Act of Love

Part One:

The Hunt Begins





It is the enemy whom we do not suspect who is most dangerous.

—Rojas





Crime is common. Logic rare.

Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell.

—Sherlock Holmes





What song the Syrens sang,

or what name Achilles assumed,

when he hid himself among women,

although puzzling questions,

are not beyond conjecture.

—Sir Thomas Browne





Clues are the traces of guilt that the criminal leaves behind.

—Theodore Reik (Myth and Guilt)





MONDAY ... 4 a.m.





His name was Marvin Hanson.

He was black as the pit and ugly as an ape. He was a police lieutenant. Plainclothes. Homicide division. He had short arms and abnormally large hands with fingers as thick as frankfurters. He was five feet, ten inches tall, but due to the width of his shoulders, the thickness of his body, he didn't look a fraction over five feet, seven inches. His closest friends, all three of them, called him Gorilla. Everyone else called him Marvin, Mr. Hanson, or Sir. A few close associates called him simply Hanson. This was none of Hanson's doing. He was just the sort of person that demanded respect; begrudging respect perhaps, but respect, nonetheless.

Right now Hanson was in one of his least cheery moods. A two a.m. phone call had rung him out of Rachel's arms, out of hiswarm bed and out into the night. That, he supposed, was part of the price you paid for being a cop. Constant interruption, discomfort and aggravation. Not to mention ulcers, hemorrhoids and bunion  s.

In spite of his mood, as always, Hanson was an efficient cop, if a bit on the rough side. He was street-wise and back alley mean. He was also surprisingly well-educated, most of it self- acquired. This was a trait that often surprised people. From the looks of him, he seemed like the type to spend his life turning over the big rock and bursting dirt with a shovel.

Hanson had been brought up in The Fifth Ward, but as he was fond of telling his daughter, JoAnna, he had escaped and made of himself what he always wanted to be. A cop.

Sometimes he regretted that decision, regretted being a cop.

Tonight was one of those times. But it was a way of escape. A way out of The Ward, out of the slime and into the mainstream of life.

But maybe he hadn't managed to escape at all. Sure, he no longer lived in that filthy squalor, but his assignments were most often located there. He was from The Ward. He knew The Ward, and therefore, he was the right cop for The Ward. That didn't make him like it any better. Nor did it make The Ward like him any better. He had their grudging respect, but on the other hand, he was still an Uptown, Uncle Tom, Nigger Cop to them. He thought it odd that the blacks complained about the ghetto, wanted out, but when one of their number made it out, he or she was immediately an Uncle Tom. Catch 22.

There were two other men in the hot, smoky room with Hanson. One was his partner; a tall, rawboned, white man with orange-red hair, green eyes and a Howdy Doodie face. Not to mention poorer taste in grey suits than Hanson had. His name was Joe Clark. He had been a plainclothes detective for just over three years. Before that a city cop, and before that a criminology major. Hanson started off being suspicious of criminology majors, and with good reason. Most of them were about as helpful as a plugged revolver. They were good at technical things, like getting fingerprints off paper or analyzing hair and blood, but they couldn't read the truth or a lie in a man's face any better than they could read a blank wall. They all interrogated their prisoners just alike—or nearly all—and that was in a manner that said: Nothing personal, it's just my job. I know society has treated you rough and the world has shit in your face, but see, this is what I do for a living. I'm supposed to ask questions. Nothing personal.

Bullshit!

It was always personal. There were no two sides to this business. There were the good guys and the bad guys. Oh, sometimes you had to get down on their level, but the result was the black hats behind bars and the white hats triumphing. It was as simple as that.

Clark, criminology major or not, was an exception to the rule. He, like Hanson, took it personal. Being a cop was part of his fibre, the sinew of his soul. He wasn't afraid of death or dying. He wasn't afraid of going all the way. Not striving to nail a guilty party, not really caring if he got a confession out of a murderer or not, was like putting a bloody rabbit between a hound's jaws, turning your back and saying ever so politely "Please don't eat the rabbit, Mr. Dog." It just didn't work.

Clark was a good partner. Both Hanson and Clark were deeply hurt by the wholesale corruption associated with The Houston Police Department. Hurt most because most of it had proven true. It was rampant and blatant. But he and Clark tried. They got rough occasionally; more often they threatened violence—not exactly legal, true, but very effective. The mere sight of Hanson's massive paws clenching and unclenching was enough to make a person feel very confessional.