Murder 101

So Decker agreed to let the kid ride with him, listening to him bitch and moan. This time he was complaining about their next visit on the roster: a senior with chest pains. The fire department was having its monthly drill so the call came into the police. Patrol could have handled it, but Decker volunteered his services. He didn’t mention the call to McAdams, but as he was leaving the kid jumped up and grabbed his fancy schmancy coat to come with. He always did that. Maybe it was because Decker let McAdams bend his ear.

Lucy Jamison was eighty-six, a pale and thin widow. When Decker offered to take her to the hospital, she demurred. She was feeling better. Decker fetched her a glass of water, making sure that she drank it all. Wintertime was deceptive and seniors easily became dehydrated because of the dryness indoors and outdoors.

The old woman talked about her life as a young girl in Michigan. She showed Decker and Tyler pictures of her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren. Decker turned the heat from 80 to 74. When she said she was fine, Decker left his card. She opened the front door and waved good-bye as the two of them walked back to the car, their boots crunching the snow.

Heading back to the station, Decker cranked up the heat as McAdams rubbed his hands under the warm air of the car’s heater. The kid was wearing a coat and gloves, but his head was bare. Not that he needed a hat. It was in the midthirties with a full sun and an iridescent blue sky, the scent of pines and burning wood wafting through the town. White-covered hills undulated in the distance. The Hudson wasn’t too far away but the area was miles from the nearest coastline, something that Decker had yet to get used to.

“How’d you do this for thirty years, Old Man?” Tyler asked him.

Decker hated when the kid called him Old Man. He wasn’t young but he wasn’t ready for the glue factory, either. He still had a head of thick, gray hair, a full mustache with traces of its former red color, and a mind that was quick and perceptive. So instead of answering the rhetorical question, he said, “That was the third chest pain case in a month. You really need to learn CPR.”

“I’m not putting my mouth on that old crone. Her breath was rank.”

“Acetone,” Decker said. “Diabetes that’s not very well controlled.”

“Whatever,” McAdams said. “Anyway, if it was between you and me performing CPR, you’d do it anyway.”

“That’s not the point. It’s a skill you should have. Everyone expects a cop to know CPR just like everyone expects a cop to know how to shoot a gun.”

“We don’t carry guns.”

“We don’t carry them, but we have them if we need them. You do know how to shoot a gun . . . or did they let you slide with that one as well?”

“If we’re playing one-upmanship, you’re going to lose.”

“You have youth and education on your side. I have real experience. That must be worth a few brownie points.”

“No one uses the term brownie points anymore and no need to be snide, especially because I’m out here in the trenches with you.”

“Trenches?”

“Stop pulling rank. I have seniority.” McAdams looked out the side window. “I’m not putting you down, Decker, but if I were actually insane enough to want to do this as a career, I’d probably be upper brass in NYPD within . . . say, four to six years?”

“You think so?”

“I know so. It’s not about experience or passing tests or paying your dues. It’s all about how to work the system, which is something I excel at. I learn exactly what I need to get the job done. Stuffing my brain with useless knowledge is inefficient. Like learning CPR. We get called out, I know you’re going to handle it. You or Roiters or Ma

“Nickweed.”

“Whatever. We get called out and CPR needs to be done, I’m not the go-to guy. Why should I waste my time learning something that I’ll never do?”

“Because it is possible that we won’t be around and then you’ll look like a jackass. If I were your superior, I’d insist on it.”

“But you’re not. And since I’m not asking for your opinion or advice, I suggest you stop wasting your breath. Need I remind you that a guy your age doesn’t have that much left.”

Decker stifled a smile. He was riling up the kid on purpose and enjoying it. “You have a short fuse. You should work on that as well.”

“Remind me why I volunteered to ride with you.”

“Let me guess,” Decker said. “I think you’re one of those dudes hoping to glean something from my vast repertoire of police work. I think you’re figuring that just maybe I’ll tell you something truly original and fascinating and then you can write a novel about it. Or better yet, a screenplay. I can see you living in Hollywood. You’d fit in nicely.”

“You’re being condescending. That’s fine. It must be hard to be the junior partner and intellectually inferior to someone as young as I am.”

“Nah, I’m used to that. You’ve never met my kids.”

“But you don’t work with your kids, do you.”

“Nope. I don’t. And I really don’t work with you, McAdams. We just kind of ride around together. Not much in the way of meaningful conversation going on.”

“You want to talk Proust, I’m in.”

“Sure, talk to me about Proust. I like madeleines. My wife bakes them sometimes.”

“He was boring and I hate philosophy. It’s very mathematical and that’s never been my strong suit. I mean I got a 720 on the SAT but that’s about average for Harvard.” When Decker said nothing, the kid squirmed and said, “So what was your favorite case as a detective?”

“No go, Harvard. You’re just going to have to use your own experience for movie material, although God help us both if we ever caught a real case. Not a plain homicide . . . a whodunit.”

“A whodunit? That’s what you call homicides?”

“Not all homicides, just whodunits. Do you have even the slightest idea how to begin an investigation?”

“Just from TV . . . is it that different?”

“You are joking, right?” When McAdams went quiet, Decker felt a little bad. Why was he even bothering? The kid remained blissfully silent for the rest of the ride back, sulking and moping around until he clocked out at five.

If he wasn’t such a twit, Decker might have felt sorry for him. The kid didn’t fit in at work: he really didn’t fit in anywhere. He wasn’t a student anymore and he was too young for the average resident living in Greenbury. So where did that leave his social life? Had he shown any genuine curiosity about police work, Decker would have invited him over for di

LIVING IN A small town had its perks, particularly when selling real estate in L.A. and buying in Greenbury. He and Rina had walked away with a nice nest egg in their pockets. Their new house on Mi

The house had only a one-car garage where Decker parked the Porsche, leaving Rina’s old Volvo in the driveway. Every morning, Decker cleared the windshield and moved the car to the street so he could get out. It was the least he could do for schlepping her to pursue his dream.

The advantage of the new location was driving distance to their four biological children—two were hers, one was his, and one was shared—as well as their foster son, Gabe Whitman, who was busy touring as a classical pianist. Two of the five were married so there were spouses and grandchildren in the mix. Decker’s daughter, Cindy, who had been a GTA detective in L.A., was working patrol in Philadelphia. But it was just a matter of time before she was promoted back up to being a gumshoe.