He poured coffee for me, too, and slid the mug my way, like a mug of beer on the bar.
‘I figured with your Benz and those, maybe the cops would think we have diplomatic immunity or something,’ he went on.
‘I’m supposing you’ve seen the boots they put on cars up there.’
I sliced a poppyseed bagel, then opened the refrigerator door to take an inventory.
‘I’ve got Swiss, Vermont cheddar, prosciutto.’
I opened another plastic drawer.
‘And Parmesan reggiano — that wouldn’t be very good. No cream cheese. Sorry. But I think I’ve got honey, if you’d rather have that.’
‘What about a Vidalia onion?’ he asked, looking over my shoulder.
‘That I have.’
‘Swiss, prosciutto, and a slice of onion is just what the doctor ordered,’ Marino said happily. ‘Now that’s what I call a breakfast.’
‘No butter,’ I told him. ‘I have to draw the line somewhere so I don’t feel responsible for your sudden death.’
‘Deli mustard would be good,’ he said.
I spread spicy yellow mustard, then added prosciutto and onion with the cheese on top, and by the time the toaster oven had heated up, I was consumed by cravings. I fixed the same concoction for myself and poured my granola back into its tin. We sat at my kitchen table and drank Columbian coffee and ate while sunlight painted the flowers in my yard in vibrant hues, and the sky turned a brilliant blue. We were on I-95 North by nine-thirty, and fought little traffic until Quantico.
As I drove past the exit for the FBI Academy and Marine Corps base, I was tugged by days that no longer were, by memories of my relationship with Benton when it was new, and my anxious pride over Lucy’s accomplishments in a law enforcement agency that remained as much a politically correct all boys club as it had been during the reign of Hoover. Only now, the Bureau’s prejudices and power-mongering were more covert as it marched forward like an army in the night, capturing jurisdictions and credits wherever it could as it pushed closer to becoming the official federal police force of America.
Such realizations had been devastating to me and were largely left unspoken, because I did not want to hurt the individual agent in the field who worked hard and had given his heart to what he believed was a noble calling. I could feel Marino looking at me as he tapped an ash out his window.
‘You know, Doc,’ he said. ‘Maybe you should resign.’
He referred to my long-held position as the consulting forensic pathologist for the Bureau.
‘I know they’re using other medical examiners these days,’ he went on. ‘Bringing them in on cases instead of calling you. Let’s face it, you haven’t been to the Academy in over a year, and that’s not an accident. They don’t want to deal with you because of what they did to Lucy.’
‘I can’t resign,’ I said, ‘because I don’t work for them, Marino. I work for cops who need help with their cases and turn to the Bureau. There’s no way I’ll be the one who quits. And things go in cycles. Directors and attorneys general come and go, and maybe someday things will be better again. Besides, you are still a consultant for them, and they don’t seem to call you, either.’
‘Yo. Well, I guess I feel the same way you do.’
He pitched his cigarette butt and it sailed behind us on the wind of my speeding car.
‘It sucks, don’t it? Going up there and working with good people and drinking beer in the Boardroom. It all gets to me, if you want to know. People hating cops and cops hating ’em back. When I was getting started, old folks, kids, parents — they was happy to see me. I was proud to put on the uniform and shined my shoes every day. Now, after twenty years, I get bricks throwed at me in the projects and citizens don’t even answer if I say good morning. I work my ass off for twenty-six years, and they promote me to captain and put me in charge of the training bureau.’