The Hundredth Man by J. A. Kerley

my arm, pointed at Tom, Listen up.
    “The very next night some dope-boater comes hauling weed through the fog and slams a log north of the causeway. Rain. Heavy chop. Waterspouts in the bay. But we still had to fish bales from the water before the tide sucked them away. You know which one of them boats the boys took out?”
    Harry poked me and said, “They took the old boat because the new one hadn’t been blessed, Carson. They weren’t going to trust their asses to it without the blessing of a higher power. The PSIT’s real, but it’s basically brand-new. No one wants to trust it until it’s been blessed.”
    “And when do we know if we’re receiving this anointment?” I asked.
    “Should be pretty quick,” Tom said, tapping the crystal of his watch. “The chief’s called a meeting in twenty minutes.”
    Three words came to mind when I thought of Chief Hyrum: chain of command. If the chief was beside me while I choked on a gum ball he’d walk to his office and call a deputy chief of support services. The DCSS would inform the major in charge of the Criminal Investigations Section, who would alert the captain of the Investigative Services Division. The captain would inform the lieutenant in charge of the Crimes Against Persons Unit, and the lieutenant would send a sergeant from Homicide to Heimlich my corpse.
    Structure was his insulation from reality. Or, to be kinder, from decision making. He’d been thrust into the position three years ago when the then-chief suffered a heart attack and retired. Hyrum made several well-intentioned missteps in restructuring the department and most resulted in negative publicity and general internal bellyaching. Made wary by the experience, the chief now preached straight from the book and leaned toward the familiar passages. He approached recent experiments the PSIT, for example like a blind man nearing the sound of unfamiliar machinery.
    We got to the conference room a few minutes early. I drank a cup of coffee by the urn, then filled another and sat as the others filed in. It was an improbable assemblage of rankings, starting at the pinnacle with Chief Hyrum. Below him was Deputy Chief Belvidere, and because Belvidere attended, so did DC Plackett. On the next stratum was Blasingame from District Three, Cantwell from Two, and Tom Mason. Then, dicks from the districts where the murders had occurred: Rose Blankenship from Two and Sammy Walters from Three.
    The chief and Squill entered, nodding and gesturing in conversation as Squill patted the chief’s shoulder. Chief Hyrum was fifty-three, maybe six feet tall, and gave the impression of solidity, though a few pounds of belly drifted over the belt line. The room fell quiet as he sat and looked out over the expectant faces.
    He held on mine.
    “I understand you were involved in some miscommunication last night, Detective Ryder. Would you care to explain your side of the story? Now’s your chance.”
    I felt my stomach fall and churn. “Explain what, sir?”
    Squill cleared his throat. “Chief, sometimes mistakes are made and apologies are necessary.”
    Hyrum said, “I can accept that, Captain.”
    Every face turned my way. I felt like the lead in a play that closed before I’d read the script. It seemed Squill had gotten to the chief before the meeting and poor-mouthed me over last night’s incident. I was obviously required to apologize to him.
    “What’s happening here?” I asked.
    Hyrum said, “I say let bygones be bygones, Detective. It’s best to forget mistakes and … ”
    I smacked the table with my palm. Coffee splashed from cups to the table. Grumbles.
    “No, dammit. I demand to hear what you’ve been told about last night.”
    Beside me Harry moaned so softly only I could hear him. Chief Hyrum gave me a three-count glare as he sopped spilled coffee with his napkin. “Captain Squill said you and Detective Nautilus were doing an excellent job of processing the scene under PSIT directives when the