Split Images

by Elmore Leonard

  "I already got one," Walter said, "the Ayatollah.

  What's his name, Asshollah Khomeini, take that sucker out."

  "Not bad," Robbie said, "but I think we should be a little more realistic. I mean you land at Tehran, but where are you? I think it's got to be someone who's relatively accessible."

  Walter thought some more, smoking, drinking his vodka. He wished he had a beer to go with it.

  He said, "This is fun, you know it?"

  Robbie grinned. "I thought you'd like it."

  "Jesus--Fidel Castro!"

  "You want a challenge, uh?"

  "Slip into Cuba by boat," Walter said, "wait for the sucker to drive by someplace."

  "I think you're into a storybook situation there," Robbie said. "You're right, there're some good ones. Yasir Arafat, the PLO guy. Qaddafi in Libya. I don't know what you might think of Ahmed Yamani." Robbie paused. "No, I guess Yamani's all right."

  Good. Because Walter had never thought one way or the other about Ahmed Yamani in his life.

  Robbie said, "But those are the kinds of names that are done in books and the situations are about as real as the heroes. You know what I mean? The hero's a superstar. Former Green Beret, CIA, KGB double agent, colonel in Army Counter-Intelligence.

  Can speak about seven languages including Urdu and Tamil. Expert with any kind of weapon ever invented and has a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. His hands are lethal weapons, ah, but manicured. You know the kind of guy I mean?"

  "Sure, very cool. Has all these broads around--"

  "But grim," Robbie said. "The serious type."

  Walter was nodding. "Yeah, dedicated. Never looks around--wait a minute, the fuck am I doing here? Like any normal person."

  "That's what I mean," Robbie said. "Looking at it realistically . . . and we put our minds to it, decide to take somebody out . . . who would it be?"

  "Somebody who's a real asshole," Walter said, thinking hard. "In fact this fellow--tell me if I'm wrong, Rob--he's not only a rotten son of a bitch should be put away, he's fucking evil. Hey, and he can be dangerous. You don't just walk in and do him."

  Robbie was nodding. "That's the guy."

  Walter thought some more; he looked up.

  "You got one?"

  "Well . . . I might."

  "Who is it?" Walter waited.

  Robbie smiled. "Not yet."

  "Come on, Rob, you can tell me."

  Robbie said, "I'm not even sure you want to make the move. You've been a cop a long time."

  Walter said, "You kidding? I'll quit today."

  "What about your wife?"

  "She can stay in Florida, get a job wrestling alligators. No--Irene'll be fine. Don't worry about it."

  Robbie nodded. For a moment there was silence.

  Walter said, "Come on, who is it?"

  Robbie said, "Walter, I'm gonna have to insist on a couple of things. First, no more Rob, or Robbie.

  From now on I'm Mr. Daniels. Is that understood?"

  Walter managed to smile. "No problem, Mr.

  Daniels. How's that?"

  "The other thing," Robbie said, "the day you come to work for me you're gonna have to quit smoking."

  BRYAN HURD WATCHED WALTER talking with his hands to his lawyer. They were in the hall outside the courtroom, tenth floor, Detroit City-County Building.

  You could be wrong about him, Bryan thought.

  Or maybe he's changed.

  When Walter saw him he tucked his chin in like a fighter but grinned as he said, "There he is. Bryan, how the hell are you? Lieutenant Hurd now, uh?

  Homicide, getting up in the world. I was just saying to Eddie--Bryan, shake hands with Eddie Jasinski.

  Eddie's representing me in this deal. I was just saying to Eddie, you believe it? Secret Service're standing there, the guy squeezes off six rounds, empties the piece, then, then they're all over him. They all got a hand in there, all want to touch him, tell everybody how they grabbed the guy--what's his name, Hickle?--he's in there somewhere under this pileup, you can't even fucking see him."

  No, he hasn't changed, Bryan thought.

  "Then this other thing, Jesus Christ, the motive, thing with the broad? What's her name, Jodie Foster? Gain her respect and love--I never even heard of her. You can understand the guy wanting to make it with say, you know, Raquel Welch, one of those. I could even understand--no, I'll tell you the broad I'd kill for, Jesus, Norma Zimmer. But doing it for some teenage broad? Guy's got to be out of his fucking mind."

  He hasn't changed a bit, Bryan thought. He was going to ask him who Norma Zimmer was, but Walter's lawyer was taking him aside, getting ready for the hearing.

  Angela Nolan sat in the second row of the nearly empty courtroom, sunlight on pale varnished wood all around her. She began to write in her notebook, underlining key words or when she felt like it.

  Wayne Circuit Court.

  Pretrial evidentiary hearing. A motion by Kouza's lawyer to exclude Kouza's record as STRESS cop. Plaintiff's lawyer wants it in.

  Judge. Robert J. Solner, 50s. Familiar with everyone. Goofs around with lawyers and witness (?). Tells story, lawyers laugh on cue, witness only smiles.

  Defendant. Walter Kouza. Eats Certs like candy.

  Def. Lawyer. Edward Jasinski, 50s. Expression of perpetual disbelief. Or fear.

  Plaintiff. Ms. Jeanette Moore, 40s. Buddha in black dress and turban, white purse.

  Doesn't move or speak.

  Plaintiff's son. Curtis Moore, 20s. Stud.

  Good moves, stage presence. Brother of Darius Moore, deceased--what it's all about.

  Plaintiff's Lawyer. Kenneth Randall, 50s.

  Bill Russell in $500 gray suit, pearl tie. Cultured black cool.

  Witness. Might be a cop. Or another lawyer. Nifty.

  Angela looked up, glanced around. She wondered if Robbie would make an appearance, give his new bodyguard moral support. It wouldn't surprise her; strange things were happening.

  Mr. Randall said, "Your Honor, we gonna be somewhat relaxed today, are we not?"

  Judge Solner said, "What's the matter, you have a hard night?"

  Mr. Randall said, "I hit my knee playing racquetball, Your Honor. Hit it with my own racquet, like a fool."

  Walter Kouza and Edward Jasinski, sitting at the defense table, seemed lost, their heads turning in unison from the judge to Kenneth Randall, and back again, back and forth; spectators.

  Judge Solner said, "Sounds like a good time to get you out on the court."

  Mr. Randall said, "I'll stand up, Your Honor, you want me to. The pain isn't quite unbearable."

  Judge Solner said, "It's all right, stay where you are . . . Mr. Jasinski, this is your motion, I believe."

  "Yes, Your Honor"--rising briskly--"Your Honor, since the Detroit Police STRESS operation ended some eight years ago I see no reason to refer to my client's record as a STRESS officer, as exemplary as it may be, in any way, shape or form during trial proceedings."

  Mr. Randall said, "What Mr. Jasinski means, the city's already paid out five, six million in STRESSrelated damages. STRESS is a bad word and he doesn't want it mentioned front of a jury."

  Mr. Jasinski said, "Your Honor, this case has got nothing to do with STRESS!"

  Mr. Randall said, "Same instability on the part of the police officer is involved. The point I want to make, Your Honor, is that Mr. Walter Kouza, based on his record with STRESS, should never have been allowed on the street. And if he hadn't, my client's baby boy would still be alive."

  Veins stood out in Mr. Jasinski's neck. "The kid was nineteen years old! If he wasn't on probation he was in DeHoCo!"

  Judge Solner said, "Mr. Jasinski, I didn't want you to have a heart attack in my courtroom. Calm down. Mr. Randall, save your act for the jury and tell the court how you want to proceed."

  Mr. Randall said, "I'd like to call a witness, Your Honor, who was on STRESS back at the same time as Mr. Kouza and was also present--in fact it was his investigation--at the time the defendant
shot Darius Moore. I'd like to call Lieutenant Bryan Hurd, Detroit Police Homicide, Squad Five."

  Judge Solner did not say anything for several moments, his gaze not moving from Mr. Randall.

  He said then, "You represent the plaintiff and you're going to ask a police officer to describe the actions of a fellow police officer in a suit against the police department?"

  Mr. Randall said, "Like expert testimony, Your Honor." And seemed to smile.

  "Lieutenant, what was the purpose of the STRESS operation?"

  "To interdict street crime in high-incident areas."

  "Sounds like you're reading it," Mr. Randall said. "So you mingle with the civilians, pretend to be one of us?"

  "That's right," Bryan said.

  "Which suggests to me," Mr. Randall said, "an omnipresent, omniscient police force indistinguishable from the citizenry, ready to stop crime in progress or prevent its occurrence. Was that the lofty aim?"

  Bryan said, "Or hold crime to acceptable limits."

  "Now you sound like General Haig. That what the book says?"

  "There is no book," Bryan said.

  "Give you a gun, send you out to do the best you can, huh? . . . What kind of gun you carry on STRESS?"

  "I carried a Smith and Wesson nine-millimeter."

  "What else?"

  "That's all."

  "Didn't have another one down in your sock?"

  "No."

  "I thought STRESS cops carried two, three guns,"

  Mr. Randall said. "Well, let's see." He looked at his file, open on the table, and said, "Lieutenant, I've got one, two, three . . . four incidents here in which Mr. Walter Kouza fired at fleeing robbery suspects after identifying himself as a police officer, killing all four of them. Tell me something. Why didn't he fire a warning shot?"

  Bryan said, "Because a warning shot can kill someone blocks away, somebody looking out a window."

  Mr. Randall said, "All right. What if you fire straight up in the air?"

  Bryan said, "When the point man fires there's no way for his backup to tell a warning shot from any other kind. They could reach the scene and fire on a suspect who's already surrendered."

  "Sounds very military," Mr. Randall said. "War in the streets. That how you feel about it?"

  "No," Bryan said.

  "I believe you quit STRESS after three months.

  Why was that?"

  "I didn't like it."

  "You're in Homicide now--you telling the court you don't like killing?"

  "I thought it created more problems than it solved."

  "Not to mention lawsuits," Mr. Randall said.

  "What did you think of Walter Kouza as a STRESS officer?"

  Angela Nolan waited. She had underscored black cool in her Kenneth Randall notes and added:

  Showboat, but fun to watch.

  Under Witness she had crossed out the line of notes and written in Lt. Bryan Hurd, as he spelled it for the court reporter. Now she underscored it and added NIFTY again in capital letters. She liked the way he sat straight but relaxed in his slim-cut dark navy suit and did not become indignant. She liked his hair and his bandit mustache, his hair long but not too long, not styled, and the way his mustache curved down and made him seem a little sad.

  She liked the way he looked directly at Walter Kouza as he answered Randall's question.

  "I think he had a tendency to overreact."

  Mr. Randall said, "Yeah, but isn't that the type volunteered for STRESS? All the gunslingers?"

  Mr. Jasinski said, "Your Honor, I object to that."

  Sounding quite angry about it.

  Judge Solner said, "So does the court. Mr. Randall, stand up to examine the witness. Maybe we'll get through this sometime today."

  Pushing himself up with deliberation, his hands flat on the table, Mr. Randall said, "Yes, Your Honor . . . Lieutenant . . . let me see. How many officers did you have in STRESS?"

  "I'm not sure," Bryan said. "Less than a hundred."

  "Out of about five thousand. All volunteers, were they?"

  "That's right."

  "And how many people you boys kill?"

  "Objection!"

  "Let me rephrase that," Mr. Randall said. "How many suspects, directly related to the STRESS operation, suffered mortal wounds? . . . How's that?"

  "I believe twenty-two," Bryan said.

  "How many Walter Kouza kill?"

  "I don't know exactly."

  "We'll allow you to guess."

  "Eight."

  "Eight it is," Mr. Randall said, "but I'm sorry you don't win nothing. Your Honor, twenty-two suspects were killed and Mr. Kouza, alone, accounted for more than a third of them. I believe the court should consider the significance of that proportion and let a jury hear about it." Mr. Randall paused, referred to his notes and looked at Bryan Hurd again. "How many people--strike that. In the death of how many suspects were you directly responsible, lieutenant?"

  "While on STRESS? None."

  "Well, have you killed anybody lately?"

  Yes, Angela Nolan thought. She could see him firing a gun as she might see it in a dream or a movie.

  She saw it again in slow motion, looked at it closely and saw his expression the same as it was now. He fit the role of homicide lieutenant in a filmic way, look and manner adaptable to motion pictures.

  And yet his manner was natural, almost boyish.

  She was surprised then at Bryan Hurd's answer.

  "No, I haven't killed anyone lately."

  "Homicide detective, you haven't had to use your gun?"

  "The shooting's over by the time we get there."

  "How about when you make an arrest--you have your gun out."

  "Sometimes."

  "What I'm getting at," Mr. Randall said, "you use your gun if you have to. Whereas another police officer might use his gun because he likes to. Is that a fair statement?"

  "It sounds fair," Bryan said.

  "So now," Mr. Randall said, "tell us what you saw . . . No, first tell the court how you came to be at the Moore residence that afternoon."

  "A capias had been issued on a suspect in a felony homicide," Bryan said. "He skipped bond . . ."

  "Not Darius Moore or any member of the Moore family."

  "No."

  "The suspect, did he live at that address?" Mr.

  Randall consulted his file. "Seven-twenty-one Glynn Court?"

  "No. The address came from a tip. Someone called it in."

  "Give you his name?"

  "No, it was an anonymous call."

  "So you all mount up and ride out to . . . 721 Glynn Court to arrest this murder suspect. Tell me something," Mr. Randall said. "Mr. Walter Kouza was not with Homicide, was he?"

  "No. He was with MCMU at the time," Bryan said. "Major Crime Mobile Unit. We called them for backup."

  "So how many people you have to make this arrest?"

  "Three from Homicide, four MCMU officers."

  "Feel you had enough troops for the job?"

  Bryan didn't answer. He stared at Mr. Randall, waiting, and Mr. Randall said, "All right, now you're there. Tell us how Mr. Walter Kouza came to shoot Darius Moore, subsequently ending his life."

  "Objection!"

  Judge Solner said to Mr. Jasinski, "Counselor, try to keep it down." He said to the court reporter, a young woman poised over her machine, gazing off, "Helen, strike subsequently ending his life."

  Now Jeanette Moore, the mother of the victim, raised her voice without moving and said, "He died, didn't he? He wasn't cripple by the man he wouldn't have died. I know that much."

  Her son, Curtis Moore, grinned and poked his mom on the sly with his elbow.

  Mr. Randall leaned over to say something to the woman, putting his hand on her shoulder, while the son, Curtis Moore, stared up at the lawyer and began to shift in his seat as though he wanted to say something. Curtis Moore's hair was in tight cornrows; he wore a white T-shirt beneath a black leather jacket trimmed with bright metal studs and the
words Black Demons lettered on the back in red.

  Mr. Randall said, "I'm sorry, Your Honor . . ."

  Curtis Moore said, "They kick in the door."

  Now Mr. Randall had to hobble a few steps to get his hands on Curtis's shoulders.

  Bryan Hurd said, "We knocked several times.

  We could hear movement inside, voices . . ."

  "Look like some gang out on the porch," Curtis Moore said, Mr. Randall squeezing his shoulder blades. "They come dress like some gang, they ought'n to make house calls."

  Beautiful. Angela was smiling as the judge told Mr.

  Randall he'd be held in contempt, bad knee or no bad knee, if he wasn't able to control his clients.

  She saw Bryan Hurd smiling, not giving it much, not enough to show his teeth, but smiling all the same. She saw him looking at her now, as though he were using the smile to bring them together. But as she smiled back she knew this was between the two of them and had nothing to do with anyone else or anything that was said. They continued to look at each other until Mr. Randall asked a question.

  Bryan Hurd said, "I went over to one of the front windows. That was when Walter, Mr. Kouza, kicked in the door."

  "Yeah, then what happened?"

  "Well, we went in."

  "How many of you?"

  "Sergeant Malik, Mr. Kouza and myself."

  "Where were the others, the other four?"

  "On the sides and around in back."

  Mr. Randall said, "It wouldn't seem anyone could slip out, make an escape then."

  Bryan said, "It wouldn't seem anyone could escape from jail, but they do."

  "Got to watch myself with you," Mr. Randall said. "Go on, tell the court what happened then.

  Who was present in the house? You busted the people's door down, now you're in there."

  Bryan nodded toward the plaintiff table. "Mrs.

  Moore was coming down the stairs at the time.

  Curtis was in the living room. Darius was in the dining room, directly behind the living room."

  "What was he doing?"

  "He started--it looked like he was going into the kitchen when Mr. Kouza yelled at him to stop."

  "What did it appear he was doing when you arrived?" Mr. Randall asked. "In fact, the whole family. What were they doing?"

  "I think they were getting ready to have something to eat. There was a pie and a bottle of Pepsi--