The Darkness - Jason Pinter [9]
roped off about fifty feet along the red brick walkway, and
from just beyond that I could make out a white sheet
covering the outline of a body. An ambulance waited
twenty feet away. Its lights weren't on. They didn't need
to be. There was no rush here.
"You never like to see cops this quiet," Jack said.
"Most of the guys on the force, they've seen everything.
Drive-by victims, people burned to death, children, every- The Darkness
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thing. One thing we have in common with them, you
need to learn to desensitize yourself from the horrors you
see sometimes. Without that, you won't last a year on
either job. It takes a lot to send a shock wave through
those nervous systems."
I saw Curt Sheffield among the crowd of cops. He saw
me and began to walk over. I didn't see any other reporters just yet. Curt must have given me first shot at this.
"Hey, Henry," he said, nodding. He didn't offer his
hand, and I didn't expect it. Even though we were friends,
cops were expected to keep their distance from reporters.
They were naturally distrustful of us, and as much as I
hated to admit it, sometimes rightfully so. I'd seen what
the media could brew without all the facts. News, like a
bell, could not be unrung. Once you were accused of
something, once information was given to the public, it
was nearly gospel. And for cops, once your uniform was
stained, fair or unfair, it never washed off.
"Hey, man," I said. "Thanks for the heads-up on this."
"Don't mention it," he said. Curt was a good-looking
guy, about six-two, and filled out his uniform. As a young
black officer, he'd made high marks and was even used
in some promotional materials for the department when
recruiting was down. The taglines on the poster read:
Good People Make Good Cops. Good Cops Make a Great
City. Curt was a good cop, and, as much as he hated to
admit it, a good poster child. Thankfully for him he didn't
get recognized on the street much anymore. "I see a few
motherchuckers in the crowd."
"You see that body," Curt said, "you'll lose your last
three meals, guaranteed."
"You look fine to me," I said.
"That's 'cause the girl I'm seeing, Denise, can't cook
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Jason Pinter
anything that doesn't say 'microwavable' on the box. And
even then I have to remind her to take it out of the box."
"You're kidding me."
"Oh yeah? I had chicken casserole a la cardboard two
nights in a row. I swear, if the girl didn't screw like a
jackalope..."
"How's the leg?" I said. Talking about sex in front of
Jack had the same appeal as discussing it with my parents.
Curt had taken a bullet recently, the bullet nicking an
artery, necessitating some time off the streets. The man
went stir-crazy, but considered his scar a badge.
Not to mention he liked to talk about it more than sex.
"Feels good today. Hurt like hell yesterday. Touch and
go. Know the worst thing about being shot in the leg? You
can't really show people the scar without causing a
scene." Curt looked at Jack. I realized they'd never met.
"Sorry. Jack, this is Officer Curtis Sheffield. Curt, Jack
O'Donnell."
They both nodded, familiar with the drill.
"Henry's talked a lot about you," Curt said. "I figure
he must go through your garbage the way he knows you
front to back. Take care of our boy, he's one of the few
journos we can trust in this burg."
"I'll teach him everything I know," Jack said with a smile.
"Hey," I said, "how's Detective Makhoulian? I didn't
really get to thank him for his help."
Detective Sevag Makhoulian was the officer assigned
to investigating my brother's death. He'd been an invaluable asset to the investigation. Plus he had impeccable
timing. Makhoulian was Armenian. Quiet and intense, as
no-nonsense as they came, but he'd proved his reliability and dedication. I owed him, big-time.
"He's doing well. Mandatory leave for an officer
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involved in a shooting, but it's a clean-cut case and he'll
be back on the street any day now."
"Good. City needs more cops like you guys."
"Not going to argue with you there. I keep telling