Ch. 11 / Pt. 4 : When They Wear the Mask

Castellanos had the worn, jittery gaze of someone caffeinating themselves through a hangover. Instead of a puzzle, she clutched a styrofoam coffee cup in her hands, her third or fourth that morning. Like most alcoholics the day after a night drinking, she looked profoundly withdrawn.

Booker tried not to look at her too much. He kept his own dark hands wrapped around his own lukewarm cuppa, his second. He turned his head to stare at the clock behind Virgil’s desk, the second hand clicking jaggedly forward.

Virgil pushed through the door ten minutes late, white medical facemask in one hand, newly poured coffee in the other. “Sorry,” he said, settling his things in perfectly-formed gaps among his desk’s clutter. “Had more press bullshit to deal with.”

“No problem,” Booker replied.

Virgil grumbled his disagreement as he sat. “So. Squatter City.”

“What’s the story with the copycat?” Castellanos asked.

“He’s nobody. A college kid from out of state.”

“Timothy Laclerc,” she replied.

“He’s good as cuffed, already,” Virgil said. “A half-dozen BLM protesters ID’d him and the victim. We have footage of him heading north into the Downtown area and getting on a bus. He’s done. You two stay focused on Robert Robertson.”

“Bob-Bob’s-son,” Castellanos chirped.

“A’yeah, sure, call him that if you want.”

“Castellanos and I need to head to Squatter City,” Booker addressed the topic of the meeting. “Seeing as Bob-Bob’s-son or whoever is hiding out there.”

“We suppose he is,” Virgil agreed. “But I can’t let the two of you go up there without backup.”

Booker balked. “We—we talked about this.”

Virgil nodded. “We did, a’yeah. We did. That’s why I need you two to hand-pick your back-up. The two of you know a few guys who can keep their heads about them up there? Some shields not afraid to talk to someone who looks at them like a bedbug?”

Booker searched for words but didn’t find them. He turned to Castellanos. “Al?”

She blinked. Bobbed her head. “I know a few people.”

“Three or four, that’s all,” Virgil said. “Just in case.”

“Mm,” she grunted. “In case.”

“Not that—but—just…” Virgil sighed.

“We should get moving,” Booker sat up, performing readiness. “Before daylight starts burning out.”

“Right. Thank you for your time. Dismissed.”

“When they bring that Laclerc fucker in, can we talk to him for a while?” Castellanos asked, standing.

“Why?” Virgil responded.

Castellanos hitched one shoulder, a half-hearted shrug. “He did an amateur act impersonation of Bob-Bob’s-son. I’d like to know more about why.”

“Probably ‘cause he’s a dumb college kid and he thought we’d let him patsy our killer,” Booker offered.

“Probably,” Castellanos admitted. “But I’d like to know for sure.”

Virgil leaned back in his chair, some joint of it squeaking with the motion. “Fine,” he said. “When we bring him in, after initial interrogation, if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut and lawyer up, you can have a go at him.”

“Thanks.”

“Be careful up there,” Virgil warned them as they left. “It’s the wild fuckin’ west north of Lafayette.”

As the door closed, Booker almost said something. Almost. 

But he didn’t.

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