saying “nice day.”
“Were you and the girl who was kidnapped lovers, Inspector?” came another question, along with a mike that was stuck right under his nose.
“Suck cock,” said Harry with a friendly smile, waving at the still-photographers.
“Inspector,” came a third voice, “don’t you think murdering five men who just want to sell pot is a little severe?”
“You’re a motherfucker,” Harry replied breezingly, three-quarters up the steps.
“Inspector Callahan,” came a stern female voice as he neared the front doors, “don’t you think you have a responsibility to the people of this city to explain your actions?”
Harry reacted as if the question got to him. He slowed, a concerned look on his face, then turned to face the mob of reporters with his hands raised for silence.
“A statement,” one demanded of him. “A statement!”
Harry waited until they had all grown quiet and all the pencils and tape recorders were at the ready.
Then, with an abnormally wide smile, he said, “You all eat shit. Thank you.”
With that, Harry slipped inside, accompanied by the sounds of teeth gnashing, pencil breaking, and hair ripping. Harry had spent too many years as the abused, used, misquoted butt of the allegations, secondhand rumors, wild guesses, and assumptions that passed for “electronically gathered news” nowadays. There wasn’t even safety in saying “no comment.” The TV reports and papers would edit it in such a way that he still looked guilty as hell.
Harry had learned his lesson hard, but he had learned it well. He had discovered the one surefire way not to appear on screen or in print was to swear so grieviously that the reporters wouldn’t dare use it. Add that to a wonderfully cheerful smile for the still-photographers so no newspaper reader would believe he was being asked serious questions, and there was the foolproof Dirty Harry style of noninterviews.
His reception on the seventh floor was about as gracious. Inside room 750—the homicide suite—the rest of the detectives reacted to him as if he had just come back after a drunken binge. Some looked heavenward. Others looked in the opposite direction, shaking their heads, and others shrugged at him, as if saying “what can you do?” As he turned into his cubicle his long-time friend and occasional partner, Frank DiGeorgio, pulled his forefinger across his throat, his teeth clenched.
Strewn across Harry’s blotter were enough messages to start papering his walls. Each said about the same thing, but with increasing amounts of intensity. The basic message was: “Go to the head office. Do not pass ‘Go,’ do not collect two hundred dollars.”
Lieutenant Al Bressler was waiting for him. Harry’s immediate superior was a tough old pro, like Callahan, except that he harbored a slight streak of fear that kept him firmly under the thumb of the higher-ups. Unlike Callahan, he was worried about his pension and his retirement. These concerns had taken their physical toll on the lieutenant. He was only a few inches shorter than Harry, but looked even more because of his slightly stooped shoulders and a posture which said he’d been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for too long.
In addition, the vests of his three-piece suits were getting strained by the spare tire that was slowly but surely turning from a “bias ply” into a “steel-belted radial.” His longish black and gray hair was unusually unkempt this morning and his normally calm brown eyes were bloodshot.
“You know what you are, Callahan?” Bressler cracked without looking up, as soon as Harry entered and closed the door behind him. “You’re a fucking magnet, that’s what you are,” the Lieutenant answered before Harry had a chance to speak. He looked up then and rose from behind his desk, his fists flat on the surface. “Wherever you go, whatever you do, crime seems irresistibly attracted to you. Violence is your lover, Harry. As soon
“Were you and the girl who was kidnapped lovers, Inspector?” came another question, along with a mike that was stuck right under his nose.
“Suck cock,” said Harry with a friendly smile, waving at the still-photographers.
“Inspector,” came a third voice, “don’t you think murdering five men who just want to sell pot is a little severe?”
“You’re a motherfucker,” Harry replied breezingly, three-quarters up the steps.
“Inspector Callahan,” came a stern female voice as he neared the front doors, “don’t you think you have a responsibility to the people of this city to explain your actions?”
Harry reacted as if the question got to him. He slowed, a concerned look on his face, then turned to face the mob of reporters with his hands raised for silence.
“A statement,” one demanded of him. “A statement!”
Harry waited until they had all grown quiet and all the pencils and tape recorders were at the ready.
Then, with an abnormally wide smile, he said, “You all eat shit. Thank you.”
With that, Harry slipped inside, accompanied by the sounds of teeth gnashing, pencil breaking, and hair ripping. Harry had spent too many years as the abused, used, misquoted butt of the allegations, secondhand rumors, wild guesses, and assumptions that passed for “electronically gathered news” nowadays. There wasn’t even safety in saying “no comment.” The TV reports and papers would edit it in such a way that he still looked guilty as hell.
Harry had learned his lesson hard, but he had learned it well. He had discovered the one surefire way not to appear on screen or in print was to swear so grieviously that the reporters wouldn’t dare use it. Add that to a wonderfully cheerful smile for the still-photographers so no newspaper reader would believe he was being asked serious questions, and there was the foolproof Dirty Harry style of noninterviews.
His reception on the seventh floor was about as gracious. Inside room 750—the homicide suite—the rest of the detectives reacted to him as if he had just come back after a drunken binge. Some looked heavenward. Others looked in the opposite direction, shaking their heads, and others shrugged at him, as if saying “what can you do?” As he turned into his cubicle his long-time friend and occasional partner, Frank DiGeorgio, pulled his forefinger across his throat, his teeth clenched.
Strewn across Harry’s blotter were enough messages to start papering his walls. Each said about the same thing, but with increasing amounts of intensity. The basic message was: “Go to the head office. Do not pass ‘Go,’ do not collect two hundred dollars.”
Lieutenant Al Bressler was waiting for him. Harry’s immediate superior was a tough old pro, like Callahan, except that he harbored a slight streak of fear that kept him firmly under the thumb of the higher-ups. Unlike Callahan, he was worried about his pension and his retirement. These concerns had taken their physical toll on the lieutenant. He was only a few inches shorter than Harry, but looked even more because of his slightly stooped shoulders and a posture which said he’d been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for too long.
In addition, the vests of his three-piece suits were getting strained by the spare tire that was slowly but surely turning from a “bias ply” into a “steel-belted radial.” His longish black and gray hair was unusually unkempt this morning and his normally calm brown eyes were bloodshot.
“You know what you are, Callahan?” Bressler cracked without looking up, as soon as Harry entered and closed the door behind him. “You’re a fucking magnet, that’s what you are,” the Lieutenant answered before Harry had a chance to speak. He looked up then and rose from behind his desk, his fists flat on the surface. “Wherever you go, whatever you do, crime seems irresistibly attracted to you. Violence is your lover, Harry. As soon
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