control himself as they walked out into the basement corridor.
“Bite me,” Nick said.
“Itebay emay, in the Latin. This place skeeves me.”
But Nick had been right about the squeamishness—“skeeve,” from the Italian
“schifo,”
“disgust.” Esposito wasn’t the only detective whohad fallen out of the habit of going to autopsies. It was true that in outdoor gunshot cases, which are the benchmark murders of bad neighborhoods, you usually learned little from autopsies—whether Milton Cole’s liver had been otherwise healthy was as relevant as his sixth-grade report card. But Nick felt that you connected in a way that you would not if you only saw a rap sheet—and it was a rare man on the slab who didn’t have a criminal record. You might see abrasions on the knuckles, from the effort to do a hundred push-ups a day, or the waistline that told of fast food and video games. There was history in the skin. You might not have known he was a Latin King until you saw
“Amor de Rey”
tattooed on his back; you might have forgotten he had a mother until you read it on his shoulder. And you met the customer, who you now worked for, which was always a good idea. Esposito didn’t need to make the effort to connect, but Nick did.
Esposito started to say that he’d go out for coffee if nothing looked too bad, when Tully, the detective liaison at the ME, caught them in the hall. Tully helped fill in the story when the pathologist had a question. Was there diabetes medication found at the scene? Was there any history of domestic violence? Was the body found in the bathtub or next to it? He helped negotiate the minefield of theoreticals—Why? Why not? What if? All the anal whatiffery that annoyed you most times—and embarrassed you on occasion, when they came upon the puncture from the ice pick that no one noticed at the scene. Tully took hold of Esposito’s arm and whispered that Internal Affairs was in the room—an old junkie locked up for shoplifting the night before had expired quietly in a midtown precinct holding cell. There was nothing suspicious about the death, but since he’d died in police custody, they were obliged to investigate. Esposito reacted as if he’d been told there was a gas leak.
“Dead bodies, and now rats,” he muttered, glowering. “It’s like a horror movie.”
Nick shuddered, and his discomfort was unfeigned. He had rationalized his decision to work for IAB by deciding he didn’t really work for them. They had a doubly bad reputation, for both credulous malice and incompetence. If there was an accusation that a cop was robbing banks, they’d blunder around ATMs for a month and then write up everyone in the precinct who came in ten minutes late. In-house justice for the NYPD was a Wizard of Oz affair, booming and arbitrary pronouncements from behind a curtain—five days for failure to wear a seat belt in a car crash;thirty for being out of residence while on sick leave; ten for felony assault, off-duty. Failure to comply with a lawful order, five days or sixty. There were stories behind all of the cases, Nick knew—Al Capone went down for the taxes, not the murders—and he hoped every hard hit on technicalities compensated for something rotten but unprovable. Still, the numbers were baffling, the charges relentlessly inventive—unauthorized sexual conduct while on duty, fifteen days. He’d never seen the on-duty sex authorization form. He’d have to check around the office. Could a sergeant sign it, or did you need a chief?
Technically, Nick was an IAB “field associate,” a kind of informal informant, someone in the neighborhood who would pass on word, gossip more than hard news. If he saw a cop do wrong—real wrong—his obligation was no different from any other cop, which was to tell the truth. No different from any other person, really, though perjury was apparently a crime only for policemen, not politicians. Nick himself was in daily violation of department
“Bite me,” Nick said.
“Itebay emay, in the Latin. This place skeeves me.”
But Nick had been right about the squeamishness—“skeeve,” from the Italian
“schifo,”
“disgust.” Esposito wasn’t the only detective whohad fallen out of the habit of going to autopsies. It was true that in outdoor gunshot cases, which are the benchmark murders of bad neighborhoods, you usually learned little from autopsies—whether Milton Cole’s liver had been otherwise healthy was as relevant as his sixth-grade report card. But Nick felt that you connected in a way that you would not if you only saw a rap sheet—and it was a rare man on the slab who didn’t have a criminal record. You might see abrasions on the knuckles, from the effort to do a hundred push-ups a day, or the waistline that told of fast food and video games. There was history in the skin. You might not have known he was a Latin King until you saw
“Amor de Rey”
tattooed on his back; you might have forgotten he had a mother until you read it on his shoulder. And you met the customer, who you now worked for, which was always a good idea. Esposito didn’t need to make the effort to connect, but Nick did.
Esposito started to say that he’d go out for coffee if nothing looked too bad, when Tully, the detective liaison at the ME, caught them in the hall. Tully helped fill in the story when the pathologist had a question. Was there diabetes medication found at the scene? Was there any history of domestic violence? Was the body found in the bathtub or next to it? He helped negotiate the minefield of theoreticals—Why? Why not? What if? All the anal whatiffery that annoyed you most times—and embarrassed you on occasion, when they came upon the puncture from the ice pick that no one noticed at the scene. Tully took hold of Esposito’s arm and whispered that Internal Affairs was in the room—an old junkie locked up for shoplifting the night before had expired quietly in a midtown precinct holding cell. There was nothing suspicious about the death, but since he’d died in police custody, they were obliged to investigate. Esposito reacted as if he’d been told there was a gas leak.
“Dead bodies, and now rats,” he muttered, glowering. “It’s like a horror movie.”
Nick shuddered, and his discomfort was unfeigned. He had rationalized his decision to work for IAB by deciding he didn’t really work for them. They had a doubly bad reputation, for both credulous malice and incompetence. If there was an accusation that a cop was robbing banks, they’d blunder around ATMs for a month and then write up everyone in the precinct who came in ten minutes late. In-house justice for the NYPD was a Wizard of Oz affair, booming and arbitrary pronouncements from behind a curtain—five days for failure to wear a seat belt in a car crash;thirty for being out of residence while on sick leave; ten for felony assault, off-duty. Failure to comply with a lawful order, five days or sixty. There were stories behind all of the cases, Nick knew—Al Capone went down for the taxes, not the murders—and he hoped every hard hit on technicalities compensated for something rotten but unprovable. Still, the numbers were baffling, the charges relentlessly inventive—unauthorized sexual conduct while on duty, fifteen days. He’d never seen the on-duty sex authorization form. He’d have to check around the office. Could a sergeant sign it, or did you need a chief?
Technically, Nick was an IAB “field associate,” a kind of informal informant, someone in the neighborhood who would pass on word, gossip more than hard news. If he saw a cop do wrong—real wrong—his obligation was no different from any other cop, which was to tell the truth. No different from any other person, really, though perjury was apparently a crime only for policemen, not politicians. Nick himself was in daily violation of department
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