Meet the New Boss

Chapter 1

"Jimmy!" Christie called from the bedroom, "You'd better hurry up, you're going to be late for work."

Jim ran his fingertips quickly over his face, to check for spots he'd missed, then reached for the towel to wipe the remnants of shaving cream from his face, before answering his wife. "And whose fault is that?" he asked with a smile.

"Not mine."

What d'you mean? You started it."

"Yes, but you're such a pushover."

"I guess so," Jim agreed as he walked into the bedroom to finish dressing.

"I have to get going." Christie kissed him and turned to leave. Jim reached out for her, attempting to grab her ass, but she deftly eluded his grasp.

"Hey," he protested, "don't be mean to the blind guy."

"Haven't I done enough for you already this morning?" she asked, smiling. "See you tonight," she added as she walked out of the bedroom. He heard her steps crossing to the front door, then the thump of the door closing.

"But I thought we were just getting started," he mused, still smiling.

As Jim rode the subway to work, the significance of the date suddenly hit him: the third anniversary of the shooting which had blinded him was only a week away. He didn't want to think about that day, or the days that followed it. When he remembered that time, it always brought back the sick disbelief that had twisted his guts whenever he couldn't suppress the thought that he would never see again. If he was certain of anything then, it was that his life would never again be "normal." Any possibility of a "normal" life was forever lost, along with his eyesight. Later, when he was in rehab, it was all he could do not to laugh at the people who assured him so earnestly that he could have a "normal" life again. Now he had to admit those earnest people had been right. Defying all of his expectations, his life did feel "normal" now. Like "normal" people, he got up in the morning, went to work, did his job, and came home to his wife at night. It wasn't the same as before, of course, but it was close enough.

Christie was the one he had to thank for that. She had pitied him, at first – Jim was sure of it – but she rarely let it show. Instead, she adopted a matter-of-fact attitude, focusing on the everyday practicalities of living with blindness. He still didn't know how she'd done it. He felt like a caged bear back then, his blindness an invisible cage from which there was no escape. How could he escape from something he couldn't see, when not seeing was the cage? Christie had borne the brunt of it – his anger, his depression, his insistence on doing it all by himself. When he occasionally broke out of his self-absorption, his only feelings toward his wife were an uneasy mixture of gratitude and resentment. Not resentment of her, but of his need for her.

Before he was shot, Christie had told him their marriage was over. She couldn't stay married to a man who had betrayed her, whom she could never trust again. After he was shot, he assumed that was still true, and she was staying with him out of pity or obligation or fear of what people would think of her if she abandoned her newly-blind husband. He was sure she was only waiting for the right time to leave. He had assumed that their sex life was over, too – not because of his blindness, but because of his infidelity. He was wrong. He smiled, remembering the night when she let him know – unmistakably – she intended to be his wife again, not merely a temporary caretaker. He still didn't fully understand her reasons for giving their marriage – and him – a second chance. Maybe she, like Dr. Galloway a year later, saw in his blindness the opportunity for a fresh start.

The train screeched to a halt, interrupting Jim's reverie. Was this his station? He hadn't been paying attention and had missed the announcement. Shit. He turned to the person he could sense sitting next to him and asked. When his fellow passenger confirmed they were at his stop, he hurriedly stood and ordered Hank forward and off the train.

Walking into the squad room, Jim's feeling of normality returned as he exchanged "good mornings" with his fellow detectives. He had been fortunate to be assigned to a squad where his boss and co-workers were willing to give him a chance to earn his place, and acknowledge it when he did. But Jim didn't kid himself. He knew Marty – and Tom, too, maybe even Lieutenant Fisk – still weren't entirely convinced a blind man should be a detective, even if he could clear cases. He suspected the rest of the NYPD shared that opinion. To them, he was a "token," not a detective who could carry his own weight on the job. It didn't matter how "normal" he felt. The job could never be the same as before. As the Chief of Detectives had so helpfully – but unnecessarily – reminded him, he couldn't do the things he used to do. But after two years, he knew he could still do the job, and that was enough. It had to be.

The squad spent the morning doing follow-up on a stabbing Tom had caught a couple of days before. The suspect had admitted doing the stabbing, but claimed self-defense. The detectives weren't buying it – not with eleven stab wounds on the unarmed DOA. Still, they had to make sure a jury wouldn't buy it, if the case ever got that far. So they were spending the morning re-interviewing witnesses and making sure their statements were on record, in case they tried to change their stories later.

Jim was about to take Hank out for his mid-morning walk when Fisk came out of his office. "Who's up?" the lieutenant asked.

"I am," Jim replied.

"We got a DOA – or maybe part of one," Fisk said. "Dumpster behind a restaurant on Mott Street." He consulted the slip of paper in his hand, before handing it to Karen. "The Canton Inn." The detectives grabbed their coats and headed out of the squad room.

The uniformed officer at the perimeter lifted the crime scene tape to allow Tom and Marty to pass, followed by Karen and Jim. Al Mangini, the patrol supervisor, was standing next to a dumpster about halfway down the alley.

"What've we got?" Karen asked him.

"White female – well, most of her, anyway – nude, wrapped in a black garbage bag and tossed in the dumpster," Mangini replied. "The head and hands aren't with the rest of the body."

"Are they in the dumpster?" Jim asked.

"Don't know. We're waiting for the ME and crime scene to get here before moving her."

"Anything to indicate what killed her?"

"No obvious injuries," Mangini replied, "but like I said, we haven't moved her, just took a quick look at her where she was found."

"Who found her?" Karen asked.

"The restaurant owner – a Henry Wu – he's over there," Mangini said, indicating. "He's pretty shook up – lost his breakfast when he found her."

"We'll talk to him," Karen said.

"We'll start a canvass," Marty offered.

Jim nodded. "Good. We'll talk to the other people from the restaurant, after we talk to the owner." He took Karen's arm, and they walked toward the restaurant's rear door, where Wu was waiting.

It was early afternoon before Jim and Karen finished their work at the scene and returned to the squad. Tom and Marty had already completed their canvass of the area. Fisk emerged from his office and sat on the vacant desk opposite Jim's to hear the detectives' reports.

"What've we got?" he asked.

"White female, nude, wrapped in a garbage bag and dumped in a dumpster," Jim replied. "Her head and hands are missing."

"They're not in the dumpster?" Fisk asked.

Jim shook his head, "Doesn't look like it. Crime scene was still sifting through the dumpster when we left – "

Marty interrupted him. "That's the part of the job they don't show on TV," he quipped.

Jim smiled quickly before continuing, " – but they hadn't found them yet – or anything else to ID her."

Karen spoke up. "The ME did a preliminary exam at the scene. No obvious injuries or cause of death. He thinks the decapitation and amputations probably were done after she was dead. She doesn't have any scars or tattoos that would help ID her. But he did find some old needle tracks on her arms, so it looks like she used at one time, but not recently."

Fisk frowned. "Do we have any idea when she was dumped there?"

"The restaurant owner found her this morning," Jim replied. "He was taking out some trash and noticed the lid was propped open. He said he didn't leave it like that the night before, so he looked in and saw the bag lying on top of the garbage. It didn't look right, so he opened up the bag."

"Crime scene is pretty sure she was killed somewhere else and dumped where she was found," Karen added.

Fisk turned to Marty and Tom. "Did you get anything on the canvass?"

Marty shook his head. "No. No one saw or heard anything. But if she was dumped there late last night or early this morning, the alley in back of the restaurant would've been pretty deserted."

Tom added, "We're thinking she might be a hooker who hooked up with the wrong 'john.' We asked Vice and Narcotics to let us know if they hear anything on the street about a girl being missing."

Fisk frowned. "What about Missing Persons?"

"We contacted them, too," Marty said, "but if she's a street hooker, what're the chances of someone reporting her missing?"

"Yeah," Fisk agreed resignedly. "Keep me posted." He stood up and started back to his office.

"You know, boss," Jim spoke up, "someone went to a lot of trouble to keep us from ID'ing this girl. But if it was a 'john' who did this, why would he care if we ID'd her?"

"So what's your theory?" Marty asked.

"I don't have one," Jim admitted, "I just don't think we should rule anything out yet."

"OK," Fisk said as he entered his office.

A few minutes after Fisk returned to his office, a sharp-featured man of about fifty strode into the squad room. His thick gray hair was carefully styled, and he wore a well-tailored black suit. He was only of medium height, but he carried himself with authority. He scanned the squad room with his eyes, stopping when he saw Jim. He stared openly at Jim for a few moments, before announcing, "Captain Greene, for Lieutenant Fisk."

"In his office," Marty responded, indicating its location. Greene crossed to Fisk's office and entered.

"Hey, Jim, what've you done now?" Marty asked, after the door closed behind Greene.

"What do you mean?"

"That Captain Greene – he was giving you a real hard look," Marty explained.

"Oh, yeah?"

"So what'd you do to piss him off?"

"I have no idea," Jim told him. "I never saw the guy before in my life."

"Very funny," Marty scoffed. "Since when are you the comedian around here?"

"Someone's gotta do it," Jim retorted, throwing up his hands. He picked up his earpiece and went back to his report. The other three detectives pretended to work, while sneaking glances at Fisk's office in a vain attempt to deduce what was going on behind the closed door.

A few minutes later, Fisk opened the office door partway and stuck his head out. "Jim, my office, please." As Tom and Marty exchanged surprised looks at the worried expression on the lieutenant's face, Jim put on his dark glasses, then made his way to Fisk's office, entered, and closed the door behind him.

"Jim," Fisk began, "this is Captain Kevin Greene, from Chief Tunney's staff."

"Captain," Jim acknowledged, extending his hand.

Greene shook Jim's hand. "Detective Dunbar." Jim turned slightly to face him. "As I've just informed Lieutenant Fisk," Greene continued, "you are being re-assigned, effective immediately. You are ordered to report to the 40th Precinct, Lieutenant Phil Krause, tomorrow morning at 8 a.m."

"Yes, sir," Jim replied stiffly.

"That's all," Greene said. "Good luck in your new assignment, Detective." He gave a curt nod in Fisk's direction. "Lieutenant." Without another word, he turned and left.

Fisk looked at Jim thoughtfully. He had noticed the way Jim stiffened at the mention of his new boss's name. Now he was gripping the back of the chair in front of him so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. Fisk wasn't sure what was going on, but he was certain of one thing: this was no ordinary transfer.

"Phil Krause – do you know him?" he asked.

"Yeah," Jim replied grimly, "I know him."