“He’s done with Emma. He’s about to move on to Jack.”
“Jesus Christ,” Richie said softly, to the sky. I couldn’t tell whether he was swearing or praying.
I said, “Kids are hell. No way round that. We all act like it’s not a problem, but the fact is, it kills every single one of us, every time. You’re not alone there.”
“I was sure I could handle it. Definite.”
“And that’s the right way to think. Always go in thinking positive. Doubts will kill you in this game.”
“I’ve never gone to bits like that before. I swear. At the scene, even: I was grand. Not a problem.”
“Yeah, you were. The scene’s different. The first look is bad, and then the worst’s over. It doesn’t keep coming at you.”
I saw his Adam’s apple jump as he swallowed. After a moment he said, “Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”
The words sounded like they hurt his throat. I said, “Are you sure you want to be?”
“All I ever wanted. Since I was a kid. Saw a program on the telly—documentary, not made-up crap.” A quick squint my way, to check if I was laughing at him. “Some old case, a girl that got killed down the country. The detective was talking about how they solved it. I thought he was the smartest guy I’d ever seen, you know? Way smarter than college professors and people like that, because he got things done. Things that mattered. I just thought . . . That. I want to do that.”
“And now you’re learning to do that. Like I told you yesterday, it takes time. You can’t expect to have the whole thing sussed on your first day.”
“Yeah,” Richie said. “Or else your man Quigley’s right, and I should fuck off back to Motor Vehicles and spend some more time arresting my cousins.”
“Is that what he was saying to you yesterday? When I was in with the Super?”
Richie rubbed a hand over his hair. “It doesn’t matter,” he said tiredly. “I don’t give a damn what Quigley says. I only give a damn if he’s right.”
I dusted off a piece of wall and sat down beside him. “Richie, old son,” I said. “Let me ask you something.”
His head turned towards me. He had that food-poisoned look again. I gambled that he wouldn’t puke on my suit.
“I’m betting you know I have the highest overall solve rate on this squad.”
“Yeah. I knew coming in. When the Super said he was putting me with you, I was only delighted.”
“And now you’ve had a chance to watch me work, where do you think that solve rate comes from?”
Richie looked uncomfortable. Clearly he had asked himself the same question, and hadn’t managed to come up with an answer.
“Is it because I’m the smartest guy in the squad room?”
He did something between a shrug and a wriggle. “How would I know?”
“In other words, no. Is it because I’m some kind of psychic wonder boy, like you see on TV?”
“Like I said. I wouldn’t—”
“You wouldn’t know. Right. Then let me say it for you: my brain and my instincts are no better than anyone else’s.”
“I didn’t say that.”
In the thin morning light his face looked pinched and anxious, desperately young. “I know. It’s true just the same: I’m no genius. I would have liked to be. For a while, when I started out, I was sure I was something special. Not a doubt in my mind.”
Richie watched me, wary, trying to work out if he was getting told off here. He said, “When . . . ?”
“When did I figure out that I’m not Superboy?”
“I guess. Yeah.”
The hills were hidden in mist, just snatches of green appearing and disappearing. There was no way to tell where land ended and sky began. “Probably a lot later than I should have,” I said. “There wasn’t one moment that sticks out. Let’s just say I got older and wiser, and it became obvious. I made a few mistakes I shouldn’t have made, missed a few things that Superboy would have spotted. Most of all, I worked with a couple of guys along the way who were the real thing: what I wanted to be. And it turns out I’m just about smart enough to spot the difference when it’s right in front of my nose. Smart enough to see how smart I’m not, I guess.”
Richie said nothing, but he was paying attention. That alertness was rising in his face, edging out the rest; he almost looked like a cop again. I said, “It was a nasty surprise, finding out that I was nothing special. But like I said to you before, you work with what you’ve got on hand. Otherwise you might as well buy yourself a one-way ticket on the train to failure.”
Richie said, “Then the solve rate . . . ?”
“The solve rate,” I said. “My solve rate is what it is for two reasons: because I work my arse off, and because I keep control. Over situations, over witnesses, over suspects, and most of all, over myself. If you’re good enough at that, you can compensate for just about anything else. If you’re not, Richie, if you lose control, then it doesn’t matter how much of a genius you are: you might as well go home. Forget your tie, forget your interrogation technique, forget all the things we’ve talked about over the last couple of weeks. They’re just symptoms. Get down to the core of it, and every single thing I’ve said to you boils down to control. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”