The Major Crimes Lieutenant looked back at him, his face saggy and his expression unreadable. “That was a little harsh, Mike,” he said.
Reott didn’t answer. He pulled open his drawer and withdrew a pair of cigars, offering one to Crawford. Crawford paused, then accepted it. Reott fired his up, then handed the Zippo lighter to Crawford.
Once both men had a cherry coal at the end of the cigar, the mood in the room seemed to loosen. The smoke somehow alleviated the tension in the air.
“It probably was a little harsh,” Reott agreed. “But I stand by my decision.”
“Which I agree with, for the record. MacLeod’s been through too much already. Using her as bait would be a mistake.”
“Tower doesn’t think so.”
Crawford drew in smoke, then blew it at the ceiling. “It’s Tower’s job to catch this guy. He’s failing. He wants to try anything that might work.”
“You think he’s too close to this case?”
“Absolutely. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Reott peered across the desk at Crawford through the blue smoke trails between them. “That’s a dangerous game to play.”
“We live in a dangerous world,” Crawford replied easily. “Look, Tower pisses me off. That’s no secret. He’s a smartass who thinks he knows better than everyone else. But he’s goddamn dedicated. And some days, he’s a good detective.” He took another deep puff on the cigar, seeming to savor the sensation. “He cares, Mike. He cares. And if it means catching a very bad man, then I’m going to ride that horse until it drops.”
Reott turned the cigar in his fingers. “I don’t know how comfortable I am with that philosophy. A guy like Tower could burn out.”
“Maybe,” Crawford conceded. “In fact, at some point, he probably will. He’s wired too emotionally for this job.” Crawford leaned forward slightly, his shoulders hunching. “But come on, Mike. You’re a leader. You know you have to push your people sometimes.”
“Maybe, but not like this. What you’re talking about is a level usually reserved for soldiers at war.”
Crawford smiled grimly. “We are at war. And it’s a war we’re losing a little more every year.”
“Jesus,” Reott said, shaking his head. “That’s pretty dark. Who shit in your Cheerios this morning?”
“Today? The Rainy Day Rapist,” Crawford said. “But he’s just another in a long line of reality checks.”
Reott sighed. “So where do we go from here?”
“We need a full court press,” Crawford said. “I’ll throw another of my Major Crimes teams into the mix and get them out there shaking bushes. You tell your patrol troops to stop and FI any single white male who looks remotely suspicious. That’ll hopefully generate some leads for Tower to follow up.”
Reott agreed. “Call the media, too. Get that sketch out to the public.”
Crawford laughed derisively. “The Mr. Every Other White Guy drawing? We’ll have sightings at every bowling alley, grocery aisle and video store.”
“All the more for Tower to follow up on, then,” Reott said with a tight grin. “Now what about the threat to my officer?”
“Tower’s right on that count. We need to put men on MacLeod’s house. The guy might be foolish enough to come poking around.” Crawford considered. “And she needs protection, too.”
“A bodyguard, you mean?”
Crawford shrugged. “Put her with a partner while she’s on patrol. When she’s not working, we set her up at a motel. Put another cop with her in the adjoining room.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know,” Crawford said. “You’re the Captain. You tell me.”
Reott smoked for a few moments, thinking. He was out of good ideas. He didn’t know how long. He didn’t even know if it would work or not. Finally, he nodded to Crawford. “Do it,” he said, putting as much confidence into his voice as he could muster. “All of it.”
2024 hours
Katie stared back at Tower, her gaze shifting between the detective and Lieutenant Saylor. “You’re kidding me,” she said.
Saylor shook his head. “This comes straight from the Captain of Patrol.”
Katie turned her attention to Tower. “Was this your idea?”
Tower stared back at her. “Not this part of it.”
Katie sighed in frustration. “I can take care of myself,” she told Saylor. “I don’t need a partner all the time, El-Tee. And I don’t need a bodyguard. That’s ridiculous.”
“You’ve received a death threat,” Saylor said.
“I get death threats once a shift,” Katie replied, bristling. “Sir.”
“This is different,” Tower said quietly. “This guy has shown that he isn’t simply talking. He acts.”
She swallowed, knowing that he was right about that. Still, she wondered if this had more to do with catching a rapist or with the fact that she was a woman. If she were a man, would the bodyguard be on the table? Or would the lieutenant slap the man on the shoulder with a macho exhortation to “be careful” and call it enough?
You’ll never know for sure, Katie. Just do your job.
Katie met the Lieutenant’s eyes. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Tension noticeably eased in the room.
“But I want to choose who my bodyguard will be,” she added.
Saylor and Sergeant Shen exchanged a glance. Then the lieutenant asked, “Okay, fair enough. Who do you want?”
Katie didn’t hesitate. “Tom Chisolm.”
2217 hours
Tower sat on the small patio, wrapped in a blanket. A beer nestled between his legs, his right hand wrapped loosely around the neck. The ornamental blanket belonged on the small couch inside the house and barely covered his shoulders and chest. It merely provided him some temporary protection against the light mist of rain in the air.
It isn’t even really falling, he thought to himself. It was almost more like a fog than rainfall. Just a light, stinging mist that bit into his cheeks and ears and coated his slacks. He felt the heaviness of the droplets as they gathered in his hair. Each time he raised the bottle of beer to his lips, the cold slap of the water smacked his hand.
I should be drinking a hot buttered rum instead.
Tower smiled grimly. Or maybe some hot buttered hemlock.
The enormity of the past week settled in on his shoulders with considerable weight. Captain Reott’s condemnation of his lack of progress rang in his ears, louder still because Tower knew the Patrol Captain was right. What breakthroughs had he engineered in this case? The only one that could even be called progress was the victim Heather Torin coming forward and that wasn’t his doing.
No, it was safe to say that he’d been about as useful as a handbrake on a canoe.
What’s worse, he didn’t see things improving. He still had little useful physical evidence to convict the Rainy Day Rapist, even if he waltzed into police headquarters and surrendered. In his phone conversation with the prosecutor, Patrick Hinote had expressed concern that he’d be able to overcome corpus delecti issues even if the suspect confessed. All in all, it was a giant bag of crap.
Tower lifted the beer bottle to his mouth and took a deep draught. The foam at the end of his drink and the weight of the bottle told him he was empty. Now he had to decide whether to go inside for another one or simply sit in the rain. Since he was four deep into the six pack of Kokanee he’d brought home after work, this initially presented a difficult logic problem. After a moment, though, the only thought that resonated with him was that beer was good and he needed more. Besides, he had to take a leak.
The rain continued to fall on him while he mustered the energy to get up and go inside. He knew Stephanie would have a word or two with him for using the ornamental blanket in such an unorthodox fashion, but at this point, he didn’t care.
Tower let out a long sigh. Crawford had used the words ‘full court press,’ but he knew what that translated to. His case was being taken away from him. Finch and Elias were on loan from Robbery/Homicide, but it wouldn’t be long before the status of lead detective would drift to one of them. Probably Finch, who was the more taciturn of the two. Tower imagined that the next crime scene would be the last where he was considered the lead, and even that one would probably be a ‘collaborative’ scene in order to begin the transition.