gardens. The whole damned Midwest moved here, but nobody really wants to be here. Nobody knows anybody else, or wants to.” He stared past his hawk nose, through the windows at the hazy shape of the South Mountains. “The heat, the damned smog…”
I wasn’t going to try to defend Phoenix. Everything he said was true. It broke my heart. Carl was about to continue when a mountainous shape appeared beyond the office door, and Peralta burst into the room.
“Sheriff,” Carl said. About to say more, he noticed the foul storm massed over Peralta’s brow and withdrew in silence.
When the door closed, Peralta slapped a cassette on my desk.
“The noon news,” he snarled.
“What?” I pulled my feet off the top of county property and sat up.
“Play it,” he said. “I want you to have the full experience, just like I did when it came on an hour ago.”
I took the cassette, rose warily and slid it into a player attached to a small TV on a nearby bookshelf. TV news logos flashed across the screen.
“What am I watching?”
“Turn it up,” he ordered.
It was the top story. “A dramatic break today in a fifty-six-year-old murder case!” the blond anchor chirped. I felt the subbasement drop out of my stomach. The voice continued, “For details, let’s go to Melissa Sanchez, who is at a special briefing at Phoenix Police Headquarters.” Peralta appropriated my chair and sat back, his meaty hands folded across his chest, his suit coat and tie bunched beneath.
“…Kate Vare, the department’s cold case expert, made the revelations, Megan,” the reporter said. “A cold case expert is someone who works on some of the very toughest crimes, the ones that have been unsolved for years.” I heard Peralta sigh loudly I didn’t want to meet his eyes. I looked at my fine rolling bulletin board, which stood there in all its ridiculousness.
“An FBI badge, missing for fifty-six years, has been recovered by Phoenix Police. Sergeant Vare said this badge was lost when FBI agent John Pilgrim was found shot to death in November of 1948.”
“This is bullshit!” I said. Peralta held up a hand for silence.
“Pilgrim’s badge was found on the body of a homeless man, who died last week from natural causes…”
I mumbled, “They don’t even have the date right.” On the screen, Kate Vare stood before a crowded room of reporters, nodding her head officiously, pointing to a diagram that included a photo of Pilgrim and the reproduction of the badge.
I reached over and shut off the TV.
“This is bullshit,” I repeated. “Grandstanding. I’ve actually got the homeless guy’s name! I’ve got a Social Security number, a date of birth, even an address from 1981.”
“It’s not about the rummy, Mapstone. The rummy died of natural causes. It’s about the goddamned FBI badge!” His voice echoed into the far corners of the high ceiling.
Sheriff Hayden looked on but declined to intervene. “Don’t you know how the media works, Mapstone? We never announced we found the badge. Nobody knows. So now Kate acts like she’s made a breakthrough. And in the mind of the public she has made a breakthrough.”
“Jesus!” I yelled back. “Is this about your petty little who-gets-the-credit game?”
“It’s been a good game for you,” he snapped back. “Why the hell would the sheriff’s office need a historian, a deputy with a wooptieshit Ph.D. in history, if it wasn’t all just a goddamned media effort!”
I sat down, wounded amidships.
Peralta went for more damage. “I’ve supposedly got the smartest cold case guy in the country, and he makes us look like morons. He spends his week playing social worker with all these fucking derelicts, and he comes up with dick.”
“I’m just a consultant.” I said quietly, all the smart ass drained out of me.
“What’s the matter with you, David?” He stared hard at me. I gave my head a shake and held open my hands, no answer.
“You’re not working this case.
I wasn’t going to try to defend Phoenix. Everything he said was true. It broke my heart. Carl was about to continue when a mountainous shape appeared beyond the office door, and Peralta burst into the room.
“Sheriff,” Carl said. About to say more, he noticed the foul storm massed over Peralta’s brow and withdrew in silence.
When the door closed, Peralta slapped a cassette on my desk.
“The noon news,” he snarled.
“What?” I pulled my feet off the top of county property and sat up.
“Play it,” he said. “I want you to have the full experience, just like I did when it came on an hour ago.”
I took the cassette, rose warily and slid it into a player attached to a small TV on a nearby bookshelf. TV news logos flashed across the screen.
“What am I watching?”
“Turn it up,” he ordered.
It was the top story. “A dramatic break today in a fifty-six-year-old murder case!” the blond anchor chirped. I felt the subbasement drop out of my stomach. The voice continued, “For details, let’s go to Melissa Sanchez, who is at a special briefing at Phoenix Police Headquarters.” Peralta appropriated my chair and sat back, his meaty hands folded across his chest, his suit coat and tie bunched beneath.
“…Kate Vare, the department’s cold case expert, made the revelations, Megan,” the reporter said. “A cold case expert is someone who works on some of the very toughest crimes, the ones that have been unsolved for years.” I heard Peralta sigh loudly I didn’t want to meet his eyes. I looked at my fine rolling bulletin board, which stood there in all its ridiculousness.
“An FBI badge, missing for fifty-six years, has been recovered by Phoenix Police. Sergeant Vare said this badge was lost when FBI agent John Pilgrim was found shot to death in November of 1948.”
“This is bullshit!” I said. Peralta held up a hand for silence.
“Pilgrim’s badge was found on the body of a homeless man, who died last week from natural causes…”
I mumbled, “They don’t even have the date right.” On the screen, Kate Vare stood before a crowded room of reporters, nodding her head officiously, pointing to a diagram that included a photo of Pilgrim and the reproduction of the badge.
I reached over and shut off the TV.
“This is bullshit,” I repeated. “Grandstanding. I’ve actually got the homeless guy’s name! I’ve got a Social Security number, a date of birth, even an address from 1981.”
“It’s not about the rummy, Mapstone. The rummy died of natural causes. It’s about the goddamned FBI badge!” His voice echoed into the far corners of the high ceiling.
Sheriff Hayden looked on but declined to intervene. “Don’t you know how the media works, Mapstone? We never announced we found the badge. Nobody knows. So now Kate acts like she’s made a breakthrough. And in the mind of the public she has made a breakthrough.”
“Jesus!” I yelled back. “Is this about your petty little who-gets-the-credit game?”
“It’s been a good game for you,” he snapped back. “Why the hell would the sheriff’s office need a historian, a deputy with a wooptieshit Ph.D. in history, if it wasn’t all just a goddamned media effort!”
I sat down, wounded amidships.
Peralta went for more damage. “I’ve supposedly got the smartest cold case guy in the country, and he makes us look like morons. He spends his week playing social worker with all these fucking derelicts, and he comes up with dick.”
“I’m just a consultant.” I said quietly, all the smart ass drained out of me.
“What’s the matter with you, David?” He stared hard at me. I gave my head a shake and held open my hands, no answer.
“You’re not working this case.
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