Protector - Laurel Dewey [13]
Jane took a long drag off her cigarette. “Is it that you like to hear the sound of your own voice or is it that you just don’t hear?”
“Jane, we fucked up the case. Okay?” Chris said, confidentially.
Jane was taken aback by Chris’ statement. He was never usually one to admit wrongdoing. Jane studied his eyes. “You mean it?” she asked with a softer tone.
“Of course I mean it.”
“Why didn’t you say that to Weyler?”
“I told him I blamed myself!”
“You said you blamed Stover!”
“Jane, Weyler just made me point person in a double murder I can really put to bed. But you and I have to work together on it. This case, Jane, is gonna put me . . . us back on top.”
Jane regarded Chris with an incredulous glare. “You go from ‘We fucked it up, Jane’ to ‘Let’s figure out how to put Chris back on top?’ What is up with you?”
Chris moved closer, tilting his head in an awkward manner. “I need you—”
“Get away from me.” Jane pulled her body away from him.
“Jane! I’m not kidding!” Chris yelled in a desperate tone. Jane spun around and continued down the stairs to the basement where the evidence room was located. Chris leaned over the railing. “Jane! We can make it right!”
Jane swung open the basement door and entered the huge evidence entry area. There was always that smell down there. Jane figured you could be blindfolded and when you got to the basement, you’d know it by the odor of over one million pieces of evidence—all crammed into metal shelves and waiting to be called up to solve a crime. Bloodied baseball bats used to bash in a husband’s head lay next to carefully sealed plastic K-Paks bags of cocaine, marijuana and meth.
Ron Dickson, one of the evidence technicians, stood behind a metal security grating, signing out one of the detectives from burglary. The place was unusually still and silent. Ron wasn’t the kind of fellow Jane would have talked to outside the office. Maybe it was because Ron was very obviously a Pentecostal Christian. Or perhaps it was because he always had a smile on his face and something positive to share with Jane. He’d brag about one of his three kids winning a league soccer tournament or that he collected more money than anyone else at Headquarters for D.A.R.E., a group he held in high esteem. Jane wondered at times how he made it through life so trusting and somewhat gullible. He worked amongst the blood and the drugs and the obscene photographs and he somehow remained cheerful. When Jane finally asked him one day how he did it, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “It’s a God thing!”
Jane leaned against the door and took a long drag on her cigarette. She figured that Chris had headed back upstairs or out to the double homicide. The detective from burglary walked to the elevator and disappeared behind the large steel doors.
“Detective Perry?” said Ron, his cheerful voice bringing Jane out of her slight daze. “I sure don’t mind if you smoke but if they find you down here with that cigarette, I’ll be in a world of trouble.” He pulled out a large coffee can with a handmade note taped across it that read “PUT YOUR BUTT IN HERE.” Jane reluctantly sidled over to Ron and took one last long drag before plopping it into the can. Ron was wearing a perfectly pressed pair of chinos to go along with his perfectly pressed navy polo shirt. On the shirt was a discreet button that said, “D.A.R.E. to keep kids off DRUGS.” Jane imagined Ron’s ivory-skinned wife dutifully pressing his pants and shirts, affixing either his D.A.R.E. or “Proud Soccer Parent” button onto his shirt and sending him off to work with a gentle kiss. When Jane was around Ron, she always felt very loud, very crude and very lost. “I’m sure I’m not the first to say this, but welcome back!” Ron said with an honest smile.
Jane tried her best