more than once ask for a transfer to a more upscale precinct. But she was a fierce friend, dressing down his first wife in the street directly in front of the demonstrators who had driven her to leave him after his shooting—well, that wasn’t such a hot idea—then, years later, when Carmen was going through a particularly black spell, taking in their kids for an entire summer until his wife was back on her feet.
So Billy would put up with any kind of stormy behavior that came his way, but with Yasmeen now brooding in her tent and Pavlicek halfway to a morose coma of his own, the table suddenly had the energy of a brownout.
“Can I tell you something?” Billy began, trying to plug the gap. “You talk about exorcisms, I never told this to anybody before because it embarrassed me, but about six months into trying to nail Curtis Taft? Carmen convinced me to consult a psychic.”
“Get out,” Whelan stepping in like a straight man.
“Some old Italian lady up in Brewster, I mean, I was so desperate at that point . . . So I call her up, go to her house, I swear she looked just like Casey Stengel. Hey, how you doing, thanks for seeing me, and I walk into the living room, the walls are covered with appreciation letters from different police departments around the country, maybe a few from Canada, another from some town in Germany. It was pretty impressive until you go up close and read one: ‘It has come to my attention that you might possibly have been of some assistance in the as yet unsolved homicide death of fill-in-the-blank. Thank you for your time and enthusiasm. Sincerely, Elmo Butkus, Chief of Police, French Kiss, Idaho.’ But whatever, I’m there. I sit on the couch, she’s in a rocking chair, I was told to bring some objects belonging to the vics, so I hand over a barrette belonging to the four-year-old, Dreena Bailey, Memori Williams’s iPod, and Tonya Howard’s Bible. I tell her what we think happened, Taft coming in there around sunrise, three shots and just walking out, going home, getting back in bed with his still-asleep girlfriend.
“She says to me, ‘OK, here’s how it works. I’m gonna sit here and think about what you just told me, and I’m gonna get a little worked up and I’ll say things, a word, a phrase, and you write everything down. Whatever I say.’ And then she says, ‘Now, the things I’ll be saying? I don’t know what any of it means, they’re like pieces of a puzzle that you got to put together, OK? You’re the detective, not me, OK?’
“I say OK.
“‘And oh, wait,’ she says, ‘by the way, I never charge cops for helping them, that’s my civic duty, all I ask in return is a letter from you on your police department stationery thanking me for my assistance.’ I say, ‘Yeah sure no problem, let’s go, let’s go.’ And then she starts rocking in the chair, rubbing Dreena’s barrette, and lets it rip. ‘Four years old, that poor little kid, she never had a chance, she’ll never see her mother again, or play jump rope, that evil cocksucker, that fucking . . . BUTTER!’
“I almost jumped out the window she shouted it so loud, but I write down ‘Butter,’ then she’s off again. ‘What kind of cold-blooded scumbag would take the life of . . . RUNNING WATER!’ OK, writing it down, ‘Running water.’ I mean, everything in the world is near running water, a river, a sink, a sewer, I mean, are you serious? Then she starts going on about Memori. ‘Fourteen-year-old girl, her whole fucking life in front of her, this vicious pig, this miserable piece of shit, this . . . TIRES!’
“OK, ‘Tires.’
“‘He snuffs the life out of three young ladies and then what does he do? He goes home and crawls back in bed with his new girlfriend, like he just got up to take a piss, and can you imagine what a piece of work that stupid bitch . . . BROKEN TOILET!’
“And, I swear on my children, when she said that, ‘Broken toilet,’ I just about
So Billy would put up with any kind of stormy behavior that came his way, but with Yasmeen now brooding in her tent and Pavlicek halfway to a morose coma of his own, the table suddenly had the energy of a brownout.
“Can I tell you something?” Billy began, trying to plug the gap. “You talk about exorcisms, I never told this to anybody before because it embarrassed me, but about six months into trying to nail Curtis Taft? Carmen convinced me to consult a psychic.”
“Get out,” Whelan stepping in like a straight man.
“Some old Italian lady up in Brewster, I mean, I was so desperate at that point . . . So I call her up, go to her house, I swear she looked just like Casey Stengel. Hey, how you doing, thanks for seeing me, and I walk into the living room, the walls are covered with appreciation letters from different police departments around the country, maybe a few from Canada, another from some town in Germany. It was pretty impressive until you go up close and read one: ‘It has come to my attention that you might possibly have been of some assistance in the as yet unsolved homicide death of fill-in-the-blank. Thank you for your time and enthusiasm. Sincerely, Elmo Butkus, Chief of Police, French Kiss, Idaho.’ But whatever, I’m there. I sit on the couch, she’s in a rocking chair, I was told to bring some objects belonging to the vics, so I hand over a barrette belonging to the four-year-old, Dreena Bailey, Memori Williams’s iPod, and Tonya Howard’s Bible. I tell her what we think happened, Taft coming in there around sunrise, three shots and just walking out, going home, getting back in bed with his still-asleep girlfriend.
“She says to me, ‘OK, here’s how it works. I’m gonna sit here and think about what you just told me, and I’m gonna get a little worked up and I’ll say things, a word, a phrase, and you write everything down. Whatever I say.’ And then she says, ‘Now, the things I’ll be saying? I don’t know what any of it means, they’re like pieces of a puzzle that you got to put together, OK? You’re the detective, not me, OK?’
“I say OK.
“‘And oh, wait,’ she says, ‘by the way, I never charge cops for helping them, that’s my civic duty, all I ask in return is a letter from you on your police department stationery thanking me for my assistance.’ I say, ‘Yeah sure no problem, let’s go, let’s go.’ And then she starts rocking in the chair, rubbing Dreena’s barrette, and lets it rip. ‘Four years old, that poor little kid, she never had a chance, she’ll never see her mother again, or play jump rope, that evil cocksucker, that fucking . . . BUTTER!’
“I almost jumped out the window she shouted it so loud, but I write down ‘Butter,’ then she’s off again. ‘What kind of cold-blooded scumbag would take the life of . . . RUNNING WATER!’ OK, writing it down, ‘Running water.’ I mean, everything in the world is near running water, a river, a sink, a sewer, I mean, are you serious? Then she starts going on about Memori. ‘Fourteen-year-old girl, her whole fucking life in front of her, this vicious pig, this miserable piece of shit, this . . . TIRES!’
“OK, ‘Tires.’
“‘He snuffs the life out of three young ladies and then what does he do? He goes home and crawls back in bed with his new girlfriend, like he just got up to take a piss, and can you imagine what a piece of work that stupid bitch . . . BROKEN TOILET!’
“And, I swear on my children, when she said that, ‘Broken toilet,’ I just about
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