The Watchmaker’s Hand

He walked to the street and examined the asphalt in front of and behind the Lexus. No recent tire prints. Maybe Mr. X had parked some distance away.

He walked to Sanchez. “I think they knew each other. Gilligan and the shooter.”

“Really?”

“Think so. I need to know where the perp parked. Not near the Lexus, but let’s check along here. Could you clear the street?”

“Sure. I’ll back everybody out.” Sanchez called to the officers on-site and gave the order.

One young woman officer said to Pulaski, “Sir, you want me to ribbon the whole place?”

Sir? They were the same age.

“Yeah, thanks.”

With a flip of her blond ponytail she turned, fetched a roll of yellow tape and started to work.

The two evidence collection techs returned to the gate.

“Find anything?” Pulaski asked.

They replied that they had not.

Which supported his theory that the men were together and had entered the site from this side of the lot.

Maybe it was a hit, pure and simple. Neither Gilligan nor the shooter had any business here, other than the second one’s murdering the detective.

He walked to the CS bus and snagged new evidence bags.

He was about to start his search for recent tire treads, when Sanchez approached. His face was not happy. “He’s not going to do it.”

“Who’s not going to do what?”

“Burdick. He said there’s no need to expand the scene. That that’s what Crime Scene people do when they don’t know what to look for.”

Pulaski frowned. “What does that even mean?”

“I’m just telling you.”

He glanced toward the deputy inspector and, behind him, the reporters.

Phalanx...

The blond officer, holding the yellow roll, looked toward Pulaski uncertainly. The DI had apparently told her too to stand down.

Pulaski approached. He took the roll from her. “I’ve got this.”

“Sorry...”

“No, it’s good.”

He turned toward Burdick and said, “I’m going to have to ask everyone to move back to the intersection. I’m sealing the street.”

And, armed with the tape, he waited for them to migrate.

A few reporters did, but paused when Burdick said, in a voice louder than necessary, “Officer. Like I just explained. Not necessary.” And looked at him with a pinched face that was the gaze of somebody smart talking to somebody less smart. He said, “It’s unprofessional. Might as well tape off the whole neighborhood.”

And for the millionth time, Pulaski had that brief flash: I’m screwing up. I’m doing something wrong.

I had that thing that happened...

Then he kicked the thought aside.

“Based on the evidence I’ve found, I need it sealed.”

“What evidence?”

Pulaski wasn’t going to respond. “The entire block.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Pulaski supposed that whatever nonsense the man was spouting about the size of the declared scene had nothing to do with the size of the declared scene. This was about Deputy Inspector Burdick appearing in charge.

Amber Andrews...

He might just as easily have said, “I want to shrink the perimeter by six inches.” Or something equally nonsensical.

Pulaski said, “Can I talk to you in private, sir?”

The answer apparently was no.

Burdick stood his ground and spoke more loudly yet for the reporters happily witnessing the intramural squabbling. “Look. I’ve been an investigator longer than you’ve been on the force. You don’t need to expand it.” He looked around and pointed across the street to an abandoned tenement, which he seemed to have picked at random. “And you need to search that building. It’s critical. I know it. Instinct, I can tell.”

A structure that had been boarded up for months if not years and in front of which was a dusty sidewalk and entryway that showed no evidence of foot traffic in recent days.

Pulaski lowered his voice. “Are you sure you don’t want to take this private? Just step over to the van.”

Burdick’s icy voice: “You’re Patrol, right?”

“Correct.”

“You’re not in uniform.”

“I’m temporarily assigned to Crime Scene.”

“Name?”

“Pulaski, Ron.”

“Well, Pulaski, Ron. I’m a deputy inspector. You don’t take me out behind the woodshed. I take you.”

“Seniority isn’t the issue. I need the street cleared. There could be evidence that everybody’s walking over right now.”

“You do not need the street cleared. You need to search that building.”

He happened to be pointing to the structure next door to the building he had previously indicated. He’d mixed them up.

Pulaski said firmly, “This’s my crime scene. I control it. I need you to move forty feet in that direction.”

The look of astonishment was remarkable.

In a finger-snap, it turned to rage. And then a snide smile appeared. “Thin ice, Patrolman.”

He’d embarrassed the dep inspector in front of the press.

A cardinal sin.

Pulaski whispered in response, “We had the chance to keep this between us. Now I’m going to ask you once more to move back. And if you don’t, I’m detaining you for obstruction of justice. And I’ll use restraints if I have to.”

Burdick called, “Detective Sanchez! Detective Sanchez!”

The man ambled up. “Sir?”