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Byte told Struk. “Granite is pissy because the only thing he has inside his head is rocks.” He leaned over a little closer to Struk. “It’s why he’s so bad at dressing himself.”
    “Hey! I heard that,” Granite grumbled. “Your prissy candyass can suck my dick.”
    “There you go again,” Byte responded with a roll of his eyes. “It must be hell being so hard up you have to try and weasel sexual favors out of your coworkers.”
    “Bite me,” Granite countered.
    Struk was taking it all in, eyes bouncing back and forth between Byte and Granite as they continued their shenanigans. “Don’t pay them any mind,” Hutch said. “They actually do like each other, I promise.”
    “Are they always like this?”
    “Pretty much. I deal with the stress of the job with this”—he held up his glass—“and they deal with it by bickering. We all have our coping mechanisms.”
    Struk shook his head and seemed to relax a little, a hint of a smile curling his lip. “Guess we know which one I’d choose.” He took a sip of his drink and then set it aside.
    “Play in our sandbox long enough, you’ll need both,” Hutch assured him. “So back to what your buddy said. Did they ever identify any suspects?”
    “They had a couple with the Reed investigation. His boyfriend was at the top of the list and then a neighbor who had been harassing him, but both had iron-clad alibis and were cleared.”
    “I read the reports on both of them. What about with the other two murders? Neither file mentions a suspect?”
    “That’s because there wasn’t any. Zac—that’s my buddy—he said it was common knowledge around the station that they were dealing with a serial killer with the Mitchell murder, had it confirmed with Mayr.”
    “I didn’t find that in any of the reports,” Hutch said and thrummed his fingers against the table. “In fact, not a single mention that any of the murders were even tied together in any way.”
    “Nope, and you won’t either,” Struk said assuredly. “They have the same mentality in Oak Park that we have in Jefferson. No one wants this case, and they just keep their fingers crossed that he dumps his shit in someone else’s yard.”
    “Nice attitude,” Byte grumped.
    “Wait, so you’re saying they knew he was killing in other jurisdictions?” Hutch inquired.
    Struk leaned his elbow on the table, cupping his chin between his thumb and middle finger as he tapped his index finger against his upper lip. “I don’t know. I’m simply comparing the attitudes of their station and mine. With all the cuts, guys are running on fumes as it is. I’m not making an excuse for any of them, but no one wants a serial killer in their backyard, especially a force who is already overworked and underpaid.”
    “That’s what the fucking Feds are for, to pick up the overload on larger cases,” Hutch growled and then pressed the bridge of his nose as a throbbing began in his head. “Sorry, I’m not accusing you. It’s simply a general statement.”
    “No offense taken, and I agree with you,” Struk said easily. “You seem to know everything I do, so I have to ask, why did you ask me to meet you?”
    “I noticed you at the briefing. You were the only one who appeared to be taking the case seriously. I saw the way you flinched each time one of your fellow officers used the word faggot .”
    “I hate that word,” Struk muttered, his face contorting into a look of disgust.
    “And you hate the way they’re dismissing these murders because of who the victims were,” Hutch surmised.
    “Fuck yeah. I became a cop to protect and serve the community—not just a few, but the whole damn community.”
    Hutch leaned back in his chair, swirled the bourbon in his glass, and then drained it as he studied Carson Struk. With his blond hair cut short and tight, clean-shaven face, and muscular build, his looks fit the cop persona, but it was the intensity shining in his blue eyes that made him stand out. He