The Squad Room by John Cutter Page A

He’d fumbled through that part of the briefing, and stuttered with nerves. Damn that asshole Morrison, for not giving him a list of things to cover!
    Yet Arndt knew better than anyone just how unqualified he was for the position he was in. Housewives watching Law & Order probably had a greater depth of knowledge about crime scenes than he did; it was almost a point of pride for him to have gotten as far as he had, without having to know it. Cops of greater ability, the Morrisons of theforce, were as contemptible to him as they were obnoxious. Their kind of street-level work was beneath his ambition; it was fine for them to do, but only as long as they kept their place, and didn’t get in the way of those they were meant to obey.
    As a cop himself, he’d volunteered for embassy duty as often as possible, spending his shifts studying the patrol guide and avoiding grunt work at all costs. He’d made detective at a time when the city was in a fiscal crisis, after a lot of cops had been laid off and they didn’t have the money to hire more, and his subsequent promotions had come along as a matter of course. He’d made himself the ideal candidate on paper, spending his indoor shifts studying and getting in close with the higher-ups. Let the other cops deal with the nightmares of work on the street—the people they’d given a break one day, turning around and murdering someone the next; the suicides they’d talk out of taking a bunch of pills, only to have them jump out the window as soon as they were gone—he had other things to think about. “Lead, follow, or get out of the way” had served him better and better the higher up he’d gone; if it was a case he couldn’t handle, he could usually pass it on to someone else before any dirt got on him.
    Yet now he was pretty well fucked. He’d made himself too conspicuous in the early phases of the case; and now that it seemed to have blown up into a full-scale serial killer situation, the Commissioner had him locked down for it. Ah well, he’d just have to tap the troops a bit.
    His driver pulled up in front of the stationhouse, and Arndt snapped back to reality. Telling his driver to wait in the car, he took a deep breath and headed in.
    He walked through the precinct house, happy as always to see his reputation precede him. Normally no one could walk past the front desk without being challenged, but they clearly knew who he was around here. Never mind the fact that no one stood at attention to acknowledge him, he thought with a little umbrage; that would change with his next promotion. He made his way straight for Captain Morrison’s office and walked in without a word or a handshake.
    Morrison, who’d already gotten a heads-up from 1PP about what had gone down in the PC’s office, struggled to keep the grin off his face. The Captain had friends everywhere, most with the same disdain for Arndt, and he’d heard the giddy tale of the Chief of Detectives having his head handed to him by the Commissioner over and over. It would mean more work for him in the long run, but it was worth it. Anyway, the work was what he was here for.
    He looked patiently at the Chief of Detectives. Arndt cleared his throat.
    “Well, Captain,” he said, “you’ve seen these two cases in detail by now; what’s your take? What’s our next move going to be?”
    Morrison smiled. “I’m just waiting to follow your lead, Chief,” he said mildly.
    “Well, you have the investigations; you’ll have to tell me what you’re going to do with them. I know what I would do, but that hardly—”
    “And what is that, exactly?” Morrison asked, looking hard at Arndt.
    “Captain,” Arndt said in a measured tone, “this is your case. I don’t micromanage, as a rule.”
    “I understand, Chief. Let’s just say I really want your input.”
    There were a few awkward moments of silence. Morrison was enormously gratified to see a bead of sweat running down Arndt’s temple. It had obviously been