Cold Hit

Chapter 17

I arrived at my digs in Homicide Special where the phones worked, and sat in my old cubicle without the murder book or my partner and rubbed my forehead. After talking with Fran Farrell yesterday, I had to admit I felt uneasy, unsure of what to do about Zack. All I knew was I was in a close race with Internal Affairs for his badge. But I couldn't dwell on it because now I was also stuck with this funeral. So I headed in to see Jeb Calloway, brought him up to date, and then begged for his help.

"Not my problem anymore," he said, after I finished. "Take it up with your task force commander."

"Deputy Chief Ramsey put some rat-bag ASAC from the FBI in charge of the task force. The guy's actually got us on a lunar calendar."

"Look, Scully, you're a good cop, but sometimes you complain too much."

"Captain, we're stuck in a Hannibal Lecter movie down there. His own people at the Eye call him Agent Orange."

"Whatta you want from me?" Cal said. "I didn't put this task force on the ground. Take it up with the head of the Detective Bureau." Some songs never change.

I switched tactics. "I need to get this funeral set up fast. I'd like to run it out of here."

"Jeez, Scully."

"I'll clear it with Agent Underwood," I pleaded. "We don't even have phones or furniture yet. There's hardly any place to sit."

After a long, reflective moment, Cal nodded. "Okay, you clear it with your task force commander and I'll let you work it from this floor temporarily." Then he frowned. "A funeral's a big expense for a copycat kill, or are you off that now?"

"I'm keeping every option open, Cap. Just like you taught us."

He gave me a tight smile. He knew blatant ass-kissing when he saw it.

"And I want Ed Hookstratten from Press Relations to handle the PR," I rushed on. "I need press about this funeral in all the papers and TV. I know you guys are tight and I was wondering if you could pin him down for me."

"You got a name for the DB yet? We can't put John Doe on the headstone."

"He's gonna be Forrest Davies."

"Okay. You get Underwood to sign off. I'll get in touch with Sergeant Hookstratten."

He fixed me with one of those hard-ass, Event Security stares of his and said, "Agent Orange?"

The rest of the afternoon I focused on the funeral. First I left a message for Underwood that I was working at my old desk until our task force phones were in. Then I did the casting for Forrest's immediate family, who I decided to name Rusty and Alison Davies. I made a few calls and recruited two retired cops I'd worked with ten years ago. Detective Bob Stewart agreed to be Forrest's dad and Sergeant Grace Campbell would play his mom. Both were gray-haired sixty-eight-year-old vets who looked like they could be the parents of a fifty-year-old man. I asked them to send over personal portraits for a press packet I was making up to go with the artist's rendition of Forrest.

At three o'clock, Bryna Spiros called back. There was a chapel available at one-thirty tomorrow afternoon. I took it and thanked her.

By five o'clock almost everyone was back after an unsuccessful day at the V. A. I brought my team up to the Homicide Special break room for a pre-meeting. They were tired, and I was getting a decent amount of stink-eye. Big spender that I am, I bought everyone machine coffee. The funeral crew consisted of nine people including me.

Sergeant Ed Hookstratten was a six-foot-four, hollow-chested, Lurch-like piece of work with a long hooked nose to go with his name. The man always slouched, but he was, without question, the best media guy in the Glass House.