LITMIR.BIZ

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center front. Angela’s got the one in front of you and the Fat Dicks, when they’re in here, got the one behind you and the one across from it. The center one in this row is for anyone to use who drops in, usually uniformed guys or dicks. BJ has the one office there in the back.”

      “Thanks, Steve. I’ve been in here a few times over the years. Last time was about three years ago, maybe four. BJ was here then, I think he just got assigned.”

      “Then it was four years ago. I came in right after him and Angela joined us a year ago. Candy Abrams was here briefly but it wasn’t a good fit for her. She transferred out a couple weeks ago to Northeast Precinct. I heard your name bantered about right after.”

      “Really.” So I was being talked about at the same time I hadn’t a clue what I was going to do.

      The door buzzes. “Here’s the boss and Angela,” Steve says.

      “There he is,” BJ Sherman says pleasantly, though not much louder than a whisper. He’s in his midforties, my height, with thinning brown hair, and a pear-shaped body carrying twenty pounds too much on hips wider than his shoulders. He extends his hand as he approaches. “Good to see you and glad you’re on board.” I’m not getting a read as to how much he means it, or doesn’t mean it.

      “Hi, Sam,” Angela says, moving around the big man. She’s wearing blue jeans that reveal a toned figure, and what I think is called an African Dashiki shirt, with lots of yellows and blues, big pockets, and oversized sleeves. Her wrists are covered with at least a half-dozen multi-colored bracelets. A two-inch high afro haloes a pretty face with almond-shaped brown eyes and a huge smile. “Good to see you with us,” she says, gripping my hand as her eyes crawl over me. Hmm.

      “Steve give you the layout?” BJ asks in a low voice. I’ve heard guys refer to him as “Whispers” and I see—hear why.

      “He did. Guess I have the middle desk by the window.”

      “It’s settled then,” he says. “Everyone back to my cave for a short chat.”

      It’s a small office, cozily lit by two small lamps definitely not department issue. Classical music plays softly from a Bose unit resting on a long wall cabinet behind him. A bible lies next to it. The lieutenant has definitely made the place his. “Understand you were in Saigon, Sam,” he says sitting behind his desk.

      “Just got back. Talk about your culture shock.”

      “My father was there during the war,” BJ says. “Has lots of stories.”

      I do too, but I’m not telling them. “I bet.”

      “Okay,” BJ says. “In a nutshell, here’s what we’re all involved in at the moment. I’ll let Angela and Steve fill in the details later. The biker gang wars have mellowed as of late, so we’re not doing anything with them except writing up bits of info we get from snitches. Organized crime is quiet as well; there was a series of firebombing rival adult bookstores. They still own most of them, as well as most all of the massage parlors and escort services. The Vice Unit actively works them for violations, of course, and our job is to collect info on threats of violence, mass drug sales, that sort of thing. There are no named politicians or other officials coming to town for a while so things are quiet as far as dignitary protection goes. There was an abortion clinic protest a couple days ago, which Steve and Angela knew was coming up, so we were able to give a heads up to the precincts.”

      “I got caught in it,” I say. “A cab driver and me. A couple of them tried to get in the cab.”

      “You do your magic on them, Chuck?” Steve asks. He looks at Angela and BJ. “You know when the boogeyman goes to sleep, he checks his closet for Chuck Norris.”

      “Anyway,” BJ says, a little annoyed, “because our other areas of responsibility are quiet, we’re able to put our combined energy into these hate crimes and suspected hate crimes. The Fat Dicks will be in here from time to time getting info from us and providing us with anything they learn. Right now, they’re assigned the lynching in Old Town and the attack on Lieutenant Mark Sanderson and his friend David Rowe.

      “Sam, you’ve been working in Detectives, but understand in here we’re not involved in investigations of crimes, at least in the way you have been doing them in the past. Our task is to gather information from informants, from crime reports, and from interviews with suspects, witnesses, and victims. We do write up minor reports from time to time and forward them to the respective precincts and the Detective Division. But I don’t want you getting wrapped up in an investigation that will interfere with your primary task, which is gathering intelligence.”

      “Got it,” I say.

      “Right now we don’t know if these recent hate crimes are part of an organized movement, if there is one person behind them, or several people; it could be a militia group, the KKK, some might be copycat crimes. Nor do we know if they will continue.” He takes a sip from a water bottle. “Understand Mark is a friend of yours. You heard how he’s doing?”

      “I haven’t talked with him this morning but yesterday he was pretty down in the dumps. Speaking of, I need to ask a favor already. I didn’t know I’d be starting work when I came to the Justice Center this morning, and I promised Mark I’d give him a ride home when he’s ready to leave. Should he call, may I go get him?”

      “Of course,” BJ says. “I haven’t talked with the Fat Dicks this morning, but I’m sure they’re declaring Mark’s and his friend’s assault as a hate crime.”

      I look at the bible on the table behind BJ and at an artsy crucifix propped up against the wall. It’s about twelve inches high and about as wide and is made of nails, all silver, all varying sizes.

      It always concerns me when a copper is so in your face with his religious beliefs. I’ve worked with two officers who would read their bibles when it was my turn to drive. One would ask suspects to pray with her in the backseat of the patrol car, and the other would give sermons to suspects as well as to complainants. Didn’t like working with them because they were on a personal mission, which made them a danger to themselves and others. One is thankfully off the street now and the other quit. But I worked with another guy for several months who had a degree in theology, and he was as gritty and street savvy as any cop I’ve ever worked with. I’d work with him again in a heartbeat. Seeing this material in BJ’s office makes me wonder if his beliefs ever bump heads with what needs to be done.

      “Any questions, Sam?” BJ asks.

      “Lots,” I say.

      He smiles. “Well, I’m going to let Angela and Steve bring you up to speed on the computer programs we use, our hardcopy filing systems, how we pay informants, and so on. When the Fat Dicks come in, we’ll gather again to hear what they have on the lynching and on Mark’s assault. Angela, make sure Sam reads up on the attempted arson of the Mosque, the cross burning, the assaults, and the bullying cases.”

      “Will do,” she says.

      “Glad you’re on the team, Sam” BJ says, standing and extending his hand. “Let’s you and I have coffee after lunch.”

      “Sounds good,” I say, getting up. Probably wants to chat about where my head is and the rumor I was thinking about resigning. As my boss, he has a need to know, but I’m still not comfortable talking about it, maybe because I’m not comfortable with all of it myself.

      Steve had to go meet up with a snitch, and BJ left for another meeting in the Chief’s office, so for the next ninety minutes Angela, her chair turned around to face my desk, gives me a rundown on the computer, the files, where the keys are to the cars, and the nuances of getting along with the boss.

      I have only a passing acquaintance with her. I keep hearing she can be a tad militant about race, but I’m not one to put much faith in gossip. Still, I wonder about the warnings.

      Afrocentric. I just heard the word for the first time a few weeks ago when I was cruising the cable channels and paused on a fashion show. A voice-over called a black woman’s

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