Dark Rivers of the Heart

which were huge, as black and liquid as ink, as direct and penetrating as those in a Rembrandt portrait. His eyes revealed an intelligence, patience, and relentless curiosity that defined the kind of man who posed the greatest threat to someone in Roy's line of work.
        Returning Descoteaux's smile with an even sweeter smile of his own, convinced that his younger-slimmer-Santa-Claus look was a match for Caribbean charm, Roy said, "Actually, I don't need help, not in the sense of services and support. just a little information."
        "Be pleased to provide it, if I can," said the captain.
        The wattage of their two smiles had temporarily rectified the problem of inadequate lighting in the small office.
        "Before you were promoted to central administration," Roy said, "I believe you were a division captain."
        "Yes. I commanded the West Los Angeles Division."
        "Do you remember a young officer who served under you for a little more than a year-Spencer Grant?"
        Descoteaux's eyes widened slightly. "Yes, of course, I remember Spence.
        I remember him well."
        "Was he a good cop?"
        "The best," Descoteaux said without hesitation. "Police academy, criminology degree, army special services-he had substance."
        "A very competent man, then?"
        "*'Competence' is hardly an adequate word in Spence's case."
        "And intellect?"
        "Extremely so."
        "The two kidnappers he killed-was that a righteous shooting?"
        "Hell, yes, as righteous as they get. One perp was wanted for murder, and there were three felony warrants out on the second loser.
        Both were carrying, shot at him. Spence had no choice. The review board cleared him as quick as God let Saint Peter into Heaven."
        Roy said, "Yet he didn't go back out on the street."
        "He didn't want to carry a gun any more."
        "He'd been a U.S. Army Ranger."
        Descoteaux nodded. "He was in action a few times-in Central America and the Middle East. He'd had to kill before, and finally he was forced to admit to himself he couldn't make a career of the service."
        "Because of how killing made him feel."
        "No. More because… I think because he wasn't always convinced that the killing was justified, no matter what the politicians said.
        But I'm guessing. I don't know for sure what his thinking was."
        "A man has trouble using a gun against another human being-that's understandable," Roy said. "But the same man trading the army for the police department-that baffles me."
        "As a cop, he thought he'd have more control over when to use deadly force. Anyway, it was his dream. Dreams die hard."
        "Being a cop was his dream?"
        "Not necessarily a cop. Just being the good guy in a uniform, risking his life to help people, saving lives, upholding the law."
        "Altruistic young man," Roy said with an edge of sarcasm.
        "We get some. Fact is, a lot are like that-in the beginning, at least."
        He stared at his coal-black hands, which were folded on the green blotter on his desk. "In Spence's case, high ideals led him to the army, then the force… but there was something more than that.
        Somehow… Spence was trying to understand himself, come to terms with himself.
        Roy said, "So he's psychologically troubled?"
        "Not in any way that would prevent him from being a good cop."
        "Oh? Then what is it he's tryiing to understand about himself?"
        "I don't know. It goes back, I think."
        "Back?"
        "The past. He carries it like a ton of stone on his shoulders."
        "Something to do with the scar?" Roy asked.
        "Everything to do with it, I suspect."
        Descoteaux looked up from his hands. His huge, dark eyes were full of compassion. They were exceptional, expressive eyes. Roy might have wanted to possess them if they had belonged to a woman.
        "How was he scarred, how did it happen?" Roy asked.
        "All he ever said was he'd been in an accident when he was a boy. car accident, I guess. He didn't really want to talk about it."
        "He have any close friends on the force?"
        "Not close, no. He was a likable guy. But self-contained."
        "A loner," Roy said, nodding with understanding.
        "No. Not the way you mean it. He'll never wind up in a tower with a rifle, shooting everyone in sight. People liked