Pop Goes the Weasel

office. Rakeem Powell and Jerome Thurman were both in there, too.
    “Come in, Dr. Cross.” Chief Pittman beckoned with an outstretched hand. “Please come in. We’ve been waiting for you to arrive.”
    “What is this?” I said, pulling up a chair next to Sampson’s and whispering in his ear.
    “Don’t know yet, but it’s not too good,” he said. “The Jefe hasn’t said word one to us. Looks like the canary who ate the cat, though.”
    Pittman came around in front of his desk and leaned his ample buttocks back against it. He seemed particularly full of himself and bullshit this morning. His mousy gray hair was plastered back and looked like a helmet on his bullet head.
    “I can tell you what you want to know, Detective Cross,” he said. “In fact, I didn’t want to tell these other detectives until you got here. As of this morning, detectives Sampson, Thurman, and Powell have been suspended from active duty. They have been working on cases outside the auspices of this department. Evidence is still being gathered about the full extent of these activities and also if any other detectives were involved.”
    I started to speak up, but Sampson grabbed my arm — hard. “Be cool, Alex.”
    Pittman looked at the three of them. “Detectives Sampson, Thurman, Powell, you can go. Your union representative has been informed of the situation. You have questions, or issues with my decision, inform your representative.”
    Sampson’s mouth was set hard. He didn’t say a word to The Jefe, though. He got up and left the office. Thurman and Powell trailed close behind him. Neither of them spoke to Pittman, either. The three of them were hardworking, dedicated detectives, and I couldn’t stand to watch this happen.
    I wondered why The Jefe had spared me so far. I also wondered why Shawn Moore wasn’t there. The cynical answer was that Pittman wanted to set us against one another, to make us believe that Shawn had spoken against us.
    Pittman reached across his desk and picked up a folded copy of the Washington Post . “You happen to see this article today? Bottom right?”
    He pushed the newspaper toward me. I had to catch the paper to keep it from falling to the floor.
    “‘Scandal over unsolved murders in Southeast,’” I said. “Yes, I did. I read it at home.”
    “I’ll bet you did. Mr. Taylor, of the Post , quotes unidentified sources in the police department. You have anything to do with the article?” Pittman asked, and stared hard at me.
    “Why would I talk to the Washington Post ?” I asked a question in answer to his. “I told you about the problem in Southeast. I think a repeat killer may be working there. Why go any farther with it than that? Suspending those detectives sure won’t help solve the problem. Especially if this sicko is approaching rage, which I believe he is.”
    “I don’t buy this serial-killer story. I don’t see any pattern that’s consistent. No one else does but you.” Pittman shook his head and frowned. He was hot, angry, trying to control himself.
    He reached out his hand toward me again. His fingers were like uncooked sausages. He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “I’d like to fuck you over good, and I will. But for now, it wouldn’t be expedient to pull you off the Odenkirk homicide. It wouldn’t look good, and I suspect it would end up in the Post , too. I look forward to your daily reports on the so-called John Doe case. You know, it is time you got some of those unsolved murders off the books. You’ll report directly to me on this. I’m going to be all over you, Cross. Any questions?”
    I quickly left Chief Pittman’s office. Before I hit him.

Chapter 42
    SAMPSON, THURMAN, AND RAKEEM POWELL had already left the building by the time I got out of The Jefe’s office. I felt as if I could easily go postal. I nearly walked back inside Pittman’s office and wiped up the floor with him.
    I went to my desk and thought about what to do next, tried to calm myself down before I did anything rash and stupid. I thought about my responsibilities to the people in Southeast, and that helped me. Still, I almost went back after Pittman.
    I called Christine and let out some steam. Then, on the spur of the moment, I asked if she could get away for our long weekend, possibly starting on Thursday night. Christine said that she could go. I went and filled out a vacation form and left it on Fred Cook’s desk. It was the last thing he and Pittman would expect from