The Hearing Read Online Free PDF Page A

himself on a weekend and hung one he’d bought with his own money.
    Thereby admitting that he cared about it.
    Big mistake.
    Immediately Glitsky’s prize door became an untapped bonanza for any psychologist who might want to study the effects of stress on otherwise normal people whose job it became to investigate murders. After the first impressive flurry of graffiti and property damage in the weekend after he’d hung it, Glitsky had made it a point of honor to refrain from comment or reaction no matter what his people did to it. And they did plenty.
    Eventually the door had become a living testament to something profound and not particularly flattering about San Francisco’s homicide detail. A large poster of Bozo the Clown with the international “NO” symbol commanded the center of it, but that was among the first, and the mildest, of desecrations. By the last time Hardy had come up here a few weeks before, there hadn’t been a pristine inch left. Burn marks, spitballs, chewed gum, three bullet holes, assorted bumper stickers, picture ads for prostitutes, photos of murder suspects from ancient cases.
    The homicide inspectors thought it was a funny, running gag. Glitsky didn’t see it that way, but he wasn’t going to whine about it. There were other approaches.
    One night he had come down to the Hall on a late call and happened to arrive as one of his inspectors, Carl Griffin—now deceased—was adding some graphic flourishes to a wanted poster someone else had tacked to the door. Griffin had been engaged in his artwork and hadn’t heard Glitsky come up behind him, didn’t hear a thing even as Glitsky whacked him on the head with his sap, knocking him senseless for several minutes.
    Glitsky thought that was funny.
    Even funnier because Griffin could never say anything about it without appearing to be an idiot. But somehow the word had gotten out. And the stakes had been raised.
    Now Hardy stared. The door was flat white. He could still smell the paint. And it was closed—a rarity during the working day. Struck by the stunning blankness, Hardy whistled softly and looked out over the open room. At least casually acquainted with most of the homicide inspectors, he recognized Marcel Lanier, who was seated at his desk, a pencil poised over some paper.
    The inspector was looking back at him. He shook his head and spoke with a quiet authority. “I wouldn’t.”
    “Somebody with him?”
    “No.”
    “When did this happen?” The door.
    A shrug. “He came in after lunch with a bucket and a roller. Took him ten minutes.”
    “Is he all right?”
    A shrug. It wasn’t for a sergeant to say.
    Hardy thought about it. Two warnings from two solid professionals. The smart move would be perhaps to skip it for now, pick a better time.
    But he’d just driven down from his office, paid to park, come all the way up for this personal visit with his best friend. It was the end of the day, anyway. Whatever it was, Abe would deal with it. Maybe Hardy could even help. Besides, he was tired of well-meaning gatekeepers trying to keep him from people he needed to see. First Phyllis with David Freeman. Now Sarah Evans and Marcel Lanier with Glitsky.
    “I think I’ll just see how he’s doing,” he said. “No guts, no glory.”
    He knocked on the post next to the shocking white door and heard the familiar growl of a response. “It’s open.”
    Inside, Hardy’s first reaction was to reach for the light switch, but Glitsky spoke again. “Leave it.” The room wasn’t exactly dark, but with the overheads off and the shades drawn on both windows, it wasn’t exactly light either. “You want to get the door.”
    Hardy did as instructed. “I couldn’t read a damn thing in this light. I don’t know how you do it. It’s got to be tough on the eyes.”
    “What do you want, Diz?”
    Hardy found the wooden chair opposite the desk and lowered himself into it. “Nice door. I love the color.”
    No answer.
    “What’s going on,