The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3), Brian Shea [best non fiction books of all time .TXT] 📗

Since being assigned to Homicide, he understood his role. It was to speak for the dead, and the best way he could effectively do that was to find their killer.

"I see the look on your faces. This isn't an ask or polite request. It's an order, and it comes from the top down. I'm just the messenger. Get yourselves prettied up.” Sutherland eyed Mainelli. “Especially you. You look like a wet sack of dog crap.”

“Your kindness knows no bounds,” Mainelli retorted.

“Oh yeah, almost forgot: be downstairs in five minutes. The press briefing will begin shortly thereafter."

"They want us to talk, Sarge?" Mainelli asked.

"Absolutely not. You're the last person the Boston public needs to hear from. You'll remove all sense of safety if you open that big mouth of yours."

"Gee, Sarge, I never knew you loved me so much," Mainelli fired back.

"Look, you guys know I'm at the end of my career. I don't need to ruffle any feathers. I want a smooth transition out of this PD. You understand me?"

"You've been saying that ever since you banged your knee," Mainelli said, keeping the banter going.

Every detective in Homicide knew the gruff sergeant had been working on getting his disability claim to reach a percentage that would enable him to take an early retirement. It was an ongoing battle, one the union had been fighting for several years. The longer the city jerked him around, the more disgruntled the once gregarious sergeant became.

"Time’s a ticking. Suit up and be downstairs," Sutherland said, walking out the door and into the main space containing the cubicles of the thirty-eight detectives assigned to Homicide.

Gray remained in the doorway. "For what it’s worth, I’m glad to be part of the team and I'll do whatever I can to help. Hopefully, there's no hard feelings."

Barnes and Mainelli got up, almost in unison. They shook Gray’s hand, exchanging brief introductions and pleasantries before heading out of the room.

"Well, welcome to the show," Kelly said, eyeing the screen image of the X on the priest’s hand.

6

The first floor of the Boston Police Department had a room set aside for press conferences. News of the dead priest had spread like wildfire, and the room was packed with reporters, all vying to get their questions heard and hoping to break a new detail in the story.

Kelly had been through enough high-interest cases in his time as a city police officer to know somebody somewhere in the department had probably already leaked some of the case facts. This was usually done for the teller’s personal benefit, whether financial or positional. On the street, the saying was “snitches get stitches,” but the joke around the department was a play on those words: “snitches get promotions.” In a city as politically charged as Boston, somebody was always jockeying to get the upper hand, to see their name in print, to control the outcome of a case, or to make themselves look more favorable.

These were the aspects of law enforcement Kelly hated most of all. He liked the simplicity of the not-so-simple crimes. He preferred to deal with things on the street level. Under no circumstances could he see himself working to be promoted beyond his current rank and position. Detective was as far up the ladder as he’d hoped to climb. Beyond his personal motivation to remain an investigator, Kelly had zero interest in standing at a podium fielding questions and speaking in front of the cameras while hundreds of onlookers jotted notes.

No, that was not the life for Michael Kelly. His work was predominantly done behind the scenes, and he liked it that way. Being called now to stand by while the brass took the podium drove him mad. These few wasted minutes, pressing flesh and making comments and standing pretty for the cameras, was time taken away from the investigation, time that would be better served in search of the killer. Few people truly understood the dynamics of a homicide investigation and how rapidly the tide could shift. Substantial leads could dissipate as quickly as morning rain striking the pavement on a hot summer's day.

Sergeant Dale Sutherland led his entourage toward the podium, where Superintendent Juan Carlos Acevedo was standing ready. Acevedo was the poster child for the department and a potential candidate to be the next chief. His polyester uniform was sharply pressed, his jet-black hair meticulously combed underneath his eight-point hat. He was the epitome of professionalism in looks and appearance.

Kelly didn't mind the man. He saw him for what he was, a politician in a policeman’s uniform. Over the years, Kelly had dealt with the superintendent on too few occasions to form an opinion of him. Although the fact that he was Detective Tony Acevedo's father did cast him in a slightly dimmer light, since, in Kelly’s opinion, the biproduct of his loins was substandard as both a person and a cop.

Sutherland walked up and greeted Superintendent Acevedo with a firm handshake.

"Sergeant Sutherland, good to see you and your team here. Although from what I hear, your team wasn't originally assigned this case. Isn't there a certain order to how things operate down in Homicide? Or have they changed that much since I worked there?"

Sutherland threw up his hands in a gruff, disgruntled manner. "Hey, Superintendent. You don't like the way I do business, feel free to expedite my disability claim and I'll be happy to be out of your hair."

“Don’t get yourself all worked up, Dale,” Acevedo said through gritted teeth.

The superintendent then gave a disingenuous smile before losing interest in the banter and turning his gaze to Kelly. The fake smile vanished instantly. Great. I can add Acevedo Senior to my fan club too, Kelly thought as he met the superintendent’s stare. Kelly cracked a slight smile and considered adding a wink just to piss him off further but decided not to push his luck.

The superintendent turned his attention back to the sea of