“Detective Cross has been involved in some high-profile cases that the department has solved,” he said, and left it at that. Not exactly praise, but at least he hadn’t gone on the attack.
Halpern nodded sagely. “What, if anything, has changed his performance recently?”
Pittman looked my way, then answered. “A woman he was seeing disappeared while they were on a trip together in Bermuda. Since that time, he’s been distracted and distant, quick to anger, not himself.”
Suddenly I wanted to speak up in the courtroom. Pittman didn’t know the first thing about Christine and me.
“Chief Pittman, was Detective Cross ever a suspect in the disappearance of his girlfriend, Mrs. Christine Johnson?”
Pittman nodded. “That’s standard police procedure. I’m sure he was questioned.”
“But his behavior on the job has changed since her disappearance?”
“Yes. His concentration isn’t the same. He’s missed days of work. It’s all a matter of record.”
“Has Detective Cross been asked to seek professional help?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ask him to seek help yourself?”
“I did. He and I have worked together for a number of years. He was under stress.”
“He’s under a lot of stress? Is that fair to say?”
“Yes. He hadn’t closed a single case recently.”
Halpern nodded. “A couple of weeks before the Hampton homicide, you suspended some detectives he was friendly with.”
Pittman’s look was somber. “Unfortunately, I did.”
“Why did you suspend the detectives?”
“The detectives were investigating cases outside the auspices of the department.”
“Is it fair to say they were making up their own rules, acting like vigilantes?”
Catherine Fitzgibbon rose to her feet and objected, but Judge Fescoe allowed the question.
Pittman answered, “I don’t know about that. Vigilantes is a strong word. But they were working without proper supervision. The case is still under investigation.”
“Was Detective Cross part of the group that was making up its own rules to solve homicides?”
“I’m not certain. But he was spoken to about the matter. I didn’t believe he could handle a suspension at that time. I warned him and let it slide. I shouldn’t have,” said Pittman.
“No further questions.”
None needed, I thought.
Chapter 85
THAT NIGHT, after he left the courthouse, Shafer was flying high. He thought that he was winning the game. He was manic as hell, and it felt both good and bad. He was parked in the dark garage under Boo Cassady’s building. Most manics aren’t really aware of it when they’re exhibiting signs of a manic episode, but Shafer knew. His “spirals” didn’t come out of nowhere; they built and built.
The irony and the danger of being back in her building weren’t lost on him. Scene of the crime, and all that rot. He wanted to go to Southeast tonight, but that was too risky. He couldn’t hunt—not now. He had something else in mind: the next few moves in his game.
It was unusual, though not unheard-of, for the defendant in a first-degree homicide trial to be out roaming the streets, but that had been one of the prerequisites of his dropping his immunity. What choice did the prosecution have? None at all. If the D.A. hadn’t agreed, he had a free pass to keep him out of jail.
Shafer followed a tenant he’d seen several times into the lift from the garage and took it to Boo’s apartment. He rang the doorbell. Waited. Heard her padding across the parquet floor. Yes, Act One of tonight’s performance was about to begin.