Croaker: Grave Sins (Fey Croaker Book 2)

by Paul Bishop

“Just turn the television on.”

  Fey hung up and turned to Ash. “Television?” she asked.

  Ash knew better than to ask why she wanted to turn the television on. Clearly there was something afoot – something not good.

  Ash reached out a hand and twitched open a cupboard door. Mounted in on a shelf inside was a thirteen inch color portable with a built-in VCR. He pushed the power button.

  “Any specific channel?” he asked.

  “Seven,” Fey told him succinctly.

  Ash picked up the TV remote and punched in the appropriate number. The screen flashed and the face of Devon Wyatt sprung into view.

  The set-up was a press conference in front of the Los Angeles downtown courthouse. A short set of stairs lead down from the sidewalk of Temple Street to a leveled perimeter that surrounds the courthouse like a moat. The first floor walls of the courthouse were smoked-glass with matching doors. The effect added emphasis to any proclamation made in front of them.

  “Where did you get the tape from?” An off-screen reporter shouted a question.

  Surrounded by microphones and faceless bodies, Devon Wyatt’s expression was particularly somber. “It doesn’t matter where the tape came from,” he said, speaking sonorously. “What matters is the fact that my client, Mr. JoJo Cullen, is being held without bail on murder charges that the police themselves do not believe are valid.”

  “What the hell is he talking about?” Fey asked without expecting an answer. “What tape?”

  “Detective Fey Croaker was the homicide detective who was initially assigned to investigate the cases in which my client is accused in. She was there when JoJo was arrested. She was the first detective to speak to JoJo – without reading him his rights, I might add – on the night he was arrested.”

  “I didn’t have to read him his rights,” Fey almost shouted. “I never got to the point of asking him any questions. He was a basket case.”

  “Calm down,” Ash told her. “Listen.”

  “Detective Croaker was removed from the case when it was taken over by the heavy handed thugs from the LAPD’s Robbery/Homicide Division, but she is currently working with the FBI in an effort to find the real killer and then cover-up the mistakes she made in the investigation that led to JoJo’s arrest.”

  “What!” Fey was beside herself.

  “I am demanding a full investigation of this situation as well as the immediate release of JoJo Cullen, until the police can prove beyond a doubt that there has been no cover-up of evidence.”

  The scene on the screen changed from the court house to the inside of a newsroom. Two morning news anchors, a man and a woman for political correctness, took over the dialogue.

  The camera focused in on the male talking head. “That was Devon Wyatt, lawyer for JoJo Cullen, earlier today being asked about the significance of a tape he released to the news media last night.”

  “What do you think of the tape, Jim?” the female talking head asked as the camera pulled back to include her in the shot.

  “Well, Linda,” the male’s tone was almost condescending. “I think that’s up to our viewers to decide. And I think we’re ready to play excerpts for them now.”

  Anchor Jim looked away from anchor Linda and directly back into the camera. “What you are about to hear are excerpts of an alleged,” good old Jim emphasized the word alleged in the interest of fairness, “taped conversation between LAPD detective Fey Croaker, the detective initially in-charge of the JoJo Cullen case, and a psychiatrist. This station, of course, cannot vouch for the authenticity of this tape, nor for the dubious morality of it being distributed to the media if indeed it is authentic. However, we believe the public has a right to be kept fully up to date on this startling turn of events.

  Fey felt herself go cold. Fey the blood drain away from her brain.

  The screen changed again to be filled with a still drawing of an audio tape recorder with a microphone attached. Printed words scrolled across the center of the screen, so viewers could confirm what they were hearing by reading the words as well.

  “Because I don’t think JoJo did it.” Fey’s disembodied voice came through the television’s speakers. “There’s more to this case than meets the eye.”

  Listening to her voice go on to explain the various theories she and Ash were considering in the case, Fey almost passed out.

  “Fey!” Ash cried out, catching her as she began to slump toward the floor.

  He lowered her gently and then knelt beside her. Sitting on the floor, Fey drew up her legs up to her chest and hugged them to her. She was crying – anger and pain flowing through her. She felt raped, violated.

  “The prick,” she said, her voice thick.

  “I don’t understand,” Ash said.

  “The tape.” Fey wave an arm around in frustration. “It’s from a session with my shrink. It’s a privileged communication. How can anybody do this?”

  Fey’s cellular phone chirped again. It continued to chirp until Ash reached over and answered it.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Who the hell is this?” The voice on the other end of the line was mightily agitated.

  “Boo”

  “Boo who?”

  “Well, you don’t have to cry about it.”

  “Quit screwing me around. Let me talk to Croaker.”

  Ash was about to tell the voice on the other end of the line to go to hell, but Fey reached out and took the phone from him.

  “Mike?” she asked into the mouthpiece. She was pretty sure she recognized the voice of her lieutenant blasting out of the receiver.

  “Fey?”

  “Yeah.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know, Mike. I swear.”

  “Get your ass down to the station, now!” Mike Cahill demanded. “We’ve got a boat load of trouble.”

  The situation outside West Los Angeles Area station was bad. News trucks had been forced to use the west side courthouse plaza, a block away from the station, as a staging area as they couldn’t get any closer.

  The station was located on Butler Avenue, five hundred yards south of busy Santa Monica Boulevard and five blocks west of the 405 Freeway. As Fey and Ash pulled off the freeway and drove down Santa Monica Boulevard, they got the first inkling of the trouble Mike Cahill had been talking about. There were people everywhere. Most of the people were black, but there was a considerable number of younger white faces from the local university mixed in. Whether they were there as part of the protest, or just to observe and cause further trouble was hard to say.

  There was a lot of unintelligible chanting going on and placards demanding the release of JoJo Cullen were sprinkled liberally through the crowd. Other placards were emblazoned with REMEMBER RODNEY KING! and the fear riot related NO JUSTICE – NO PEACE!

  Neither Fey nor Ash spoke. Fey was driving, and she took her right hand off the steering wheel for long enough to flip down the flashing red windshield light and activate the siren. Almost daring someone to step into their path, Fey drove forward toward the Butler Avenue turning.

  A half-dozen young, uniformed cops manned a road block at Butler and Santa Monica. Plastic fifty-gallon drums filled with water acted as a barrier between the cops and the demonstrating public. Two of the uniforms, including full riot gear, rolled barrels out of the way to let Fey and Ash drive through.

  “Flashbacks to ninety-two,” Ash said, referring to the days of rage in Los Angeles that had broken out in response to the Not Guilty verdict at the first trial of the officers accused of beating Rodney King.

  “I hope not,” Fey said. “This looks more staged than anything.”

  “It could still get out of hand,” Ash said. “Become a flash point.”

  There were several news crews that had been allowed to set up in front of the station. Fey and Ash parked in the official lot and avoided the media by entering the station’s back door.

  Upstairs in the detective squad room, Fey and Ash went
directly to Mike Cahill’s office. Inside, there was a crush of top brass including the Chief of Police – a man large enough to fill the office all by himself.

  Everyone was staring at a television to one side of Mike Cahill’s desk. Reverend Aloysius Brown was holding forth, surrounded by a flock of reporters in front and a gaggle of demonstrators behind him.

  “We are calling for peaceful demonstration,” Brown was saying. “But this blatantly racial action on the part of the police department cannot be allowed to go unchecked. JoJo Cullen is a black man falsely accused. If he was white he would never have been arrested in the first place. We are demanding he be allowed bail until these other avenues of investigation are completely brought out into the open.”

  “Is he trying to start the riots all over again?” Mike Cahill asked.

  “I’m sure he’d be delighted if that happened,” Fey said, and everyone in the office turned to look at her.

  “Detective Croaker,” the Chief said, acknowledging her.

  “This is Special Agent Ash from the FBI,” Fey made introductions. Nobody shook hands.

  “Where did this tape come from? Is it legitimate?” Mike Cahill cut directly to the heart of the matter.

  Fey took a deep breath. “Yes, it is legitimate. It is a tape of a session with my psychiatrist. It’s a privileged communication between doctor and patient.”

  “You didn’t tell anybody you were seeing a shrink.”

  “I didn’t think it was anybody’s business,” Fey said.

  “Well, it sure as hell is now,” Cahill said.

  “What about all these theories that JoJo Cullen isn’t guilty?” This question came from the Chief.

  “They are exactly that, theories, avenues of investigation to explore,” Fey told him. “They were not for public consumption.”

  “What about the stuff about you and your brother?”

  It took fey a moment to realize what Mike Cahill was asking about. “You mean that’s been released as well?” The impact on Fey was almost devastating.

  “Is he involved in putting on raves?”

  “His actions have nothing to do with me.”

  “He certainly does,” Cahill said, “especially when you use him as a source.”

  Fey didn’t respond.

  The Chief spoke up. “We have to diffuse this problem before it gets out of hand. The easiest way will be to arrange for JoJo Cullen to be released on bail.”

  “You can’t do that, Chief,” Mike Cahill said. Other voices in the room agreed. “If we look like we’re giving in, these people will be all over us again next time they want something.”

  “They will be all over us next time whether we give them what they want this time or not.”

  “JoJo Cullen is still the prime suspect in this case. The evidence is overwhelming.” Mike Cullen was one step away from pulling his hair out. “If JoJo Cullen is released on bail, based on the delusions of one renegade detective, then we are betraying all of the detectives that have worked so hard to put this case together.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant,” Fey said sarcastically. “I appreciate you’re backing Robbery/Homicide over your own people.”

  “It’s gone way beyond who I back,” Cahill shot his mouth at her. “Our whole system is going to be on trial here. We will be seen as weak.”

  “Is JoJo Cullen innocent?” Everyone’s eyes shifted back to the Chief. He was standing with his legs spread wide, supporting his bulk. The small eyes in his full round face were filled with a politician’s street smarts. It was clear his question was directed to Fey.

  Fey didn’t falter. “Yes.” Batten down the hatches. Full speed ahead.

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “If Cullen isn’t guilty, who is?”

  “I don’t know,” Fey paused, “yet.”

  The Chief was a man who had been brought in to do a job. He was looked at as a hired gun from outside the department – a stopgap measure to appease a racially inflamed public at the time he was hired. He might control the LAPD, but...

  Still, he’d been a cop for a long time. Somewhere in his brain a cop’s instincts moved like a panther in the night.

  Sometimes you have to gamble. There was no way around it. Sometimes you had to go out on a limb.

  “Get me the District Attorney,” he said to his adjutant. There was a flurry of activity as the man started dialing a cellular phone and talking low and rapid.

  The Chief brought his focus back to Fey. “Twenty-four hours, Detective Croaker,” he told her. “Bring me a killer. If you don’t, I’m going to run your ass up the City Hall flag pole and let the hyenas tear you to pieces.”

  Chapter 55

  “Twenty-four hours?” Brindle Jones scoffed. “The chief must be off his head. We thought Cahill was crazy when he gave you a week to crack the case the first time around.”

  “We beat the deadline the first time around, we’ll beat it this time around,” Fey said more calmly than she felt. She was well aware that she couldn’t let her crew see she felt like panicking.

  The station had been in such an uproar with the demonstration outside, that there was no way to get any work done. The department had been placed on a tactical alert that appeared headed for a full scale mobilization.

  Once mobilized, all detectives would be trading in their suits and ties for uniforms, and hitting the streets with the regular patrol guys. Twelve hour shifts would be initiated and specially trained mobile field force units would be unleashed.

  After the chief’s ultimatum, Fey had walked out of the lieutenant’s office to find her regular crew waiting for her. Their presence was enough to show their willingness to help.

  Fey looked around at all the hustle and bustle. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, “before it really hits the fan.”

  Everyone had grabbed jackets and guns and trailed after her. Following each other in cars, the unit exited through the roadblock at the end of the intersection of Butler and Ohio thinking it would be less problems than exiting through the busier Santa Monica Boulevard and Butler intersection. They were right, but several rocks and bottles still bounce off their car roofs.

  Once away from the station, Fey led the procession to the Gunnery, a local cop watering hole. Once inside, the unit pushed two back tables together and sat down for a briefing session.

  Hammer and Nails sat together at one end of the tables. Next to them Fey could see that Brindle and Alphabet had appeared to form an unlikely partnership. Monk Lawson was on his own, but as he was running the unit in Fey’s absence that was probably the correct thing.

  “They’re going to give JoJo bail,” Hammersmith said. “It’s inevitable.”

  “No way,” said Alphabet.

  “Don’t fool yourself,” Hammersmith responded. “The chief is going to bend over backwards on this thing. If he was going to make a stand, he’d have done so by now.”

  “He’s already showed his true colors,” Brindle said. “No pun intended. He should have made a major statement by now backing Fey and denouncing Devon Wyatt for releasing that tape.”

  “I don’t know what the hell this department is coming to,” Alphabet said. “The top brass has turned into a bunch of wimps. We don’t back our people anymore. We don’t stand up for what’s right, just what’s politically correct.”

  “It’s okay,” Fey said, wanting to calm everyone down and get back on track. It wasn’t okay, but the release of the tape was something she was going to have to learn to live with. Everyone would now know she was going to a shrink. Well, screw them if they couldn’t handle it.

  “We’ve got to do what we do best, and we’ve got to do it fast,” Fey told her people.

  Several non-cop customers entered the Gunnery, but Harry Cross – the bartender, cook, owner – chased them out. A retired cop himself, he knew an important strategy session when he saw one.

  “Let’s clear the decks right away, and lay it out that JoJo is innocent,” Fey
said.

  “If he’s guilty, and I’m still not convinced he isn’t,” Monk Lawson said, “we’re really up the creek without a paddle.”

  “Let’s not even consider it,” Fey said. “If JoJo is innocent, then somebody set him up but good. Any ideas?”

  “Rival team?” Alphabet suggested.

  “Get real,” Brindle told him, not unkindly. “Maybe a rival team sets him up for gambling on games, playing with the point spread. They wouldn’t go around murdering kids.”

  “How about a crazy?” Monk put in. “A stalker. Somebody who is obsessed with JoJo’s celebrity.”

  Ash turned a hard-backed chair around and straddled it. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Stalkers want something from their victims – love, understanding, adulation. They attack the victims of their obsession directly not indirectly.”

  “Doesn’t leave much, does it?” Rhonda Lawless said.

  Hammersmith had been thinking. “JoJo didn’t seem to have any kind of a life outside of playing basketball and the orphanage where he lived. His sex life revolved around one night stands with street kids, which would indicate he had no steady bedmate. His whole psychology appears to isolate him from relationships.”

  “What’s you point?” Fey asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Hammersmith told her. “I’m just talking this through. What are the reasons for framing somebody?” He looked over at his partner.

  “Profit or revenge,” Rhonda said, seeming to be on Hammer’s wavelength as always.

  “Okay,” Fey said, also picking up on the thought. “Let’s take profit. Who would gain by having JoJo arrested for murder?”

  “Every other team in the NBA?” Alphabet said. “Which was my original point.”

  “The same argument holds,” Brindle told him. “If it was somebody in the league trying to get rid of him, there are easier ways of doing it.”

  Alphabet shrugged, but didn’t argue.

  “Anybody else?” Fey asked.

  “Devon Wyatt is going to make a mint off of this case,” Monk said.

  Everyone laughed.

  “He sure is,” Fey said. “But somehow I think his year-end profits would still be astronomical with or without this case.”