The Jake Helman Files Personal Demons by Gregory Lamberson Page B

dampen his forehead. He felt like an errant schoolboy summoned to the principal’s office whenever the civilian receptionist glanced in his direction. Her medium-length dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses reminded him of Sheryl, but she lacked his wife’s natural beauty.
    Fidgeting in his seat, he dug into a pile of wrinkled magazines. A
Sports Illustrated
cover featured the Yankees dousing themselves with champagne following their latest World Series victory. Jake always rooted for the underdog, which made him a Mets fan. Tossing the magazine aside, he unearthed a Time magazine from the bottom of the pile. Seeing the cover, dated two years earlier, he grunted. The paranoid eyes of a pale face, framed by a mane of unruly white hair, stared back at him. Lampooned on late-night talk shows and humor magazines, the painting had become iconic. The headline that spawned a thousand jokes read, Time’s
Person of the Year: Exploiting the Genetic Frontier
—”Where’s Old Nick?” Jake leafed through the issue, glancing at photos pertaining to the article: third-world citizens reaping the benefits of genetically enhanced food crops; a paraplegic taking his first steps following therapeutic cloning; and a low angle shot of the Manhattan headquarters of Tower International.
    The front door opened and Hammerman and Klein entered, their coats folded over their arms. Hammerman wore a black suit with razor-sharp creases, but Klein’s taste ran strictly off the rack, his sports jacket at least one size too small for his girth. They wore identical smiles, as if they had just shared a joke.
    “Sorry to keep you waiting, Jake,” Hammerman said. “We had to follow up some loose threads.”
    “No problem,” Jake said, setting the magazine down and sitting up.
What loose threads?
    “We’ll just be another few minutes. Would you like some coffee?”
    “No, thanks.” Jake tried to hide his indignation. He had plied countless suspects with caffeine to get their mouths running. Did Hammerman suspect him of something other than killing Dread and Baldy in self-defense?
    Hammerman and Klein entered a side corridor lined with office doors. Sighing, Jake leaned back and waited. The Inspectors returned five minutes later, having traded their coats for file folders.
    Hammerman turned to the receptionist. “Carol, which room’s available?”
    The woman checked a log on her desk. “Number Four.”
    “Thanks. This way, Jake.”
    Jake rose and followed the Inspectors into a wide, wood-paneled room with tan carpeting and a low drop ceiling. Hammerman gestured to the digital audio recorder at one end of the conference table, next to an old rotary telephone with a thick rubber connection cable. “Take off your coat and stay a while.”
    Jake peeled off his leather coat, draped it over the back of a padded chair, and sat. Hammerman positioned himself at the head of the table, with Jake on his left and Klein on his right. The informal arrangement put Jake’s mind at ease; with open space to his right, he did not feel surrounded. The overhead florescent lights hummed as the Inspectors spread their folders and notes before them on the table.
    “This is the nicest interrogation room I’ve ever seen,” Jake said, looking around.
    Hammerman smiled. “We prefer to call it an interview room. We keep it comfortable because we deal with cops here, not criminals.”
    Sure you do
, Jake thought. “I notice there aren’t any windows, though.”
    Hammerman looked up from his notes. “Well, you never know, do you?”
    “I guess not.” Jake recalled his elevator ride to the sixth floor.
    Klein opened a piece of nicotine chewing gum and stuck it into his mouth. “Feel free to smoke.”
    “I’m good.”
    “Ready to do this?” Hammerman said.
    “Fire away.”
    Hammerman switched on the digital recorder and announced the date. “Internal Affairs Bureau Inspectors Hammerman, Gary, and Klein, Richard, interviewing Helman, Jake, Detective First Grade,