The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

It’s a lie that transforms into a possible truth in my mind. Did he? Is that how he got here so fast? “We were standing at the grassy mound just off the parking lot,” he continues, “talking about why she shouldn’t be here when Newman drove up.”

It’s a lie when I told him not to lie, and the only way I defy that lie is to throw him under a bus.

The captain’s thick brows pull together, and his gaze swivels hard and lands on me with a perceivable thud. “I’m back to the obvious. Why the fuck were you even here, Detective Jazz?”

He doesn’t use the F-word often, but when he does, you’re screwed. I’m screwed right into an explanation that can lead nowhere else but being more screwed.

“I really was jogging,” I confirm, “and believe it or not, I was reflecting on my right and wrong choices that led me here. In hindsight, I should have done my reflecting elsewhere.”

He scowls and when the captain scowls, it’s a tornado in a thunderstorm. “You think, Detective?” The snarky question is followed by another. “What else?”

“Newman pulled up in the minivan,” I say quickly. “Blood splattered on the windows. I took off running and called in the emergency. I was unarmed.”

“But I wasn’t,” Lang adds. “I approached the vehicle first.”

Damn this man. That’s a lie the campus police might dispute. “The door on the passenger side was open,” he continues. “Once I determined Newman was dead, I had Jazz stop the emergency teams before they contaminated the scene. I know. I know I should have just sent her away, but the campus police were such a fuck-up. That’s also why I shut the door. I didn’t want someone screwing up the scene.”

“You didn’t shut the damn door,” I snap, eyeing the captain, who is eerily silent. “Captain,” I say, “someone else shut that door.”

“I shut it,” Lang insists, scowling at me. “You know I shut it. I’m willing to claim that sin.”

My fingers curl into fists by my sides where they are least likely to land on Lang. “Captain—”

“Newman didn’t know we were there,” Lang interrupts again. “The pressure of hiding who and what he was got to him. We’re all better off with him dead.”

He’s right. We’re all better off with Newman dead, but I’m not sure we’re the only ones who believe that. Thanks to Lang, I can’t say that, I can’t suggest The Poet was two people, not one, without making us both look like liars.

The captain looks between us. “You two assholes better hope we can now prove he’s The Poet, otherwise we’re going to pay out the ass to the family.”

I blanch when I never blanch. “Pay?” My tone is incredulous, bordering on angry. “Why would we pay a settlement?”

“Because you stalked the man.”

“Surveillance is not stalking, and you were in on this, too, Captain. We all wanted to get him. And what would we have done if he killed again before he killed himself? Twiddle our thumbs?” I sound snippy and I am. I’m riled up now, my ability to analyze while containing my emotions apparently taking one of its random sabbaticals.

“You didn’t have enough to charge him. You kept hounding him. And thanks to you, I’ve got word that he’s officially suing the department; we now know that he’s the one who went to the press and told the city there was a serial killer free.”

“Serial killers crave attention,” I argue. “That’s why he went to the press.”

“You drove him to kill himself,” he states.

“And you know this because CSI did their job already?” I challenge, holding nothing back, on a rocky cliff about to jump off, and it has nothing to do with Newman and everything to do with that young boy I shot. No, that I killed. I killed him, but I can’t win here. I’ll end up pressing the department to name a killer and they could say it’s me, or I just simply become responsible for a suicide.

The captain scowls at me. “Do I seem calm right now?”

This is a trap, but I take his bait because I have no choice. Lips pulled tight, I say, “Reasonably calm.”

“I’m not!” he shouts, and I cringe with the lion-ish roar. “I’m fucking not,” he repeats again with that added “fuck” for effect as if I haven’t quite gotten the point. “Go to the station. Stay there. Do not leave. Do not pass go. There is no reward to collect.” He throws a few visual bullets at me and then levels a stare at Lang. “Do a better job of keeping her out of trouble than you’ve done so far.”

I open my mouth to speak, and he slices a hand through the air in my direction. “Do not say whatever you plan to say. Spend all of your remaining effort leaving without the press seeing you here.” He scrubs a hand over his face and drops it. “Let’s hope we can magically have everyone here forget they saw you.” He waves a hand in the air. “Just go. Both of you go before I start thinking of Detective Jazz calling in the incident and how damned that makes us all.”