About The Lonely 4

Post 241:

Together the Lonely

Chapter Four

4: The Cops

            Detective Eric Gregg switched on his siren and sat on the horn, guiding the unmarked Crown Vic through the crowd surrounding the precinct. He waved at the poor kid guarding the chain link fence in the rain. I remember those days. The shit jobs. Standing over a piece of evidence for five hours. Road flares and yellow tape, taking useless notes from people that never seemed to see a thing but wanted to seem important.  

            “Can you believe this?” his partner asked. George Lorenz was shielding his face from a volley of camera flashes as they made their way down the ramp to the underground garage.

            “Don’t know what you mean,” Gregg said, looking over at his younger partner. Immediately he was filled with the regret. He knew he could be aloof. Two ex-wives and distant kids were testament enough. “But, yeah.” He put the old sedan in park, hoping for a respite.

            “That’s it?” Lorenz asked, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You want to add something to the conversation sometime, it’d be great.”

            It had been a long day, and both detectives were raw. It wasn’t over, either. Gregg stepped out and without a word and slammed a fist on the roof of the car. The sound carried though the garage, bouncing off cinderblocks and concrete and sticking to Lorenz. The younger man lit a cigarette and shook his head. “Whatever’s got you pounding metal—you need to get your head in the game.”

            The predictability of his partner’s words forced Gregg’s insides to give up. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and rubbed his detective’s shield with his thumb. For twenty years, the same old shit. It’s why he could believe what his young partner couldn’t. It’s why he felt there was nothing to really add to the conversation. His head was in the game—the game was his whole life, and it was foul and unbelievable and common and always the same. This case meant more press and jurisdictional jockeying, but it hardly merited space on his radar.  He flipped up the collar on his trench coat and thought about the kid outside, standing sentry at the fence. “Let’s argue later.”

            “Whatever, man.” Lorenz followed his partner past a few uniforms and into the elevator. Five minutes later, they were in the captain’s office. She was a little younger than Gregg, attractive and put together. Still holding to harbored ambitions in a department full of people simply waiting on their pensions.

            “You don’t want to take a chair?” she asked, looking at Lorenz. He was behind the seated Gregg, back against the door. Gregg shook his head gently at the captain as if to say, let it be. “Fine,” she said. “What do we know?”

            Lorenz was a hair trigger. He started. “We’ve got four, maybe five possible shooters.”

            “That many? Still?”

            “Sorry, Captain Sondro. Be honest, we whittled it down to get that number. With the rain, that’s thousands of umbrellas and coats and pushed up collars. Three cameras, one from the store across the street, two of ours caught the thing. The images are foggy and pretty low resolution. Bunch of witness statements. Lot of conflicting accounts—pretty much we got a description of a white shooter, average height, average everything. We’re expecting a call from the FBI boys anytime. They’re working on cleaning up the video.”

            “I talked to their agent in charge,” Sondro said, leaning back in her chair. “And the mayor. The frigging governor called. It’s like somebody took a run at Jesus Christ or something. You believe this shit?”

            “Don’t ask Gregg that question. He’s in one of his moods.”

            The captain looked out the corner of her eye but pretended not to, telling Lorenz to continue.

            “We talked to the girl. Talked to this James Camp guy.”

            “Far as background, her I can Google.” Sondro leaned back a little more to silence the cell phone buzzing on her hip. “What about Camp?”

            “Garden variety weirdo,” Lorenz said.

            “There’s a variety of gardens.”

            At that point, Gregg decided to enter in. Maybe because he was tired of sitting there. Maybe because if there was something interesting about the case, it was Camp. “He’s clean. James Camp has never had so much as a parking ticket. Lives in one of those upper east side buildings for the rich. The guy’s thirty-five years old—basically spent his entire adult life inside a penthouse.”

            “Where’s he get the money? Place like that?”

            “Family trust,” Gregg said. “A few investments, maybe. We’re still running that all down.” The older detective was wearing his reading glasses, flipping through his little yellow notepad.

            The captain crossed her arms. “Are we thinking Camp had something to do with it? Shut-in goes mental after jerking off, watching the outside world from his computer screen for too many years?”

            “Are you serious?” Lorenz asked. “The guy was off, but…”

            “He’s the one that got shot, remember?” Gregg didn’t know if the captain was forcing him to agree with Lorenz, but she had. One of her leadership strategies, perhaps. Pretty transparent.

            “I know,” Sondro said. She let out a heavy breath and looked at the two detectives. They couldn’t be more different. Gregg represented the tried and true; Lorenz, the new and improved. It’s why she put them together. It wasn’t experimentation. The job was too important. They got results. 

            “Whatever there is to Camp, we’ll know.” Gregg took off his glasses and rubbed at his already red eyes. “No stone unturned.”

            “Eric,” Sondro said, leaning forward on her desk. “What are you carrying around today?” The captain had a sense for the old detective’s burdens. His usual raspy baritone would fall to something like a whisper; his face, rugged and vaguely handsome, seemed to fall downward in one direction.  

            “Garden variety,” he said, showing a wry smile to his superior. “We’ll brace Camp harder tomorrow. Nurse said he should be down to fewer drugs.”

            “Okay,” Sondro said. “Because the obvious question—”

            Gregg cut her off. “Why was a shut-in out on the street and in that spot on this day of all days.”

            She leaned back in her chair again, surveying her two best investigators. She was cop enough to understand that the usual creek between them was currently a chasm. The captain hated to editorialize in the thick of a case, but she couldn’t help herself. “What are the odds? Dedicates his life to keeping his head down… now this.” Sondro flipped her computer monitor around. It was an article with a prep school picture of James K. Camp at the top of the page. He looked about seventeen. A little caption underneath the picture read most recent known photo. “So he’s got himself a fortress of solitude,” the captain sighed. “What about Anna Harrison? Tell me how that went.”       

            “Better than I expected,” Lorenz said. “Seemed fairly level-headed. Real circus all around her though. The hangers-on and such.”

            “Security?”

            It was Lorenz’s turn to pull out his notes. “Reeves Protection and Security International. Bunch of ex-military types. Couple of former secret service. Top-notch.”

            “Not today,” Sondro said. She stood and pulled a Glock from her top desk drawer. “Check out everyone on that detail.”

            “Already on it,” Lorenz said. “But some of these dudes have records we can’t access.”

            The captain was moving purposefully toward the door. “I’ll make some calls. Just send me the names.” Sondro wasn’t lying. She was ex-army intelligence and left the service with more than a handful of sturdy friendships.

            Lorenz stepped nimbly out of the his boss’ way. She was a presence; her deep dark eyes saw everything. Her face was stern toward Lorenz when she told him to hurry up and find the guy. The door closed behind her and the detectives were left alone in the office. Gregg didn’t seem to notice the captain’s exit; he was staring at the prep school picture of James Camp on Sondro’s computer. “I think this guy might be my hero.”

            George Lorenz finally took a seat next to his partner. “He’s a lot of people’s hero right now.”

            “I’m not talking about him taking the bullet. Sure, great and all, but to be off the grid. The older I get, the more the idea appeals.”

            “That doesn’t surprise me.”

            “Why’s that?”

            “Because you’re a recessive asshole. You’re not exactly lighting up the grid as it is. Just so you know.”

            Gregg laughed and rubbed his stubble. He looked at the kid. Twenty years ago he was probably the same as Lorenz, always ready to make another mark, solve the big mysteries. At the moment, he honestly couldn’t remember. The glint was gone, one way or another. “You like her? This Anna—whatever.”

            “Are we having a conversation?” Lorenz asked. He barely heard the question, so surprised that there was one.

            “Do you?”

            “Shit, Eric. I’ve got the same red blood every other guy has.” The young detective straightened his skinny designer tie, as if she had just walked in. “And she’s an icon. Bigger than life. Big as it gets.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Tell me today wasn’t the first time you heard the name Anna Harrison?”

            “It was. I’m not into hero worship. That’s more your generation.”

            “Jesus.”

            “Jesus I can see worshiping. He couldn’t sing, far as I know, but at least he died for something. This Anna woman’s got guys stepping in front of led for her.”

            Lorenz bent over, rubbing his temples. Slick dark hair fell over his face toward the floor. “I’ve got to get a new partner.”

            “Come on, kid,” Gregg said, rubbing his younger partner on the head. “Let’s go catch this prick.”