and twenty feet up the steep, rocky brush-and poison-oak-covered incline. I took a breath as I neared the body, but it didn’t help. After the last ceremony when new officers were sworn, I had taken a couple of the women aside and said, “Berkeley’s a small town. There are going to be times when you roll out and find the corpse of a friend’s mother, or child, or the friend himself. You’re going to feel like shit. But no matter how bad you feel, how justified that is, remember this: Women cops don’t cry. A guy cries, people think that’s a sign he’s human, but if a tear rolls down a woman officer’s cheek, she loses credibility forever.” I stared into fog-dark underbrush and listened to one of the patrol guys up on the deck, talking to Martinez, talking about the DOA, about Kris. “Helluva way to get up in the morning, huh?” “Yeah.” It was Martinez. “Regular Cannonball Run.” “Berkeley Airlines Supersaver!” They both laughed. I would have laughed had I not known Kris.
