Chris Rasmussen stalked the mean streets of Isla Vista. He’d loved this town, but now it seemed soiled to him. There had been a criminal conspiracy underneath its manicured lawns, eating at the roots of the community like a gopher destroys an entire field of grass.
How had he missed it all? Had he been so busy writing jaywalking tickets he had let the real villains go free? Had they been laughing at him all the time?
However it had happened, he could not let it stand. He’d called Lassiter repeatedly, offering his services, but the detective had said the task force was closed and had hung up on him. No doubt Lassiter was busily figuring out a way to pretend these murders had never happened. He was up against forces greater than himself-and he was folding.
Henry Spencer had understood that. Rasmussen saw it all now. The great detective could tell that the fix was in, that when the rich and mighty got involved, the pursuit of justice took a backseat to the protection of power. That’s what he had been trying to tell Rasmussen at Ellen Svaco’s house. That’s why he walked away from the case. Detective Spencer thought he was protecting his new protege.
But Officer Chris Rasmussen neither needed nor wanted protection. He wanted to do his job. His duty. He wanted to see the guilty punished and the innocent protected. That was all that mattered to him.
In a way he was touched by Henry Spencer’s desire to shelter him. He supposed the thought was that if Rasmussen walked away from this, he’d survive to protect and serve another day.
But the law didn’t work like that. You couldn’t simply choose which criminals you’d stop and which you’d let go. Once you started down that path, there was no way back. You weren’t the law anymore. You were just a hired thug with a badge silk-screened on your chest.
Years ago Rasmussen had rousted a bunch of students who were drinking on the beach long after closing. He confiscated their beer, smothered their campfire, and wrote them all tickets. Normally during an encounter like this he expected some mild-mannered abuse. But this time had been different. The kids were polite, even pleasant. And one of them had offered Rasmussen a bit of wisdom he’d treasured ever since: “The law, in its majestic equality, forbids the rich as well as the poor to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal bread.”
That was the way Chris Rasmussen had always enforced the law, and the way he always would. When a crime was committed, it had to be investigated and the guilty punished, no matter who it was. Maybe the Santa Barbara Police Department didn’t work that way. But that wasn’t going to stop Chris Rasmussen. He had his badge and he had his gun, and that was going to be enough.