Like all the other regulars at these murder circuses, he has little affection for the forensic specialists. First, the work was outsourced a few years back and overpaid people like these started turning up in crisp white boiler suits with names like ‘Forensic Biological Services, Inc.’ on the back. Second – and what really tipped it over the edge for him – were the two shows featuring forensic work that hit it big on TV and led to an insufferable outbreak of celebrityhood in the minds of its practitioners.
‘Jesus,’ he complained recently, ‘is there anybody in this country who isn’t dreaming of being on a reality show?’
As he watches the would-be celebrities repack their labs-in-a-briefcase, he catches sight of me – standing silently against the wall, just watching, like I seem to have spent half my life doing. He ignores the people demanding his attention and makes his way over. We don’t shake hands – I don’t know why, it’s just never been our way. I’m not even sure if we’re friends – I’ve always been pretty much on the outside of any side you can find, so I’m probably not the one to judge. We respect each other, though, if that helps.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he says.
I nod, looking at his turned-up Industries and black work boots, ideal for paddling through the blood and shit of a crime scene.
‘What did you come by – tractor?’ I ask. He doesn’t laugh; Ben hardly ever laughs, he’s about the most deadpan guy you’ll ever meet. Which doesn’t mean he isn’t funny.
‘Had a chance to look around, Ramón?’ he says quietly.
My name is not Ramón, and he knows it. But he also knows that, until recently, I was a member of one of our nation’s most secret intelligence agencies, so I figure he’s referring to Ramón García. Ramón was an FBI agent who went to almost infinite trouble to conceal his identity as he sold our nation’s secrets to the Russians – then left his fingerprints all over the Hefty garbage bags he used to deliver the stolen documents. Ramón was almost certainly the most incompetent covert operator in history. Like I say, Ben is very funny.
‘Yeah, I’ve seen a bit,’ I tell him. ‘What you got on the person living in this dump? She’s the prime suspect, huh?’
Ben can hide many things, but his eyes can’t mask the look of surprise – a woman?!
Excellent, I think – Ramón strikes back. Still, Bradley’s a cool cop. ‘That’s interesting, Ramón,’ he says, trying to find out if I’m really on to something or whether I’ve just jumped the shark. ‘How’d you figure that?’
I point at the six-pack on the bureau, the milk in the fridge. ‘What guy does that? A guy keeps the beer cold, lets the milk go bad. Look at the DVDs – romantic comedies, and not an action film among them. Wanna take a walk?’ I continue. ‘Find out how many other guys in this dump use liners in their trash cans? That’s what a woman does – one who doesn’t belong here, no matter what part she’s acting.’
He weighs what I’ve said, holding my gaze, but it’s impossible to tell whether he’s buying what I’m selling. Before I can ask, two young detectives – a woman and her partner – appear from behind the Fire Department’s hazchem barrels. They scramble to a stop in front of Bradley.
‘We got something, Ben!’ the female cop says. ‘It’s about the occupant—’
Bradley nods calmly. ‘Yeah, it’s a woman – tell me something I don’t know. What about her?’
I guess he was buying it. The two cops stare, wondering how the hell he knew. By morning, the legend of their boss will have grown even greater. Me? I’m thinking the guy is shameless – he’s going to take the credit without even blinking? I start laughing.
Bradley glances at me and, momentarily, I think he’s going to laugh back, but it’s a forlorn hope. His sleepy eyes seem to twinkle, though, as his attention reverts to the two cops. ‘How’d you know it was a woman?’ he asks them.
‘We got hold of the hotel register and all the room files,’ the male detective – name of Connor Norris – replies.
Bradley is suddenly alert. ‘From the manager? You found the scumbag – got him to unlock the office?’
Norris shakes his head. ‘There are four drug warrants out for his arrest; he’s probably halfway to Mexico. No, Alvarez here’ – he indicates his female partner – ‘she recognized a guy wanted for burglary living upstairs.’ He looks at his partner, not sure how much more to say.