Slow Kill - Michael Mcgarrity [67]
Macy’s work space was no less formal: family pictures on the desk arranged just so, file folders neatly stacked in labeled bins, and behind the desk, rows of books and binders perfectly aligned.
Ellie fixed her gaze on Macy. “What’s up, Lieutenant?”
“We got some results back from the lab on that evidence the Santa Fe PD sent us,” Macy said, staring back at her. “The compound recovered from Dean’s garage matches perfectly with the altered pill found in Clifford Spalding’s possession. And there were traces of it on several of the tools.”
“Was it the same potency?” Ellie asked.
“Yeah,” Price interjected, mostly to break up the locked-in eye contact between the two officers. He’d seen them clash before and didn’t want any part of it. “Way under the amount Spalding’s doctor had prescribed.”
“That’s great,” Ellie said, giving Price a glance. “I’ll call the Santa Fe PD and give them the news.”
“Already done,” Macy said softly.
“I drove down here for you to tell me that?” Ellie asked hotly, her eyes riveted on Macy’s face.
“Listen to me, Sergeant,” Macy said calmly, “you’re a patrol supervisor, not a detective anymore. You should have wrapped up the preliminary investigation at the ranch and immediately referred the case to my unit. That’s procedure. If any uniformed officer had done differently while you were serving under me, you would have been in my office bitching up a storm about it. Correct?”
Ellie flushed and nodded.
“Instead, you call out the pathologist to do a rush autopsy without getting authorization, put an out-of-town police chief on the spot as a primary suspect, and then go tearing down to Santa Barbara where you manage to piss off the victim’s widow, not once but twice.”
“Is that your version of what I’ve been doing?” Ellie asked.
Macy spoke with care, giving equal inflection to every word. “That is what the sheriff would have heard if Detective Price hadn’t been covering your ass, with my permission, I might add. Otherwise, I would have been compelled to write you up for failure to follow policy and engaging in activities outside the scope of your present assignment.”
“I did most of that work on my own time,” Ellie retorted, sending a quick smile of thanks in Price’s direction, “and you’ve been getting all my field interview and follow-up narrative reports.”
Macy nodded. “True enough.” He looked at Price. “Give us a minute.”
Price nodded, slipped out of his chair, and hurriedly left the office, closing the door behind him.
Macy leaned forward in his chair, clasped his hands together, and paused before speaking. “The question is, Sergeant, do you want to remain a patrol supervisor or voluntarily give up your stripes and return to your old job?”
“I worked hard for my promotion,” Ellie said, shaking her head.
“But you didn’t like the idea that you had to leave the detective unit to get it,” Macy said.
“It’s a dumb policy,” Ellie said, “when officers have to leave their specialty to move ahead.”
“If you want to rise through the ranks, you take the opportunities as they come,” Macy said. “That’s the name of the game.”
“So it seems,” Ellie replied.
“I am not faulting the work you’ve done on the case. In fact, I can easily understand why you were drawn to it. The complexity of the situation intrigued you. But you are a supervisor now, in a position that requires you to apply the rules to those who serve under you. Failing to do so weakens the entire command structure.”
“Duly noted,” Ellie said.
“Be glad this one-time warning comes from me and not your immediate superiors,” Macy said, his tone edgy, a stern look fixed on his face. “Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Macy relaxed and leaned back. “Do yourself a favor, Ellie,” he said, now much more friendly. “Put in two full years as a patrol sergeant and then ask for a transfer