Chapter Nine
Chris wanted to go back to his desk at the Major Case Unit (MCU) but he knew that his chances of getting his way were zero. It didn’t matter to Big Jim how good Chris was at the paperwork and how bad Chris was at dealing with people. Big Jim insisted that Chris be present for all the primary interviews.
“We could get more done if we split up,” Chris had told Big Jim when they first became partners.
“The work will get done,” Big Jim had replied. “If we come up short, I’ll get the Captain to give us more bodies.” When the efficiency argument didn’t work, Chris had tried a different tack, one emphasizing the benefits of the specialization of labor.
“Look, Jim, you’re really good at interviewing people. I’m really good at the paperwork. Don’t you think it makes more sense for you to do what you do best and for me to do what I do best?”
“I could drop dead some day. Then where are you going to be? A good detective has to know how to do it all.” So much for the specialization of labor.
Finally Chris tried brutal honesty.
“Jim, my going along on these interviews is pointless. Half the time I say the wrong thing and then I just make things worse. We’ll close cases faster if you handle the people end of things. I stink at it.”
“Practice makes perfect,” was all Big Jim said.
So, rather than sitting in front of his computer and creating a detailed Truman-Investigation To-Do list, Chris was listening to his Mustang’s voice-navigation directions to Truman’s home while Big Jim trailed along behind in the department Malibu.
It was about 8:40 a.m. when they reached the Truman house, a big, oak-shaded beige and white, single-story ranch-style. Just as Chris pulled to the curb a dark-haired woman emerged and headed toward a Ford Escape parked in the driveway. She paused when Chris opened his door and then her view shifted to Big Jim’s Malibu pulling in behind. She stood there ten feet from her Escape and watched the detectives approach, her eyes flicking back and forth between Chris and Big Jim.
Chris waited but Big Jim said nothing. Evidently, Jim wanted Chris to handle the interview. Another one of Big Jim’s tests.
“Ms. Truman?” Chris asked as he reached for the little leather folder that held his badge on one side and his photo-ID on the other.
“What’s this about? What’s happened?” She asked staring at Chris’ detective’s shield.
“Ma’am, I’m Detective Christopher Hunter. This is Detective James Donegan. Could we talk inside, please?”
“Has something happened to Emily?”
“Your daughter? No, Ms. Truman, your daughter is fine.”
Relief briefly rippled across the woman’s face then, just as quickly, fled.
“Is it Brian?”
“Ms. Truman, please, let’s talk inside.”
A long heartbeat passed then she turned and rushed toward the house. On the left, just inside the entrance, was a family room with a long couch and a big-screen TV. A formal dining room lay to the right. Ms. Truman entered neither, instead planting herself in the foyer barely beyond the front door.
“Please tell me what’s happened.”
Chris glanced at Big Jim who gave him a slight, encouraging nod.
“Ms. Truman, I’m sorry to have to tell you that your husband, Brian, was—” Chris caught a flicker of tension around Big Jim’s eyes. “He . . . passed away earlier this morning.” He paused, waiting for a gasp or a shout or tears. He was met instead with blank disbelief.
