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relevant to this investigation. Let's just say it was some old family business that needed to be taken care of." "Perhaps if you had been doing your job instead of pursuing personal business, the last two killings would not have taken place," Quintard said. Jason had had just about enough. There was no real information being dredged up here. Quintard was just trying to trip him, make him look like a fool. It was time to put this to rest, but it must be done with skill. "Let me ask you, commissioner, since you seem to have such a firm grip on what is and isn't being done, what could we do that we haven't done already?" Jason asked. Quintard blinked several times. He hadn't expected Medlocke to go on the offensive. The question caught him off guard and he stammered for an answer. "Well& it's& it's not my job to find the killer, it's yours," he said. "Precisely, commissioner," Jason said. "It is my job. And I'm doing the best that I can. The whole department is doing the best it can. Look at the bags under my eyes or the eyes of any other officer on the force. If you want to know how hard we're working, take a look at the amount of overtime that's been authorized to work on this case. We're all working our tails off. So why don't you stop badgering us, hounding us with useless things like this, and let us do what we're paid to do?" A smattering of applause broke out across the audience. Quintard reached up and wiped sweat from his forehead. This wasn't going well at all. He heard the crowd grumbling with displeasure. "What the fuck is Quintard doing?" one voice whispered. "He's jerking us off," came the answer. With their anger unfocused, Jason was no longer the target. Quintard realized the crowd was turning on him. He was losing control of the situation. He could see his future political plans blowing away on their anger. He had to do something and he went for his last shot. "How does your alcoholism affect your handling of the case?" he asked. The audience rumbled again, but Jason just gave Quintard a cold stare. He'd been expecting this question, too. "It doesn't affect me," he said. "I haven't had a drink in almost a year. At the time of my drinking problem, I had just lost my wife and child in a car accident. That's no excuse, but it's a reason." "Didn't you almost kill a man in a car wreck while you were drinking?" Quintard asked. "Yes, myself," Jason answered, then squared his shoulders. "But I assume you're talking about the man whose truck I hit. He escaped without any injuries at all. I was in the hospital for weeks. Afterward, I entered a rehabilitation clinic." Once again, Jason turned to the crowd. "I've never tried to keep my alcoholism a secret. Everyone who has been around me, my superiors, my co-workers, even the reporters who cover this beat, are aware of it. It's simply a problem that I deal with. It doesn't affect my job." The crowd murmured and fretted. Quintard looked at it with horror. All he saw was a ravenous beast ready to pounce. The beast was angry and irritated, wanting to taste blood and catching only air. Quintard had promised, but not delivered. "I believe that's enough," McCracken said. "I'm satisfied with Detective Medlocke's answers. I recommend that we adjourn. Do I hear a second?" "No!" Quintard protested. "I have more questions. Important questions." "I doubt it," McCracken said as several people in the crowd chuckled. "But I want to know about Detective Medlocke's connection with a woman named Alex Cotton," Quintard blurted out. "Someone he's been spending a great deal of time with, time perhaps better spent on these murders." Jason felt his face flush and the tingling erupted in his muscles. How dare this fat bastard bring up Alex's name! He began to rise but forced himself down. At the same time, a dark cloud rumbled across McCracken's face. "That is enough," McCracken roared. "I will not have Detective Medlocke's personal life dragged through these proceedings for your benefit, Anson. I move that we call this meeting to a close." "Second," Commissioner Carrington said. "All in favor say aye," McCracken said. Four ayes were heard. Quintard silently fumed, seeing nothing but the remains of his career crumbling before his eyes. That and black hatred. Before McCracken could slam the gavel down to officially close the meeting, someone in the audience stood up. Jason, who had been looking at McCracken, turned his head to see who had risen. Joseph Benton. The man still looked deathly ill, his face covered in a sheen of sickly sweat, his eyes glassy and dull. As he stood, he swayed unsteadily, but he managed to keep his feet. Everyone in the audience froze; those beginning to get up slowly sat back down. "Detective Medlocke, my name is Joseph Benton. My daughter is& was& Amanda Benton, the first child to die. I'm sure you recognize me." Jason nodded. "Mr. Benton, this meeting is over," McCracken said. "I'm sure if you wish to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |