Devil Bones

“What’s your take on him?”

Slidell snorted. “Could have been a stud except for the head-on with zits.”

I ignored the unkind remark. Fi

“Fi

I remembered the car in the Pineville driveway.

“Fi

“Don’t take a genius to co

“Why?”

“He was learning too much.”

As I started to reply Slidell shot upright in his chair.

“Rick Nelson.” A beefy finger jabbed the air in my direction. “Except for the zits, Fi

“You’re suggesting Fi

Slidell stood and circled to my side of the desk. The finger flipped the pages of Rinaldi’s notes.

RN-PIT. CTK. TV.

“Eddie was saying Rick Nelson with pits. Zit pits. That’s just what he’d say. I’ll be goddamned.”

“Maybe.” I was unconvinced.

“What? It describes Fi

“I’d still run the Akron angle.” I truncated Slidell’s objection. “See if Fi

“Yeah. Yeah.”

We fell silent, staring at Rinaldi’s enigmatic code.

After several seconds, I sensed a shift in Slidell’s attention, felt his eyes crawl my face. I didn’t look up. Didn’t want to pursue the conversation I suspected was coming.

Instead of commenting, Slidell yanked a spiral from his pocket, scribbled, then tore out and laid the page on my desk.

“My girlfriend used to catch a lot of these bugs. You feel like it, you call her.”

I heard footsteps. Then my office was still.

Again, shame scorched my face. Larabee knew. Slidell knew. Who else had seen through my pathetic flu story?

I was reading Slidell’s scrawl when the ME stuck his head in the door.

“Get in here quick-” Seeing my look, he stopped. “What?”

“Slidell has a girlfriend.”

“No way.”

“Verlene Something with a W.” The name was spelled Wryznyk.

“I’ll be damned.” Larabee remembered his purpose in coming. “Lingo’s foaming at the mouth again.”

“God almighty!”

I followed Larabee into the lounge. Every station was carrying coverage of the Rinaldi shooting. The TV was tuned to one of them.

Lingo was holding forth outside a cemetery. Police barricades were going up on the street around him.

“-no longer sacred? When lawbreakers butcher those who risk their lives to keep our city safe? Those brave officers who protect our homes and keep our children from harm? I’ll tell you what it is. It is the begi

“I am standing at the entrance to Sharon Memorial Park. Detective Edward Rinaldi will be buried here tomorrow. He was fifty-six, a policeman for thirty-eight years, a beloved member of this community, a God-fearing man. Detective Rinaldi is not alone.”

Lingo read from a list in his hand.

“Officer Sean Clark, thirty-four. Officer Jeffrey Shelton, thirty-five. Officer John Burnette, twenty-five. Officer Andy Nobles, twenty-six.”

Lingo’s eyes rolled up.

“I name but a few of the fallen.” The porcine face creased in concern. “Does the fault lie solely with the evildoers?” Solemn head shake. “I think not. The fault lies with a system of laws designed to protect the guilty. With libertine scientists who undermine the efforts of our brothers and sisters in uniform.”

I felt my i

“Many of you witnessed the assault on my person last Friday. Dr. Temperance Bre

Lingo drilled the camera with a look of heart-stopping sincerity.

“It is time for change. As your elected representative, I intend to see that change brought about.”

There was an aerial shot of the scene, then the program cut to an anchorwoman. Above her left shoulder, a street map diagrammed the course of the next day’s funeral procession.

“Services will begin with eleven o’clock mass at St. A

“Since Sunday, members of law enforcement have been arriving from all over the country. Those unable to attend mass or to march in the procession will gather at the cemetery. Thousands are expected to turn out along the route to bid final farewell to Detective Rinaldi. Motorists are encouraged-”

Larabee snapped off the set.

“Who votes for freaking lunatics like Lingo?”

We both knew the answer.

“You did the autopsy?” I asked, steeling my voice, avoiding eye contact.

“Monday.”

“Any surprises?”

“One through-and-through gunshot wound at the T-12 level. Two XTP’s lodged in the thorax. I removed one from the right lung, the other from the heart.”

Larabee didn’t have to explain. I knew the bullet. Extreme Terminal Performance. A nasty little slug designed to expand for maximal organ damage.

Grabbing a Diet Coke, I returned to my office. The phone was blinking.

Both messages had been left by UNCC colleagues. Marion Ireland was returning my call concerning use of the sca

I gulped more Coke. It was definitely helping to settle my stomach. But the headache was still off the Richter, and my enthusiasm for human interaction was low.

My booze-battered cortex offered a list of excuses. The conscience guys countered each one.

Sca