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“That symbolism, as you call it,” Carlucci snapped, “would make Payne a lightning rod. And make cops in general targets. It sends the wrong message.”
“If you’re worried about Payne,” Finley went on, “give him some desk job in your administration. Make him City Inspections Czar or something. I don’t know. Anything harmless so that you can just tell the people of this city—and beyond—that he no longer carries a badge and gun.”
The room was silent for a long moment.
“What about DPR, Mr. Mayor?” Edward Stein then said.
“DPR!” Carlucci blurted. “That’s purgatory.”
“What’s DPR?” Finley said. “Purgatory sounds to me like it would work great.”
“Differential Police Response Unit,” Stein provided. “When police officers get involved in an OIS—or some other possible infraction—they’re sent to DPR temporarily and assigned a desk. They’re kept busy with administrative duties, mostly monitoring surveillance cameras, answering anonymous callers who are reporting drug activity, handling four-one-one calls, and sending the important ones to the nine-one-one call center. Those who are deemed unfit to walk a beat get sent there permanently, hoping that they get the message and quit the department.”
“No way in hell, so to speak, would Payne put up with that transfer,” Carlucci said. “He would quit first.”
Carlucci saw Finley’s eyes widen.
“Then problem solved!” Finley said. “It’s win-win.”
Carlucci appeared to be taking great pains not to really lose his temper.
“For the record, Mr. Mayor,” Stein said, hoping to calm the waters, “I simply was suggesting he go there temporarily. Since it’s more or less general knowledge that most officers involved in an OIS get parked there while Internal Affairs and the DA’s office review their shooting, it would make perfect sense that that’s where he’s been put. Both realistically and symbolically.”
“Let’s get something clear,” Carlucci said icily. “You want some symbolic act, find another one. Payne is off-limits.”
The large black multiline telephone on Carlucci’s desk began to ring. Carlucci’s eyes automatically went to the screen on it, and he saw that the caller ID read LANE, WILLIAM MOBILE.
“Hold on,” Carlucci said, then snapped up the receiver.
“Yeah, Willie? You get my message? We’ve got a bit of a problem, to put it mildly.”
Stein and Finley watched closely as Carlucci, hunched over his desk and anxiously rubbing his forehead, listened to the president of the city council for a moment.
Then they saw Carlucci immediately sit upright and look between the two of them.
Finley thought he detected a slight grin—but then it was gone.
“Hold one, Willie, I’m going to put you on speakerphone,” Carlucci said, then stabbed a button on the desktop phone with his index finger, and dropped the receiver back in its place.
“Mr. Mayor?” William G. Lane’s gravelly voice came across the speaker.
“Yeah, I’m still here, Willie. As are Edward Stein, Esquire, and Mr. James Finley. I trust you’ve made their acquaintance.”
“Yes, Mr. Mayor. How are you, Ed? James?”
“Hi, Willie,” Stein and Finley said almost in unison, and in a monotone.
“How can I be of service?” Lane said.
“Willie,” Carlucci said, “James just now said that considering the situation we find ourselves in, some real sacrifice needs to happen to calm our citizens. And Ed concurs.”
“I can understand that, Mr. Mayor,” Lane said.
Carlucci saw that Finley’s expression suddenly visibly brightened.
“And—” Finley began.
“Some sort of symbolic act, James said,” Carlucci interrupted. “And I’m very much in agreement.”
