reports, which he’d already had copies of. After I read them, he told me I’d be on my own because the judge wanted a quiet, accent quiet, investigation.”
“How can you find a fourteen-year-old under that kind of mandate?”
“You can’t. Look at the file. Initial police report. Five-minute call to the housekeeper. Follow-up police report. Alert calls to airport and train-station security. One leg visit to the bus stations. End present efforts.“
“Amateurish.”
She grimaced. “Worse. Perkins himself has loaded me with other files. I’m not complaining, but I was the operative with the most files pre-Stephen, and I’ve gotten more than my share since. Every time I try to do something on Stephen’s case, Perkins moves up the priority of some other case I’m on. I’d be embarrassed to talk with the judge—assuming Perkins would let me.”
I confirmed that Smollett’s signature was on both the initial and follow-up reports before I closed up the file and passed it back to her. “What do you suppose Perkins is trying to tell you?”
She put down her beer. “He’s a professional. That means minimal effort is intentional. And that probably means pressure from the client to keep it that way.”
I took a sip of my screwdriver. “You know anything about the judge’s wife?”
She looked surprised. “Perkins told me she was dead.”
I nodded. “Years ago. It pushed Stephen off the deep end. I was wondering if something similar pushed him again.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. But then, what I don’t know about this case could make a mini-series.”
I smiled sympathetically. “It’s not your fault, you know. You’re a professional who’s being reined in.”
“Yeah.” She finished her beer and slid off the stool. “If you need to talk to me again, which I hope you don’t, call me at the office and identify yourself as Mr. Pembroke but don’t leave a return number.”
“By the way, why did you decide to call me?” I asked.
She smiled as she slung her bag. “What we’re doing stinks. And in the office you didn’t refer to him as ‘the kid’ or ‘the boy.’ You called him by his name, Stephen. Poor little son of a bitch.”
The next day was bright and clear. There was only one cruiser in the range parking area. Cal was waiting for me inside the wire enclosure. He waved to the short wooden tower, which was centered just inside the range. The tower man buzzed me in through the gate. Bonham may not be a big-budget town, but Chief Calvin Maslyk knew where the money he got was best spent.
“Been a while, John.”
“Nearly four weeks.”
We picked up some sonic muffs and wad-cutter cartridges and moved to the seventy-five-foot line, just left of center. Cal had already set up some traditional bull’s-eyes downrange, one target easel apart. We adjusted the muffs over our ears, and the tower man clicked on.
“Gentlemen, load five rounds.” We did so. Then the tower again. “Is there anyone down range?” A pause. Then again. “Is there anyone down range?” Another pause. “The range is clear. Ready on the right. Ready on the left.” We waved. “Ready on the firing line.” A pause. Then, “Fire.”
We fired five rounds, single-shot. “Clear your weapons.” We opened our cylinders, jacked out the expended shells, and slid our fingers into the gun frame so the cylinder could not close back in.
“Is the firing line clear?” intoned the tower. We held up our weapons, cylinders out. “The firing line is clear. You may proceed downrange.” We began walking toward the targets.
I liked Cal, and I liked the way he required his range to be run. I’d read about a chief on the South Shore who hadn’t taken those precautions. A nine-year-old, playing army, had crawled onto the range. A rookie cop who never saw him hit him twice. The boy died the next day, and the rookie resigned the day after. The chief was forced out the following week by the board of
“How can you find a fourteen-year-old under that kind of mandate?”
“You can’t. Look at the file. Initial police report. Five-minute call to the housekeeper. Follow-up police report. Alert calls to airport and train-station security. One leg visit to the bus stations. End present efforts.“
“Amateurish.”
She grimaced. “Worse. Perkins himself has loaded me with other files. I’m not complaining, but I was the operative with the most files pre-Stephen, and I’ve gotten more than my share since. Every time I try to do something on Stephen’s case, Perkins moves up the priority of some other case I’m on. I’d be embarrassed to talk with the judge—assuming Perkins would let me.”
I confirmed that Smollett’s signature was on both the initial and follow-up reports before I closed up the file and passed it back to her. “What do you suppose Perkins is trying to tell you?”
She put down her beer. “He’s a professional. That means minimal effort is intentional. And that probably means pressure from the client to keep it that way.”
I took a sip of my screwdriver. “You know anything about the judge’s wife?”
She looked surprised. “Perkins told me she was dead.”
I nodded. “Years ago. It pushed Stephen off the deep end. I was wondering if something similar pushed him again.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. But then, what I don’t know about this case could make a mini-series.”
I smiled sympathetically. “It’s not your fault, you know. You’re a professional who’s being reined in.”
“Yeah.” She finished her beer and slid off the stool. “If you need to talk to me again, which I hope you don’t, call me at the office and identify yourself as Mr. Pembroke but don’t leave a return number.”
“By the way, why did you decide to call me?” I asked.
She smiled as she slung her bag. “What we’re doing stinks. And in the office you didn’t refer to him as ‘the kid’ or ‘the boy.’ You called him by his name, Stephen. Poor little son of a bitch.”
The next day was bright and clear. There was only one cruiser in the range parking area. Cal was waiting for me inside the wire enclosure. He waved to the short wooden tower, which was centered just inside the range. The tower man buzzed me in through the gate. Bonham may not be a big-budget town, but Chief Calvin Maslyk knew where the money he got was best spent.
“Been a while, John.”
“Nearly four weeks.”
We picked up some sonic muffs and wad-cutter cartridges and moved to the seventy-five-foot line, just left of center. Cal had already set up some traditional bull’s-eyes downrange, one target easel apart. We adjusted the muffs over our ears, and the tower man clicked on.
“Gentlemen, load five rounds.” We did so. Then the tower again. “Is there anyone down range?” A pause. Then again. “Is there anyone down range?” Another pause. “The range is clear. Ready on the right. Ready on the left.” We waved. “Ready on the firing line.” A pause. Then, “Fire.”
We fired five rounds, single-shot. “Clear your weapons.” We opened our cylinders, jacked out the expended shells, and slid our fingers into the gun frame so the cylinder could not close back in.
“Is the firing line clear?” intoned the tower. We held up our weapons, cylinders out. “The firing line is clear. You may proceed downrange.” We began walking toward the targets.
I liked Cal, and I liked the way he required his range to be run. I’d read about a chief on the South Shore who hadn’t taken those precautions. A nine-year-old, playing army, had crawled onto the range. A rookie cop who never saw him hit him twice. The boy died the next day, and the rookie resigned the day after. The chief was forced out the following week by the board of
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