That was what they were there for.
Courtesy.
Professionalism.
Respect.
That was written on the doors of the police cars. Unfortunately, courtesy, professionalism and respect weren’t always enough to protect all those people from the violence and madness of mankind. Sometimes, in order to fight it, police officers had to allow a little of that madness into themselves. The difficult part was that they had to be aware of it and keep it on a tight leash. That was the difference between them and the people whose violence they were sometimes obliged to meet with violence. And that was why she wore her hair short, rarely smiled, and had a shield in her pocket and a pistol on her belt.
For no particular reason, she thought of an old Indian fable she had once told Sundance, about an old Cherokee sitting watching the sunset with his grandson.
‘Grandfather, why do men fight?’
The old man, his eyes turned to the setting sun as the daylost its battle with night, spoke in a calm voice.
‘Every man, sooner or later, is called to do so. For everyman there’s always a battle waiting to be fought, to win orlose. Because the fiercest clash is the one between the twowolves.’
‘What wolves, grandfather?’
‘The wolves every man carries inside himself.’
The boy didn’t understand. He waited for his grandfatherto break the silence he had let fall between them, maybe toarouse his curiosity. Finally, the old man, who had thewisdom of time inside him, resumed in his calm tone, ‘Thereare two wolves in each of us. One is bad and lives a life ofhate, jealousy, envy, rancour, false pride, lies, andselfishness.’
The old man paused again, this time to allow him to absorbwhat he had just said.
‘And the other?’
‘The other is the good wolf. He lives a life of peace, love,hope, generosity, compassion, humility and faith.’
The child thought for a moment about what his grandfatherhad just told him. Then he expressed what was especially onhis mind.
‘And which wolf wins?’
The old Cherokee turned to look at him and replied, clear-eyed, ‘The one we feed more.’
Vivien opened the door and got out of the car. As soon as she turned on her cellphone, it started ringing.
She lifted it to her ear and instinctively replied as if she was sitting at her desk. ‘Detective Light.’
‘Bellew here. Where are you?’
‘Just outside. I’m coming in.’
‘I’ll go down. Let’s meet in the lobby.’
Vivien climbed the steps, opened the glass-fronted door, and was inside the building.
A black man with his hands cuffed behind his back stood in front of the desk, with a uniformed officer beside him holding him by one arm. One of the officers behind the desk was taking down the details of his arrest.
As Vivien entered, she returned the officer’s wave. She turned right and found herself in a large room, painted a nondescript colour, with rows of chairs in the middle and a whiteboard on the wall facing them. Another whiteboard stood on an easel next to a raised desk. This was the room where the officers on duty gathered for roll call, to be given the rundown on the current operations and assigned their tasks for the day.
Captain Alan Bellew, her immediate superior, came in through another door facing the entrance. Seeing her, he came towards her with that rapid walk of his that gave an impression of physical vigour. He was a tall, highly capable man who loved his work and was good at it.
He knew all about Vivien’s difficult love life. In spite of that, and her youth, her unquestionable qualities in the job had led him to hold her in high regard. A relationship of mutual respect had sprung up between them, and whenever they had worked together they’d always achieved excellent results. One of Vivien’s colleagues had once called her ‘the captain’s pet’, but when Bellew had found out about it he had taken the officer aside and given him a little talk. Nobody knew what he had said, but from that moment on all comments had ceased.
Coming level with her, he did what he always did: he came straight to the point.
‘A call just came in. We have a homicide. The body’s apparently years old. They found it on a construction site during demolition. It was inside a wall between two basements.’ He paused, just long enough to give her time to focus on the situation. ‘I’d like you to handle it.’
‘Where is it?’
Bellew made a vague gesture with his head. ‘Two blocks from here, on 23rd and Third. The crime scene team should be there by now. The ME’s on his way, too. I already sent Bowman and Salinas to keep an eye on things until you get there.’
‘Isn’t this something for Cold Case?’
Cold Case was the squad that dealt with long-unsolved homicides. From what the captain had said, this sounded completely like their thing.
‘We’re handling it for now. Later, we can consider if it’s appropriate to transfer it to them.’
Vivien knew Captain Alan Bellew regarded the 13th Precinct as his personal territory and didn’t like anyone who didn’t work directly for him muscling in.
Vivien nodded. ‘Okay. I’ll get right on it.’
Just then, two men came through a door to the right of the desk. One was older, with grey hair and a tanned face.
Sailing, maybe, or golf.
Or maybe both, Vivien thought.
His dark suit, leather briefcase and serious demeanour were like a sign around his neck, marked Lawyer.
The other man was younger, about thirty-five. He was wearing dark glasses, and there was several days’ growth of beard on his drawn face. His clothes, distinctly more casual than his companion’s, bore traces of the night he had spent in a cell. That wasn’t the only thing he bore traces of: he had a cut on his lip and the left shoulder seam of his jacket was torn.