I'll Be Coming Around
Prologue
Walsh strolled into the precinct, nearly dragging a skinny kid by the arm. The kid squirmed as they approached the processing desk, and his voice was high and whiny as he said, "Look, man, I said I was sorry!"
"I don't want to hear it," he replied gruffly, shoving the kid into a nearby chair. "Now sit."
The officer behind the desk looked mildly amused, "What's he in for?"
"Urinating in public," Walsh replied.
"I didn't know it was a cop car!"
"That wasn't your first mistake, kid," Walsh said.
The officer behind the desk grinned and pushed a form forward. Walsh picked a black pen from a nearby glass and started filling it out, occasionally glancing up to make sure the kid didn't move. He was just about finished when Sergeant Brown yelled down the stairs.
"Walsh! My office. Now."
"In a minute," Walsh said, signing his name. He thrust the form to the officer and turned to the kid. "Now play nice, and you may be out in a week."
"A week?" the kid said eyes scrunching in desperation. "Come on dude—"
"Stop whining and be a man about it," Walsh said, and waved to the officer at the desk. The officer nodded, already retrieving the holding cell's key from his desk. Brown's orders were ringing in Walsh's ears, and he didn't wait around.
Brown's office was immaculate, as always, and the man had a disapproving scowl on his face when Walsh dropped into an empty chair. He didn't look up for a moment, eyes darting over his computer screen as he read an email.
Walsh cleared his throat. He didn't have all day, after all.
Brown glanced up, narrowing his eyes, "You won't believe this shit, Walsh."
They'd been working together a long time, and Walsh couldn't remember seeing Brown this annoyed. He leaned forward in his chair and rested his arm on his knee. His grey eyes were sharp, concerned. "What's going on?"
"They're releasing Lawson," the sergeant replied.
Silence reigned.
Walsh pushed to his feet, "What?"
"Jeremy Lawson. His parole starts in three days, and they decided to send me an email today. Nice of them to get around to it, Brown said, venom seeping from the words.
"How the hell did he get parole?"
"He sweet talked the judge. He made nice with the guards. He was the perfect inmate. So they figured, 'why not?"
Walsh slammed his hands onto Brown's desk and said, "Because he killed four women, that's why!"
Brown leaned back, irritated, and waved a hand, "You don't have to tell me, Walsh. I remember the bastard. But you and Schraeger only got him on attempted, and you know that won't put anyone in jail long. "You need hard evidence."
"Shit." Walsh rocked back on his heels and paced to the window. He stared through it, down at the street below, and anger surged. He had to work to control his voice, to keep from snarling at his boss. "It should have kept him longer than a year."
"I know. I'm fighting hand and fist, but there's not enough time. He'll be on parole in three days, Walsh, and there's not a damn thing we can do about it." Walsh rubbed his face and spun on his heel, striding toward the door. Brown stood, called, "You'd better find Schraeger. I'm giving you a week's vacation to get her somewhere safe."
"Already on it," Walsh replied, and left.