The Gravedigger's Ball by Solomon Jones

confronted him about his attitude toward Mann and forced him to backtrack. No one had ever made Coletti back off of anything. That was how his colleagues had known, even before it happened, that Coletti’s and Mary’s fast friendship would develop into something more. What they didn’t know was that the woman who seemed so genuine was really something else altogether.
    They’d watched Coletti lose when he gambled on loving her, and though most of them would never say it aloud, their hearts broke with his when Mary betrayed him. Because Lenore was Mary’s sister, they viewed her through the prism of those memories, and, fairly or not, at least one of them believed that Lenore would eventually prove herself to be just like Mary.
    Lenore tried to keep her focus straight ahead as she watched Coletti fill out the incident report from that morning’s shooting, but it was hard to do so with everyone staring. She occupied herself by making a call on her cell. When there was no answer, she disconnected and put the phone in her bag. Soon after, one of the detectives—a biker type who’d transferred from northwest detectives just three months before—came over to Coletti’s desk.
    “I guess you heard they found Smitty,” he said to Coletti while continuing to stare at Lenore.
    Coletti felt uncomfortable. He’d never worked with this new guy, but he didn’t like him. He was tactless in the squad room and reckless in the streets. Guys like that were accidents waiting to happen.
    “Yeah, we heard about Smitty,” Coletti said with a sigh as he continued to write. “It’s a shame what happened to him, but right now we’re trying to work through Clarissa Bailey’s case. Has anyone reached her husband?”
    “We’ve sent a couple cars by the house, but no luck yet,” the detective said, still looking at Lenore. “We haven’t talked to Smitty’s wife yet, either, but maybe it’s for the best.”
    Coletti looked up at the detective, his eyes warning the man to stop. The new guy either didn’t get the hint or didn’t want to.
    “I’d hate to have to be the one to tell Smitty’s wife he was buried alive,” the detective said as he glared at Lenore. “I’d never want her to know that they pulled him out of the mud with his mouth wide open like he died gasping for air.”
    Lenore tried to be strong, but the image brought tears to her eyes. She quickly reached up and wiped one of them away, but that tear was immediately followed by another.
    Coletti saw her crying and stared at the detective with a look that carried bad intentions. “Mrs. Wilkinson’s been nice enough to cooperate. So if you care so much about what happened to Smitty, why don’t you run along and find his killer instead of harassing my witness?”
    “Maybe I’ve found the killer’s accomplice right here,” the detective said, his eyes glued on Lenore.
    “Or maybe you haven’t,” Coletti said slowly. “Now leave.”
    “Or?”
    “Or somebody’ll be doing paperwork on you ,” Mann said, standing up and looking him in the eye.
    The detective’s eyes shifted from one man to the other. Then he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay,” he said, backing up with a smirk on his face. “I’ll hit the street. Just remember what happened last time you brought a lady in here, Coletti.”
    Coletti jumped up to go after him, but Mann held him back.
    “Ignore him,” Mann said as the detective left with his partner. “It’s not you, it’s him. He doesn’t know how to handle what happened to Smitty.”
    Mann was right. When a police officer was murdered, it made each cop consider his or her own mortality. It let them know that each day could be their last, and for many, that realization was quickly followed by anger. Both Mann and Coletti had seen it often after the deaths of numerous officers in recent months: enraged police beating suspects in the streets; cops’ wives enduring violence at home; and officers walking around like ticking