Meet the New Boss
Chapter 4
The silence that descended when Jim walked into the squad room at the 40th Precinct in the South Bronx told him his arrival had been noticed. He wasn't sure if the silence was hostile or curious. Probably some of both, he decided. "Jim Dunbar, for Lieutenant Krause," he announced.
For a moment, no one responded. Then a voice came from behind him. "Dunbar." The speaker didn't identify himself – he wouldn't, of course – but Jim recognized the voice. He turned toward him. "Lieutenant."
The detectives in the squad introduced themselves. "John Morris." "Frank Coletti." "Gary Nichols." "Dave Bartkowski." Jim acknowledged each of them with a nod. "Got an empty desk?" he asked.
"Yeah, over here," Krause growled.
"Can you be a little more specific?" Jim asked.
No one answered him for a moment, then one of the detectives – Bartkowski, Jim thought – said, "About ten feet ahead, on your right."
Jim ordered Hank forward. He trailed his hand across the edge of the adjoining desk until he found the vacant one. He set his bag down on the desk, located the chair, and sat down. There was a stirring as the four other detectives sat back down at their desks and apparently went back to work. He explored the desktop. It was mostly empty, except for a phone, a useless lamp, "in" and "out" boxes, and some supplies. He took his scanner and computer out of his bag, placed them on the desk, and started to set them up. No one said anything to him, but Jim was certain the other detectives were watching. He was mildly surprised that no one offered to help. Not because he needed any help – he didn't. But he had become so accustomed to fending off unwanted and unneeded offers of help that their absence seemed out of the ordinary. He reminded himself the usual "rules" didn't apply here – not in Phil Krause's squad.
He had almost finished setting up the computer and scanner when he realized he couldn't avoid asking for help with one part of the task. "Hey, guys," he asked, "where are the outlets?"
For a moment, the only answer to his question was silence. Then one of the detectives – Bartkowski again, Jim thought – said, "They're on the floor, under the desk. Here, let me show you."
"Thanks."
After Jim confirmed that his scanner and computer were up and running, he turned toward the other detectives' desks and asked, "What're you working?"
Another moment of silence followed, in which Jim imagined the other four detectives were looking at each other, deciding whether to answer him. Finally one of them – Jim guessed Colletti this time – said, "The usual – a coupla drive-bys, a stabbing that looks like a jealous boyfriend. The boss will get you up to speed."
"OK." Jim leaned back in his chair. The chilly reception wasn't unexpected – Krause would have made sure of that – but one thing was puzzling. Greene had told Fisk he was being transferred because Krause needed more 'manpower,' but there was already a full squad of four detectives here. He'd suspected that was just a pretext, but it was reassuring, somehow, to have his suspicions confirmed.
Krause emerged from his office. "We got a DOA," he said. "139th and Brook."
Jim and the other detectives stood up and put on their coats. Jim grasped Hank's harness and started walking forward, but Krause stopped him. "Where d'you think you're going, Dunbar?"
Jim stopped and turned toward him, a questioning expression on his face. "On the call, Lieutenant."
"Forget it. You're not going out in the field, not here. You're staying in the squad and covering the phones."
"But, lieutenant – " Jim began.
"Zip it. You're not in the East Village anymore." Krause looked at the four other detectives, who had stopped on their way out to listen. "What're you waiting for? Get out," he ordered them.
After the squad disappeared down the hall, Krause turned back to Jim. "My office, Dunbar, now," he snapped.
Jim took off his coat, unfolded his cane, and followed Krause to his office.
"Let's get a few things straight," Krause began. "You're not at the 8 anymore, and I'm not Gary Fisk." That, at least, was true, Jim thought. "No more special treatment," Krause continued, "we're not carrying you like your old squad did."
"No one carried me, Lieutenant," Jim replied evenly. "You don't have to take my word for it, ask Lieutenant Fisk."
"Maybe I will, maybe I will," Krause mused, then added, "And we don't have a pretty female detective to lead you around. Sorry about that."
"I noticed," Jim said dryly.
"As long as you're here, you can forget about going out in the field."
"I've been going out in the field for two years – " Jim began.
"Not here you haven't."
"But Chief Tunney – "
"I don't care what the chief says. He's not running this squad, I am. I'm not putting an unarmed blind detective on the street in this precinct. Like I said, you're not in the East Village anymore. Do you even know where you are?"
"Yes, I know where I am."
Krause studied Jim for a moment. "There's one good thing, anyway – "
"What's that, lieutenant?"
"I don't have to worry about you seeing something you're not supposed to."
"No, you don't," Jim agreed, through clenched teeth. "Is that all, sir?"
"Yeah. Get out."
Struggling to contain his anger, Jim left Krause's office and found the locker room. There was no way in hell he was going to let Krause see that he'd gotten to him. He drummed his fingers on one of the lockers, trying to stay in control. He started to fold his cane, tempted to slam it against the locker door. Suddenly the cane reminded him there was something he needed to do. The sooner he could move around freely in the squad room, the better. The squad room was as empty now as it was ever going to be. Jim's stomach turned at the thought of learning his way around the squad with Krause watching him, but he had no choice. He unfolded his cane and walked out of the locker room to begin the laborious process of memorizing the squad room.
As Jim methodically stepped out the route from his desk to the hall, Krause looked up from the report he was reviewing. He watched Jim for a few minutes, curious. Then, when Jim folded his cane and began retracing his steps without it, he understood what Jim was doing. He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile. He wouldn't wish being blinded like that on anyone, not even Dunbar, he told himself. But that arrogant bastard needed to be taken down a peg or two. It was about time he learned some humility.
When the other detectives returned from the scene, Krause stepped out of his office. "My office," he ordered them. When Jim began to stand up, he added, "Not you, Dunbar."
Jim sat back down. He heard Krause's heavy footsteps approaching, followed by the slap of a stack of files landing on his desk. Automatically, he reached out to touch them. "What's this?" he asked.
"Your new assignment. Some open cases – you know, the kind that's been open for a while. I figured they were just waiting for a hotshot detective like you to clear them." Krause turned and walked away. Jim clenched his jaw. He'd just been handed a stack of old, cold cases. Krause knew as well as he did there was virtually no chance of solving them. He was being set up to fail. Doggedly, he reached for the top file in the stack. He wasn't about to give Krause an excuse to fire him for insubordination. That would make it too easy for him.
Jim listened carefully to the reports on the first case until the rest of the squad came out of Krause's office and returned to their desks. "What've we got?" he asked.
Nichols hesitated before answering him. "Looks like a drug deal gone bad," he finally said. "DOA's a crack dealer, name of Leon Parker, two GSWs to the chest. Word on the street is the shooter was a Curtis Young. Apparently Curtis thought Leon had sold him some bunk, and this was his way of getting his money back. Curtis is in the wind, but we'll find him. It's just a matter of time."
"Anything I can do?" Jim asked, already knowing the answer.
"No, thanks, we got it."
The end of the tour finally arrived. After Jim heard Krause leave without saying good night to anyone, he headed for his locker. While he was standing there, he heard the locker room door open. "Hello?" Jim asked.
Bartkowski walked in and looked anxiously around the room. When he was sure no one else was present, he said, "Hey, Jim. It's Dave – Dave Bartkowski."
Jim turned toward him. "I know," he said with a little smile, hoping to put Bartkowski at ease.
"Listen, Jim," Bartkowski began, his voice low and anxious, "I know it must look like – uh, I mean, seem like – we're a bunch of pricks here, but we're not, not really."
Jim cocked his head questioningly.
"Yesterday, when the boss told us you were being assigned here, he said the brass had decided you were a liability, and our job was to make the case so they could get you off the job. I guess maybe you already knew this, huh?"
Jim nodded but said nothing.
"Anyway, the boss told us you weren't going to be working any current cases, and we're not supposed to talk to you about them. Hell, we're not supposed to talk to you at all, if we can avoid it. And the boss ordered us not to help you with anything we don't have to. He even brought in a lawyer from the department to talk to us about 'reasonable accommodation.' After the lawyer left, the boss told us your old boss had 'coddled' you, and that wasn't gonna happen in his squad."
Bartkowski fell silent and looked around the room again. When he was certain no one was nearby, he continued, "So I'm tellin' you, you better watch your back – they want you gone."
Pressing his lips together, Jim nodded again, then asked, "Why are you telling me this?"
Bartkowski thought for a moment, frowning. "Look, I don't know about you being on the job. I mean, it don't seem like such a great idea, you being – you know, blind, and all. But I was willing to keep an open mind. I mean, you've been back on the job for – what, two years?"
"Yes," Jim confirmed.
"And I remember what you did at that bank robbery. Maybe you can't do the job, maybe you can, I don't know. But I don't like to see the brass fucking with any cop. So, like I said, you need to watch your back."
"I will. Thanks."
"One other thing," Bartkowski told him, "Krause has a snitch – "
Jim heard the locker room door open. "What's that?" he asked.
Bartkowski didn't answer. Instead, he abruptly said, "Good night," and walked away.
"Yeah," Jim replied, "Good night." He closed the locker door and leaned against it, thinking.