Public Secrets

wounded elephants. His wife of seventeen years coped with the nightly event by wearing earplugs. Lou knew Marge loved him in her own steady, no-nonsense way, and he considered himself fortunate and smart for not sleeping with her before marriage. He was honest, but had kept this one little secret. By the time she’d discovered it, he’d had his ring on her finger.
He was really rattling the shingles tonight. It had been nearly thirty-six hours since he’d slept in his own bed. Now that the Calarmi case was closed, he was going to enjoy not only a good night’s sleep but a whole weekend of sloth.
He actually dreamed about puttering around the yard, pruning roses, playing a bit of catch with his son. They’d barbecue some burgers on the grill and Marge would make her potato salad.
He’d had to kill a man twelve hours before. It wasn’t the first time, though, thank God, it was still a rare occurrence. Whenever his work took him that far, he needed, badly, the ordinary, the everyday. Potato salad and charred burgers, the feel of his wife’s firm body against his during the night. His son’s laughter.
He was a cop. A good one. In the six years he’d been with Homicide, this was only the second time he’d had to discharge his weapon. Like most of his colleagues he knew that law enforcement consisted of days of monotony—legwork, paperwork, phone calls. And moments, split seconds, of terror.

He also knew, as a cop, that he would see things, touch things, experience things that most of the world was unaware of —murder, ghetto wars, back-alley knifings, blood, gore, waste.
Lou was aware, but he didn’t dream of his work. He was forty, and had never, since picking up his badge at the age of twenty-four, brought his work home.
But sometimes it followed him.
He rolled over, breaking off in mid-snore as the phone rang. Instinctively he reached out, and with his eyes still closed, rattled the receiver off the hook.
“Yeah. Kesselring.”
“Lieutenant. It’s Bester.”
“What the fuck do you want?” He knew he was safe using what Marge called the F word since his wife had her earplugs in.
“Sorry to wake you up, but we’ve got an incident. You know McAvoy, Brian McAvoy, the singer?”
“McAvoy?” He scrubbed his hand over his face, fighting to wake up.
“Devastation. The rock group.”
“Yeah, yeah. Right.” He wasn’t much on rock himself—unless it was Presley or the Everly Brothers. “What happened? Some kids turn up the music too loud and cook their brains?”
“Somebody killed his little boy. Looks like it might have been a bungled kidnapping.”
“Ah, shit.” Awake now, Lou switched on the light. “Give me the address.”
The light woke Marge. She glanced over, saw Lou sitting naked on the side of the bed and scrawling on a pad. Without complaint, she got up, tucked her arms into her cotton robe, and went down to make him coffee.

L OU FOUND BRIAN at the hospital. He wasn’t certain what he’d been expecting. He’d seen Brian a few times, in newspapers, or television, when the singer had spoken out against the war. A peacenik they called him. Lou didn’t think too much of the bunch that went around getting stoned and growing their hair ass-long and passing out flowers on street corners. But he wasn’t sure he thought much of the war, either. He’d lost a brother in Korea, and his sister’s boy had left for Vietnam three months before.

But it wasn’t McAvoy’s politics, or his hairstyle, that concerned Lou now.
He paused, studying Brian, who was sprawled on a flower-patterned chair. Looked younger in person, Lou decided. Young, a little too thin, and oddly pretty for a man. Brian had that dazed, dream-struck look that came with shock. There were others in the room, and smoke billowed up from a number of ashtrays.
Mechanically Brian put a cigarette to his lips, drew in, set it down again, blew out.
“Mr. McAvoy.”
Repeating the routine with the cigarette, Brian glanced up. He saw a tall, leanly built man with dark hair carefully combed back from a long, sleepy face. He wore a suit, a gray one, and a conservative tie of nearly the same shade against a crisp white shirt. His black shoes were glossy, his nails neatly trimmed, and there was a slight nick on his chin where he’d cut himself shaving.
Odd the things you notice, Brian thought as he pulled on the cigarette again.
“Yes.”
“I’m Lieutenant Kesselring.” He took out his shield, but Brian continued to look at his face,