Having attended an early morning meeting with the other Manhattan precinct captains, Chuck Litchfield was an hour or so later than usual getting to the One-Nine. He took a moment at the front desk to greet the desk sergeant and get a feel for how the morning was progressing.
“Morning, Sergeant. How goes the war?” Litchfield said with a smile.
Sergeant Macon removed the Briarwood pipe from between his clenched teeth, directing his thumb toward the stairs. “You’ve got a visitor waiting for you upstairs Cap’n,” came at Litchfield from Macon, followed by a hardy chuckle that had Litchfield wondering what had Macon in such a good mood.
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Litchfield hesitated, turning back to Macon. “Who?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, sensing something troublesome was waiting for him upstairs.
“Detective Conners, sir,” came back with a toothsome grin from Macon.
Litchfield took a moment’s pause, shaking his head, before turning back to the staircase. “What, my dear God, have I done to deserve this?” he asked himself, raising his eyes to the heavens, as he ascended the stairs knowing a visit from Conners always came with a kick to it.
Banty had purposefully timed her visit that morning to arrive fifteen minutes ahead of Litchfield, a time she knew most, if not all, of the squad’s detectives would be at their desks or mulling around the room. She made it a point to wear a bright red blouse with her badge prominently fixed at her waist. And just to make sure she had The Rat’s attention, she wore the 9mm bullet The Rat had left her on the sidewalk chalk outline outside her apartment several months back, on a gold chain around her neck.
Earlier, before heading upstairs to the squad room, Banty had stopped at the front desk, taking a few minutes to catch up with Sergeant Macon, making sure to inquire about his family and his upcoming retirement. That done, Banty made her way up the stairs to the SVU Squad Room, purposefully stopping to talk with each team member, wanting The Rat to see the 9mm bullet dangling conspicuously from the gold serpentine necklace she’d bought just for the occasion.
Special Victims Units are smaller than most NYPD detective squads and are usually tightly-knit teams of dedicated, seasoned professionals. The One-Nine’s unit was a bit of a one-off, each two-man team preferring to work independently, keeping their cases close until it was necessary to go public and report their findings.
“A Well Too Full”
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Gary Thompson’s and Roger Combs’ desks were situated near the entrance to the squad room. They had the look of a pair of mismatched geeks. They were an efficient team but had kind of a shifty look about them. They were famous for keeping to themselves, sharing little with the other squad members. There was talk in the department of them having a bit of an illegal side deal in quasi-legal stereo equipment but nothing came of it, so far.
Farther into the room, the next set of desks were occupied by fair-haired Billy Peterson who, as always, was crisp and neat in his lightweight summer suit and round gold-rimmed glasses. Seeing Banty enter, he gave her a friendly nod, taking a sip of his Grande-sized latte. He was kind of a John Denver look-alike, who gave off little personal vibe and shared even less of his backstory with anyone. He sat opposite his partner, John Geiger, who was munching on his usual early morning “everything” bagel with its generous schmear of cream cheese. Peterson was thought to be highly intelligent but a bland-on-bland individual. Geiger, was another story entirely. Having done a tour on graves detail in the Army, he’d dealt with the preparation and return of the military dead to their stateside relatives before joining the department. He was a dark, sullen man with an aggressive personality and a well-hidden dose of anger he worked hard keeping under control.
The last two SVU desks, those closest to Litchfield’s office, and usually the messiest of the squad’s partner desks, were assigned to Butch Johnson and Banty’s sweetie, Bob McAdams. They were the two Ds who replaced her and Phil Berman and the only two in the room she knew she could absolutely trust.
“Kill anyone lately Conners?” came from Butch Johnson with a bright and cheery smile as he eyed her red blouse and necklace before looking over to see how McAdams was dealing with his lady looking so good and basically in his face in the squad room. “Don’t forget to say hi to my partner over there,” he said, as Banty passed his desk. “You wouldn’t wanna make the poor lonely guy feel left out now, would ya?”
“Oh, heaven forbid,” she answered, smiling at Johnson, liking the big guy and his toothy, wide-open smile. “Morning, Detective McAdams,” she said, curtly, as she passed by him, close enough for him to get a whiff of the light perfume she was wearing.
McAdams made it a point to keep his head down, not daring to make eye contact with her for fear of involuntarily blushing and giving the others something on him that he thought was secret. It was a foolish assumption to think that a room full of NYPD’s best detectives wouldn’t have a bead on him having a newfound love life, and just who that new love might be was one of the worst kept secrets in the history of the One-Nine.
Her greetings done, Banty headed to the captain’s office, closing the door behind her, hoping she was being watched as she feigned nervousness, pacing back and forth inside Litchfield’s office, hoping she had piqued the curiosity of every detective in the room. Banty wanted to be seen, wanted her bullet necklace to be seen. After all, these were the men she and Phil Berman had worked with and trusted before one of them murdered Phil and had her gunned down. For sure, the department had done extensive background checks on them all after the shooting, but came up with nothing.
Before being shot, Banty thought she could trust every one of her fellow detectives at the One-Nine. But that was before. And now, after all that had happened, she knew that, with the exceptions of Johnson and McAdams, she could trust none of them.
Her reason for coming in this morning was simple. First, she needed a reference from Litchfield for the Baby Doe cold case, but figured, while she was there, the red shirt, coupled with a bit of purposeful odd behavior, would do a bit of double duty.
Hey Rat. I’m still here. You lookin’?
Oh, The Rat was lookin’.
He watched her, taking little surreptitious glimpses, at her, as he shuffled through the paperwork on his desk, watching the 9mm present he’d left her bobbing in the curve of Banty’s neck.
The Rat was watching, and it galled him.
He knew she was playing it up for him. And, like a farmer knows when it’s time to harvest his crop, Banty’s performance was making his trigger finger itch. If they’d been alone, he’d of pulled the Glock from its shoulder holster and done the Mick bitch, same as he did her Jew partner.
Banty quit pacing as she saw Litchfield making his way through the jumble of desks to his office. As he neared his office, Banty acknowledged the captain with the slightest of head nods, surveying the room, seeing more than a few eyes trained in her direction.
“Morning, Cap’n,” she said, as he entered his office, beginning to close the door behind him. “Leave it open a bit, if you would, Cap’n,” Banty asked.
Litchfield complied, leaving the door ajar, taking a seat behind his desk, watching Banty as she continued pacing back and forth again. He knew her well enough to know there was little that rattled her. That her pacing and that red shirt of hers, especially that red shirt, had to be for effect, her way of getting someone’s attention. He knew red was definitely not her color.
“You lookin’ to get yourself killed, or what?” he asked in a whispered voice.
“No sir, just needing to get a little noticed here, Cap’n,” she whispered back as she stopped pacing, leaning herself against the file cabinet near the captain’s open office door. “I have a lead on that Baby Doe case I’ve been working, Cap’n, and need an intro to the director down at the Port Authority,” she said loud enough to be heard out in the squad room. “I’m pretty sure I know where she was dumped too, maybe even where she came from in the first place,” she continued, in the same loud voice.
Litchfield waited, saying nothing as Banty reached out with her left arm and swung his office door closed, making a bit of noise before taking a seat with her back to the room.
“You are some piece of work, ya know?” he stated, not knowing where the hell she was going with this little charade. He sat waiting for her to continue, seeing her demeanor change the instant her back was to the room and no one could see her face or hear what she was saying.
“Not really sir. Well, maybe a little, but I really do need your help getting me an intro to someone at the Port Authority. This,” she said, pointing to her blouse and necklace, “this is just for effect. I have McAdams keyed in on what I’m doing and I really do have a plan, Cap’n.”
Litchfield had a pretty good read on Banty, and McAdams, too, for that matter. Johnson, who, at his request, had been keeping tabs on both Conners and McAdams, had kept Litchfield well apprised on the amount of time they’d been spending together, leaving out the parts about McAdams overnighting it lately. Just the bits and pieces Johnson was giving Litchfield made it difficult for him to maintain a serious face with Banty seated in front of him. What he knew about their social progress had him believing it had progressed way past what Johnson had been willing to report.
‘Bout time you had a bit of a social life, Conners, he thought to himself, looking across at the new and improved Banty Conners, slight lisp and limp aside. He could remember the old Conners; sloppy to a fault and half nuts, making everyone around her crazy, most of them half scared of her, if the truth be told. Litchfield liked who she’d become and wanted to make sure she was playing it safe. But, he knew better.
“Anything you want to tell me?” he asked, knowing how close she could keep things until she was ready to talk.
“Just so you know, Cap’n, I reinterviewed everyone from the original Baby Doe file, including the guys from the Six-Eight. If I’m reading it all correctly, they made some lazy-ass assumptions with zero facts to back up any of it and were going a hundred and eighty degrees in the wrong direction, which is why the case went cold to begin with. I’ll know more soon. And, just so you know, I have a theory that you’ll probably think is totally nuts so I won’t elaborate on it just yet. I just need a little more time to flesh it out. I’ll let you know if it pans out and I’m getting close enough to lay it out for you and the Chief.”
“Your cold case aside, Conners, how are you doing?” he asked, genuinely concerned for her well-being. He’d watched her progress from a spikey-haired hell-on-wheels detective to a more thoughtful, well-dressed, softer spoken woman. He knew the old Banty was still in there if someone, anyone, dared challenge her or back her into a corner but still, the concerned captain he was, wanted to see the new and improved Banty safe and living a fuller life.
“Better all the time, sir,” Banty answered, giving him an answer he knew was mostly bravado, knowing she was never gonna get back all the way to where she was before getting herself shot.
Knowing Banty, it was the answer Litchfield expected and didn’t push her any further. “Good to hear,” he said, letting his focus extend out into the squad room, seeing if anyone was watching them, seeing nothing to note. “I’ll get you that name at the Port Authority and call you later. Just, do me a favor, will ya, please, ditch the shirt. You look like some kinda bull fighter wavin’ a damned cape around.”
Daniel Ginsberg grew up in the East New York and East Flatbush sections of Brooklyn. He graduated from The School of Visual Arts before serving in the Army as a military policeman and criminal photographer. Returning to civilian life, he became a New York City fashion photographer before enrolling at Louisiana State University, where he earned a bachelor’s degree in biology and a master’s in reproductive physiology. He and his wife, Patsy, live in Denver, where he writes, works in his studio and takes long walks with his dog, Brewzer.
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