I parked on the far side of the lot, well away from the little news conference out front. I had no doubts as to the subject matter. The only interesting thing that had happened in the parish for the last month was the murder, and since I was supposedly leading the investigation, I didn’t want to risk being called to speak on camera. I was a little surprised that the chief was even allowing himself to be interviewed; he usually preferred to let the Public Information Officer handle press conferences. He definitely wasn’t a media whore like most of the public figures around here. Then again, he was appointed, not elected, so he didn’t have to be. But I supposed a possible Symbol Man murder was interesting enough that he felt obliged to make a statement. I walked quickly and quietly to the back door, managing to duck in before anyone outside spotted me. I’d been on camera once before, after a large check-fraud operation was shut down, and had managed to give a fantastic impression of a babbling idiot. I had no desire to repeat the experience.
“… waiting on autopsy results before we are willing to connect this murder with the Symbol Man murders.” I heard the chief’s voice as the door closed, and I continued down the wood-paneled hall and on to my closet-size office. Other than his fitness fanaticism, the chief didn’t seem like a bad sort, though I had shockingly little personal experience from which to form any real opinion of him. He was appointed chief of police by the mayor nearly a decade ago, causing more than a few bruised feelings among the upper echelon of the Beaulac PD at the time. Eddie Morse was not a local boy. A former deputy chief of a small town in north Louisiana, he had moved to Beaulac only about a year before his appointment. After the previous chief died of a heart attack, the higher-ranking officers at the Beaulac PD were all jockeying for the position, only to have it yanked away and handed to a total stranger, and there were many who felt that the job should have gone to someone with more-intimate knowledge of the area.
Personally, I didn’t think that background mattered at all as long as the chief knew how to be a chief, and in the past decade he’d managed to avoid any major scandals—which was a minor miracle in Louisiana. The only beef I had with him was that he rarely, if ever, associated with any of the patrol officers or nonranking detectives. But, of course, that was a two-edged sword. There were many times when it was nice to go unnoticed.
I could see Detectives Boudreaux and Pellini down the hall by the coffee machine. Their backs were to me, and I paused. Should I make the diplomatic move and ask them for advice? Not that I was all that sure their advice would be worth a crap, but some things were necessary for the sake of diplomacy and making an effort to fit in. I made a sour face. I knew I needed to make some sort of overture to them, since they sure as hell weren’t going to come to me and offer up their assistance.
“… nothing but bullshit cases,” I heard Pellini moan in his distinctive nasal baritone. “I shouldn’t have to work this domestic violence crap. They shoulda been assigned to Gillian, y’know, since she’s a chick.”
“No shit,” Boudreaux answered. “I can’t believe the captain gave the murder to her. What a crock of shit.” I couldn’t see his face, but I could hear the scowl in his voice. “She’s gotta be fucking the captain. Betcha that’s how she scored the transfer too.”
Pellini sniggered, but I didn’t bother waiting to hear his response. Fuck diplomacy, I thought, as I strode up to them.
“Hi, guys!” I chirped as I reached for a coffee cup. “Whoo boy, do I ever need a hit of java right now.” I gave them both an extra-cheerful grin as I poured the coffee. “All that work fucking the captain in order to get all the good cases is wearing me right the fuck out!” I saluted the two with my coffee cup as they stared at me. “Y’all should try it sometime!” Then I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “But you two should probably practice on each other first so’s ya don’t embarrass yourselves. I mean, I know it’s been ages since either of you has fucked anything other than your hand.”
With that I turned and sauntered back down the hall. I could have sworn I heard a bark of laughter come out of Crawford’s office, although when I passed by, his back was to the door and he appeared engrossed in a report on his computer. But Wetzer appeared in the doorway of his office, and to my shock he laughed and lifted his hand in a high-five salute.
“Dude, that was fucking awesome!” he exclaimed.
I grinned and returned the high five. As I ducked into my office, I heard Wetzer as he called down the hall to Pellini and Boudreaux: “Duuuudes, she fuckin’ owned your asses!”
I laughed as I shut the door behind me. The insinuations concerning my sexual activities were more annoying than offensive. I’d grown used to that sort of thing a long time ago and had accepted that I couldn’t talk to anyone of the male persuasion without being suspected of rampant lust. However, it was a seriously cool feeling to realize that I’d just scored points with others in the department for giving the two dickheads a smackdown for stirring up that bullshit. I’m one of them now. I just proved that I can hold my own.