When the Dead Speak

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Sam looked down the three rows of back-to-back desks filling the center of the fourth floor at Precinct Six. There weren't any attractive modular units, potted plants in brass urns, or employees dressed in the latest power suits. Just men in sweat-soaked shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and clerical staff casually dressed in skirts or slacks.

Offices lined the outer walls and a file room occupied the farthest corner. No pictures on the walls. No piped-in music. She scrutinized the tiled floor, which was yellowed from age and losing its design pattern to harsh cleansers. She looked at her white, ankle-wrap espadrilles and wondered if they would still be white by the end of the week.

A stale, moldy odor permeated the air combined with a hint of burnt coffee and the lingering body odors from witnesses and suspects who had been shuttled through the doors over the years.

Ed Scofield, the resident desk sergeant, eyed Sam suspiciously over his bifocals as he handed her a new I.D. badge. Reluctantly, she accepted it and clamped it on her collar.

This was not Precinct One, which she was used to. The First was a state-of-the-art building that boasted a full-time cleaning crew who walked around picking up abandoned coffee cups and periodically cleaning the coffee machine.

Dust was not allowed to settle at the First, which was visited constantly by press, public officials, and dignitaries. Even security was tight. You had to be buzzed in by the desk sergeant to gain access. But here at the Sixth, the desk sergeant wasn't always at the front desk. Any drunk could wander in and use the bathroom if someone didn't stop him in time. The thought crossed her mind that maybe the tile wasn't yellowed from age or cleansers. She shivered and pushed that thought out of her head.

The Sixth's jurisdiction included the most diverse neighborhoods, from two-million-dollar homes on its northern boundaries to low income housing apartments to the south. In between comprised a vast melting pot.

As Sam made her way down the center aisle, at least a half dozen sets of eyes were focused on her. Maybe it was the medicine bundle or her third earring of beads and feathers that hung from within one inch of her left shoulder. Or maybe it was just their way of scrutinizing the new kid on the block.

She found Murphy's office at the far end of the room. No one was there. It was a little too tidy, suggesting a man who either delegated well or had next to nothing to do. Walls were covered with pictures and plaques. Several manila folders sat near the edge of the desk. A vase of fresh-cut roses sat on the back credenza next to a family picture of a woman with a Buster Brown haircut and two teenage girls who had inherited their mother's plain, just-scrubbed look.

Strolling past the front of the desk, Sam's finger flipped open a file folder. It was hers.

"Sergeant Casey?" Murphy closed the door behind him and looked at the folder.

"Just making sure my name was spelled right." Sam's first impression of Murphy when she had seen him at Preston's hadn't changed. He looked like a used-car salesman from his all-tooth, fake smile to his picture-perfect hair.

Murphy extended his hand to her. "Welcome aboard, Sergeant. Although I expected you sooner." He glanced at her choice in jewelry.

Sam's smile was just as fake as she grasped his hand firmly. "I was preempted by a homicide." She released her grip quickly. So far, there were no quizzical stares, no have we met before questions. "Chief Connelley did tell you I work alone."

Murphy's eyes narrowed. "You're on my turf now, Sergeant. You work with whomever I say." Murphy raised his hand toward a figure in the outer office.

Lieutenant Anderson was in charge of the homicide unit at Six. He was a human Cabbage Patch doll with batteries. His pudgy cheeks were a permanent flush pink and his stomach looked a few weeks shy of eight months pregnant. Papers flew off of desks as he rushed to Murphy's office. Mick didn't have a low gear. Murphy made the introductions.

"Ready for your tour, Sergeant?" Mick asked.

After a half-hour of shaking hands and constantly checking over her shoulder for Jake and Frank, Sam was led to her twelve-by-eighteen-foot office. At least it had windows.

She surveyed her office walls with their numerous nail holes and immediately missed her wallpapered office and hanging plants. Her finger made a trail through the dust on the surface of the wooden desk. After making a mental note to bring in some plants from home, she cranked open one of the windows. Two mourning doves looked up at her curiously. She made another mental note to bring sunflower seeds for her two friends.

Murphy breezed past Sam's door. He didn't look Sam's way, didn't pause with a sudden hint of recollection. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe she had nothing to worry about.