Walsh had been hung up on the Morelli Family since the task force first assembled. It was like he had a personal grudge against them, or maybe against Luca D’Amato, their current Boss. Personally, I thought there was probably more than a whiff of homophobia about Walsh’s obsession, but Villiers had told me to keep my mouth shut about that. “Mixed company,” he’d pointed out, meaning the multiple agencies we were working with.
“It’s shortsighted and foolish,” I’d argued back. “The psychology doesn’t fit at all. Whoever this guy is, he’s a lone wolf. We all know LCN is socially cohesive, and the Morellis might be untraditional, but they still have their own codes of behavior.”
“Yes,” he’d agreed, “but it’s our place toinfluencethe direction of Walsh’s momentum, not hold up a giant stop sign that he’ll run right through like it’s a dare.”
Villiers had been named deputy head of the task force as the most senior federal officer, which was the only reason things were staying on track inmyopinion. Where Walsh wanted to focus solely on the Morellis, despite any compelling evidence, Villiers had fought to keep other avenues of investigation open. But he did it in such a subtle manner that sometimes even I didn’t notice the way he was leading Walsh and the other senior officers.
Reverse psychology was among the most basic of psychological techniques, but that didn’t make it any less effective. Villiers was right; Walsh and his clique tended to prefer doing those things they were told they couldn’t. For a while, Villiers had been able to coax them to look at other suspects, other Families apart from the Morellis, but that had changed with the killing of Hanson.
Since then, Walsh had rededicated the group focus on the Morellis, and Villiers and I were swimming against the tide.
It wasmy fault, which was the most galling thing. I’d been the one who spoke up about Hanson’s lunch with Angelo Messina just a week before his death. I could hardly keep the intel to myself, so I told Villiers, who told Walsh, and here we were: laser-focused on the Morelli Family, and Messina in particular.
I felt really bad about Hanson. He’d been my NYPD-assigned partner, and it shook me to the core the morning I turned up to work and got told he was lying dead on the cold ground of Central Park. Two weeks before his retirement. It was like some stupid, predictable movie, only it was real life. It was the kind of end I wanted to avoid myself, although I got the feeling from the other cops that Hanson would have approved, might have thought it a more fitting finale than fading away in old age.
At last the Captain had moved on from his Morelli rant, and was handing out tasks for the day. As usual, the shrinks weren’t included. I glanced at Villiers, but he shook his head slightly at me.
I ignored it and raised a hand. “Excuse me, Captain.”
The Captain’s lips drew back from his teeth as he glanced my way. “What is it now, Sigmund?” Sigmund was the captain’s cute little nickname for me. It had stuck fast. He hadn’t dared to nickname Villiers, of course, but I was the new blood. Straight from the Academy, assigned to my first task force.
Walsh didn’t have a lot of time for me.
“Two things,” I said. “First,” I held up one finger, “you still haven’t assigned me a new partner. And second, I’d like my objection noted again. I don’t think it’s the Morellis.”
“We all know you got a thing for the Morelli Monster,” grumbled Detective Gavin Bachman across the floor at me. He had big problems with me, more than the rest of the task force. It might have been because I turned him down the night of the first task force get-to-know-you shindig. Bachman had been drunk as hell, and not even the four beers I’d had myself could provide thick enough goggles for me to find him attractive. I’d later learned he wasn’t out at work, and he seemed terrified I would tell someone.
As if. But it didn’t stop him from picking on me constantly, with terror in his eyes.
Walsh waved a dismissive hand at me. “Okay, Sigmund, you can hang around and tell me what the weeji board is saying.”
“Ouija,” I said loudly, over the noise of the room.
“What?”
The noises died away, mutterings ceased.
“It’s pronounced wee-ja,” I said into the quiet. “From the French and German words for ‘yes.’ Not ‘weeji.’”…you idiot, I added in my mind. Over in the corner, Villiers put a hand over his eyes.
Captain Walsh dropped his voice to a quiet hiss. “You want to waste time with your pop-psych bullshit, I guess I’ve got to hear it. But everyone else—” Here he returned to his normal booming shout. “—get the fuck outta here and do your jobs. Except you, Bachman, you hang back.”
The glares directed my way by the rest of the task force as the room emptied felt more vicious than usual. Villiers stayed behind as well, leaning against the wall, and when it was just the four of us left, Captain Walsh pointed at Bachman. “You. You’re his new partner.” It was part of the deal with NYPD that all federal officers buddied up with a police mirror for the duration of the task force. “Keep him under control. It’s your ass if he fucks up. Hear me?”
I fully expected Bachman to protest, but all he did was glower and mumble his assent. The Captain turned to Villiers.
“And you, you wanna teach this kid some manners,” he said.
“Flynn’s not a kid,” Villiers said mildly, and then stood up straight. “And he also has a point. Thereisno clear evidence linking the Morellis to these assassinations, and psychologically it doesn’t make sense that—”
“I’m not interested in your woo-woo stuff,” Captain Walsh growled. “Don’t even know why BAU isonthe task force. If you wanna know, I tried to get you taken off. You’ve made no significant contributions, nothing concrete that’ll help. You give me a name and an address, then we’ll talk. Until then, just stay out of my way, and out of the way of everyone else here putting their life on the line.”
Villiers said nothing.
I pointed out, “I contributed my behavioral analysis on Angelo Messina as part of the briefing pack for all task force members.”
The Captain guffawed. “Yeah. You getting breathless and moist over the Monster of the Morellis was a real big fuckin’ help, Sigmund. You’re no better than those true crime junkies who have posters of his kills all over their walls. Take some advice, get your dick outta your hand, and think hard about what happened to Hanson. Pray you don’t end up the same way.” He left the room, slamming the door.
Bachman glared at me. “Captain’s right. Don’t fuckin’ get me killed like you did Hanson,” he told me, and stalked after Walsh.
