distance, before she said something even more detrimental to her already shaky position, Beck stopped at the sound of Bishop’s voice.
“I know what happened with the Tragafuegos.”
Turning back, she met Bishop’s eyes, and, if she hadn’t already determined it impossible, she might have thought Bishop actually had the capacity to regret the things he said.
“I know Humphrey and Cullen didn’t believe there was a man in a white collar and a corner office calling the shots, that they were going to take down the top man on the streets, but let the mastermind go. Two months, he would have rebuilt, and the whole thing would have started all over. I get why you did what you did. After last night, I even get why Martinez wants you here.”
“That’s great,” Beck returned. “It still doesn’t explain why you want me for this. You’ve got dozens of people you could get to do your bidding. Four more under your immediate command, all of whom, I’m sure, would clamor to be your right hand. Why me?”
“The night Braeburn was killed?” Bishop uttered. “The shooter got the drop on me. He came up behind me. Made me put down my gun. When Braeburn walked in, he used me as a shield. Shot over my shoulder. I don’t know what he had in that thing, but it was a big flash.”
“That was what blinded you.”
“Yeah.” Bishop nodded. “I thought, after a few days, it would go away. Ten months later, I still can’t see from the side. I still can’t hear with my left ear. I’ve been at dozens of crime scenes since. You’re the first person to notice.”
Letting that sink in, Beck felt the fight ooze out of her.
“So, this killer, he’s been doing this for more than twenty years. It was twenty years before he wasn’t caught here, and another twenty killing everywhere else.”
“Yeah.”
“How are we supposed to catch a man no one has been able to catch for forty years?”
“That is the question,” Bishop said. “No one likes to talk about it, but we all know it happens. Some of them are just so good, they’re better than all of us combined. That doesn’t mean we get to stop trying.”
“How long do I have to decide?”
“Two minutes,” Bishop responded.
“All right, I’ll do it.”
Nothing else she could say, given the imminence of the threat, Beck did say she wanted someone to go after, and she knew Bishop expected nothing else when he slowly nodded. Standing for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with her agreement, he at last put out his hand.
It felt surprisingly human as Beck took it.
*****
You have reached the end of 21 Weeks: Week 1. The story continues in 21 Weeks: Week 2, available now.
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Teaser for 21 Weeks: Week 2
Mt. Charleston Cabin - Tuesday, 6:58 a.m.
Smell of blood assaulting her senses as she walked into the wood cabin, Beck wasn’t surprised to find the victim drenched in it. Half-scalped, the skin on the woman’s head lay folded back, blood pouring down her forehead and temples, more pooling on the floor beneath her hands where they dangled at the sides of the chair, fingers chopped off.
“Nash. Williams.” Apparently, the stern utterance of their names was Bishop’s idea of greeting.
“Bishop,” Beck responded in kind. “This our vic?”
“Could be. Maybe not,” Bishop said. “She was shot point-blank in the temple. Everything else you see, M.E. says came prior to the kill shot.”
Glancing over at Bishop’s sideways nod, Beck spotted the M.E., a guy in his mid-twenties who definitely wasn’t Baxton, talking to some members of the Crime Scene Unit.
“What you don’t see is her eyes were also gouged out, and her tongue is missing.”
“Sounds like mob to me,” Beck said. “I suspect someone will be getting a package of parts any day now.”
“Possible,” Bishop returned. “Or maybe it is our guy, and it’s just been made to look like a mob hit.”
“Has the killer ever done anything like that before?”
“No,” Bishop admitted. “But, like I said, his m.o. does change.”
“To the mob’s?”
“Look, Nash.” Gaze rising from the decimated body, Bishop trained all his attention on Beck. “I know it’s early, and you would rather be sleeping right now. I’d like to be kicking back with a danish and the paper. But this is the nature of the beast. Welcome to Homicide.”
“So, since we have no idea what we’re looking for exactly, we’re just going to investigate every murder?” Beck surmised.
“Every one that looks like torture.” Bishop glanced to where the CSU techs gathered evidence across the room. “When we get over there, keep the questions general. As far as they know, this is a standard-issue murder.”
“How are they supposed to investigate if they don’t know what they’re investigating?” Beck asked.
“They’re investigating a dead body, just like they always do. If something pops and says serial killer, we’ll worry about that then.”
“You really think keeping this a secret is the best way to find this guy?”
“I think it’s how we’re going about it,” Bishop responded. “My way worked before.”
“Obviously, it didn’t, since you never caught him.” Cursing her loose lips the instant the words tumbled out of them, Beck realized she was too tired, and too cranky, and really should have tried to sleep in the car as Williams drove them the half-hour to the crime scene. “If you’re going to punch me again, could you warn me first? I got woken up in the middle of the night, and called into work three hours early. My reflexes are lagging.”
“Just work the case,” Bishop uttered, before walking off, which was about the most lenient thing he could do.
*****
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