Random Victim by Michael A. Black Page B

He went up to the State’s Attorney’s office and nodded to the middle-aged clerk behind the counter.
    “Murphy in?” he asked.
    “Yes, sir,” the clerk said, motioning with her thumb toward the back offices. Ryan went through the door and went down the
     hallway. He could hear the distinctive rasp of Murphy’s voice even before he got to the doorway. The big man looked up quickly,
     then winked as Ryan entered. Two younger white guys sat hunched in front of Murphy’s huge form, which was half saddling a
     large metal desk. He was heavyset with brownish-red hair slicked straight back from an expansive forehead. Wire-rimmed glasses
     with a slight tint rested on a nose that had obviously been broken more than once. He had a flaring mustache, and a sharp
     chin that seemed to jut out from a doughy dollop of flesh above his collar.
    “Hiya, Ryan,” Murphy said. His voice was husky and brassy-sounding. “Anybody else in the hall?”
    Ryan shook his head.
    Murphy swallowed and turned to the two seated men.
    “So like I was saying, this pissant state’s attorney wants me to do a fucking lineup, even though the victim’s already seen
     him when we picked him up. So I says all right, and goes to pick this broad up. We go downstairs in the lockup, but it’s Saturday
     and we have to wait for all the bond hearings to end. They’re getting ready to load all the dogs on the bus to take ’em to
     Twenty-sixth Street, and I gotta hold everything up for this damn lineup.” He paused to lick his lips. “But none of the other
     assholes will stand in the lineup for me. They’re all afraid they’ll get picked out and blamed for something.” He lapsed into
     a poor imitation of a black accent. “Not me’s, Officer. They’s might pick me.”
    The other two men listening laughed appreciably.
    “Time’s running short, and I still got a ton of work to do before I can get to happy hour, so I had to use one of what I call
     Murphy’s Laws. I improvised.” He smiled broadly. “I got a couple of the deputies to stand in the lineup for me.” Murphy paused
     for what seemed like a comedian going for dramatic effect. Ryan had heard the story before, so he knew what was coming. He’d
     worked with Murphy when they’d been in Vice.
    “Two white deputies, two black deputies, all in T-shirts and black uniform pants, and one nigger defendant in funky-ass blue
     jeans. The witness didn’t have no trouble picking the son of a bitch right out.”
    The two younger guys began laughing, and Murphy was, too, but he held up his hands. “And that ain’t the best part of it. Get
     this. At the prelim, this little faggot of a public defender asks me if I conducted a lineup, so I says, ‘Yes, sir, right
     in this very building, sir.’ The asshole don’t say nothing, either, leastwise not with me standing there glaring at him the
     whole time. He ended up copping to a plea and is now doing six years at Stateville. I thought about calling Guinness to list
     the first racially balanced lineup in Cook County history, but figured I’d better let it ride. After all, I’m just here to
     serve and protect.”
    He stood up and brushed his hands together, as if expelling a coating of dust, then extended an open palm at Ryan.
    “How you been doing, Tommy, my boy? And, more importantly, what can I do you out of?”
    “I need some of your advice and expertise,” Ryan said.
    “Murphy’s Law: If you can’t fuck it or eat it, piss on it.”
    His two straight men laughed again, as if on cue.
    Ryan realized he had to get Murphy away from his audience or he’d be in for a long afternoon.
    “You eat yet?” he asked.
    “No, I haven’t,” Murphy said, walking around to the chair. He grabbed a garish glen plaid sport coat that could have been
     powered by a battery from the rack and slipped it on, pausing to wink at the other guys. “In fact, I just might be tied up
     on an important investigation for the rest of the afternoon, boys.”
    At