, yeah? They get you to come back to work?”
“Naw, just consulting.”
“Heh, like Sherlock Holmes.”
“Exactly, except for the cocaine. Now Schmitty, you won’t tell anyone I’ve been by, right? Wouldn’t want folks to get jealous that I didn’t visit.”
“You can count on me, Lieutenant. You take care and have a good trip if I don’t see ya again before you leave.”
“I will.”
I watch Schmitty skip down the last few steps and I wave to him when he reaches the bottom. He’s a good kid, and I’m glad I won’t be here when he takes a bullet or a bribe or when the stress of the job breaks his spirit. As the familiar scents of the precinct fill my nostrils, mostly stale coffee and pungent floor cleaner, I feel a bittersweet comfort, but it’s my home away from home no more. Resisting the urge to walk right to the back, I glide up to the front desk and an unfamiliar redhead looks up from her computer. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Sylvia Harbinger. I’m here to see Lieutenant Crone. He’s expecting me.”
She picks up the phone, consults a phone list, and taps three digits. During the pause that follows, she gives me a perfunctory smile. “A Ms. Harbringer here to see Lieutenant Crone.”
Not very observant, this one. I want to tap my wedding ring and correct her pronunciation, but I restrain myself. My being edgy has nothing to do with her and I don’t want to take out crap on the poor girl.
“Uh huh. Thanks.” She hangs up the phone. “Lieutenant Crone said to go right back to the briefing room. Said you’d know the way?”
“I do, thank you.”
Here we go again.
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