“You want to know something about my brother? Hm? Do you know he wanted to get into CBI? But they didn’t let him in. Because of who he was.”
This was absurd. There was a high percentage of Latinos in all California law enforcement agencies,
including the CBI. Her best friend in the bureau, Major Crimes agent Connie Ramirez, had more decorations than any agent in the history of the west-central office.
But his anger wasn’t about ethnic representation in state government, of course. It was about fear for his brother’s life. Dance had a lot of experience with anger; like denial and depression, it was one of the stress response states exhibited by deceitful subjects. When somebody’s throwing a tantrum, the best approach is simply to let him tire himself out. Intense rage can be sustained only for a short period.
“He wasn’t good enough to get a job with you, but he was good enough to send to get burned up.”
“Julio, please,” his mother implored. “He’s just upset. Don’t listen to him.”
“Don’t do that, Mama! You let them get away with shit every time you say things like that.”
Tears slipped down the woman’s powdered cheeks, leaving fleshy trails.
The young man turned back to Dance. “It was Latino Boy you sent, it was thechulo .”
“That’s enough,” his father barked, taking his son’s arm.
The young man pulled away. “I’m calling the papers. I’m going to call KHSP. They’ll get a reporter here and they’ll find out what you did. It’ll be on all the news.”
“Julio—” O’Neil began.
“No, you be quiet, you Judas. You two worked together. And you let her sacrifice him.” He pulled out his mobile phone. “I’m calling them. Now. You’re going to be so fucked.”
Dance said, “Can I talk to you for a moment, just us?”
“Oh, now you’re scared.”
The agent stepped aside.
Ready for battle, Julio faced her, holding the phone like a knife, and leaned into Dance’s personal proxemic zone.
Fine with her. She didn’t move an inch, looked into his eyes. “I’m very sorry for your brother, and I know how upsetting this is to you. But I won’t be threatened.”
The man gave a bitter laugh. “You’re just like—”
“Listen to me,” she said calmly. “We don’t know for sure what happened but wedo know that a prisoner disarmed your brother. He had the suspect at gunpoint, then he lost control of his weapon and of the situation.”
“You’re saying it was his fault?” Julio asked, eyes wide.
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. Not my fault, not Michael’s fault. Your brother’s. It didn’t make him a bad cop. But hewas at fault. And if you turn this into a public issue, that fact is going to come out in the press.”
“You threatening me?”
“I’m telling you that I won’t have this investigation jeopardized.”
“Oh, you don’t know what you’re doing, lady.” He turned and stormed down the corridor.
Dance watched him, trying to calm down. She breathed deeply. Then joined the others.
“I’m so sorry about that,” Mr. Millar said, his arm around his wife’s shoulders.
“He’s upset,” Dance said.
“Please, don’t listen to him. He says things first and regrets them later.”
Dance didn’t think that the young man would be regretting a single word. But she also knew he wasn’t going to be calling reporters anytime soon.
The mother said to O’Neil, “And Juan’s always saying such nice things about you. He doesn’t blame you or anybody. I know he doesn’t.”
“Julio loves his brother,” O’Neil reassured them. “He’s just concerned about him.”
Dr. Olson arrived. The slight, placid man briefed the officers and the Millars. The news was pretty much the same. They were still trying to stabilize the patient. As soon as the dangers from shock and sepsis were under control he’d be sent to a major burn and rehab center. It was very serious, the doctor admitted. He couldn’t say one way or the other if he’d survive but they were doing everything they could.
“Has he said anything about the attack?” O’Neil asked.
The doctor looked over the monitor with still eyes. “He’s said a few words but nothing coherent.”
The parents continued their effusive apologies for their younger son’s behavior. Dance spent a few minutes reassuring them, then she and O’Neil said good-bye and headed outside.
The detective was jiggling his car keys.
A kinesics expert knows that it’s impossible to keep strong feelings hidden. Charles Darwin wrote,
“Repressed emotion almost always comes to the surface in some form of body motion.” Usually it’s revealed as hand or finger gestures or tapping feet—we may easily control our words, glances and facial expressions but we exercise far less conscious mastery over our extremities.
Michael O’Neil was wholly unaware that he was playing with his keys.
She said, “He’s got the best doctors in the area here. And Mom’ll keep an eye on him. You know her.
She’ll manhandle the chief of the department into his room if she thinks he needs special attention.”
A stoic smile. Michael O’Neil was good at that.
“They can do pretty miraculous things,” she said. Not having any idea what doctors could or couldn’t do. She and O’Neil had had a number of occasions on which to reassure each other over the past few
years, mostly professionally, sometimes personally, like her husband’s death or O’Neil’s father’s deteriorating mental state.
Neither of them did a very good job expressing sympathy or comfort; platitudes seemed to diminish the relationship. Usually the other’s simple presence worked much better.