Never the Crime

by Colin Conway

The phone buzzed again, but this time it continued, letting him know it was a call, not a text.

  Zielinski thought about not answering, but she was persistent. There was a fifty-fifty chance she’d keep calling over and over until he either answered or shut off his phone. He could say what he wanted about Amber, but she would not be ignored.

  He answered the call. Before he could utter a greeting, she snapped, “What the hell, Ray?”

  “I know.”

  “You know? If you know, then why am I looking at a bank transfer that’s short?”

  “Some expenses came up.”

  “How is that my problem? You need to pay me as agreed, or there’ll be consequences.”

  “Jesus, you sound like a loan shark or something.”

  “If I could send some thug to break your legs, I would. Believe me.”

  “Nice. My lawyer might be able to convince the judge that’s a threat you just made.”

  She scoffed. “Your lawyer couldn’t convince the judge that there’s no Santa Claus.”

  Zielinski didn’t argue, mostly because she was right about how lousy his attorney had been. “Look,” he said. “Jody has to get braces. I had to make a down payment to the orthodontist for what the insurance doesn’t cover. That’s why I was short this month.”

  “So once again, the first wife comes first. You know, if that hadn’t been the case the entire time we were married, we’d probably still be together. But you always picked her over me.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Zielinski said, clenching his jaw. “I’m not picking her over you. I’m picking my kid, who needs braces.”

  “Her teeth are fine. Little Miss Priss is just using Jody as a tool. She’s trying to carve more money out of you, like always.”

  And you’re not?

  “I didn’t know you were a dentist now,” Zielinski said.

  “It wouldn’t matter. You always choose her over me.”

  “Like I already said, I’m choosing to pay for my kid’s braces over paying alimoney to a full-grown woman who can work.”

  “I do work!”

  “Ten hours a week? Spare me.”

  “Screw you, Ray. Let’s see how smart you are when I take you back to court. You’ll be paying alimony for another two years or paying that dipshit lawyer the same amount in legal fees to stop it. Either way, it’s money out of your pocket, smart ass.”

  Zielinski suppressed a sigh. “Chill out,” he said. “I’ll get some extra duty work between now and next payday, and I’ll get you the rest of your money, all right? Just cut me some slack for once?”

  “For once? Our entire marriage was me cutting you slack.”

  “Well, then you should be good at it by now.”

  “Go to hell, Ray.”

  “Already there, sister,” Zielinski replied, but halfway through his retort, he heard the click of a severed connection. As usual, she’d hung up on him. Amber was hell on hanging up on people. Him, at least.

  He dropped the phone onto the passenger seat. When he glanced up, he saw a brand-new unmarked police car glide to a stop in front of the target address.

  “The hits just keep on coming,” he grumbled.

  Zielinski pulled the keys from the ignition and exited his patrol car. In no particular hurry, he sauntered toward Officer Gary Stone, who waited at the end of the sidewalk leading to the small house. He was smoothing his tie as Zielinski approached. When he was near, Stone greeted him with a warm grin.

  “How’s it going, Ray?”

  Zielinski grunted and nodded upwards once with his chin. He pointed to Stone’s Impala. “Nice ride. I mean, it’s a little small, but nice. New?”

  Stone shrugged. “I’ve had it about six months.”

  “No, I mean it’s new. This year’s model.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Stone thought for a second. “Or last year’s. I never really thought about it.”

  What an asshole.

  The patrol car Zielinski was driving today was at least eight years old, with plenty of hard miles on it. Based upon his seniority, he was able to grab one of the better vehicles available in the motor pool, but it was still junk compared to Stone’s ride.

  “I like how you parked it,” Zielinski said, barely containing a sneer. “Charlie Bravo style.”

  Stone’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Charlie Bravo?”

  He doesn’t know what they call him. That warmed his heart.

  “Charlie Bravo style is right in front of the target address,” he said to Stone, motioning up the sidewalk.

  “Damn.” Stone at least had the decency to look sheepish. “Thank God I’m not in the probation car, right?”

  Zielinski just stared at him.

  After an awkward moment, Stone raised his eyebrows. “Shall we?”

  Zielinski stepped to the side and waved him forward.

  Stone took the hint and led the way up the sidewalk. Zielinski strode behind him, shaking his head. He’d spent his entire career in patrol and didn’t have much use for any of the cake-eaters outside of the division, except maybe a few detectives. When they weren’t shopping on duty, they at least solved a case or two. Most of them had the sense not to park in front of the house they were contacting.

  “You want to clue me in here?” Zielinski asked as they approached the door. “All dispatch said was to back you on a citizen contact.”

  “Sure,” Stone said, without turning around. He stopped at a ramp leading up to the porch and waited for Zielinski to catch up. Then he said, “Guy’s name is Lyle Bunney. He wrote a letter to a city council member that contained a threat. I need to talk to him and see if he’s a credible danger or not.”

  “So he’s crazy?”

  Stone frowned. “He might have some mental health issues.”

  “Great,” Zielinski groused. “From one crazy right to another one.”

  “Did you just handle a similar call before this?”

  “Something like that.” Zielinski sidestepped the ramp and mounted the steps, taking up a position to the side of the door. “Go ahead and knock.”

  Stone took the ramp to the small porch and stood on the opposite side of the door. Zielinski was glad for that. Any cop who didn’t know not to stand in the fatal funnel directly in front of the door was too dim to safely be around.

  The first two polite knocks Stone gave the door went unanswered. Stone waited patiently with a smile. He turned his hand over and examined his cuticles.

  “What are you doing?” Zielinski asked.

  “What?”

  “I’m not standing around here while you check your manicure.”

  Stone dropped his hand and his smile. “Maybe he’s not home.”

  “Did you schedule an appointment?”

  “What?”

  Zielinski rolled his eyes then pounded loudly on the door with a balled fist. Years of graveyard and power shifts had honed his feel for the right kind of loud to wake the drunks or convince the reluctant that it was time to immediately come to the door, because the cops weren’t going away anytime soon.

  “I’m coming already!” The muffled voice from within sounded agitated. When the door swung open, an angry man in a wheelchair stared out at them. “What do you want?”

  “Good morning, sir,” Stone began, his voice calm, but direct. “Are you Lyle Bunney?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “I’m Officer Gary Stone, Spokane Police. This is Officer Zielinski.”

  Zielinski gave Lyle a nod, his eyes sweeping over the man.

  Lyle Bunney’s eyes had a slightly frantic quality to them, but Zielinski noticed that his hair was combed and he was recently shaven. He was also better dressed than some detectives Zielinski had seen.

  “The hell do you want?” Lyle demanded.

  “Can we talk inside?” Stone asked, his tone genial, but still in control.

  “Here’s just fine.”

  Stone smiled, and he lowe
red his voice slightly. “I figured you might not want the neighbors listening in on your private conversations.”

  Lyle’s scowl softened while he considered. He glanced to the left at the house next door, nodding slowly. “Yeah, okay. You can come inside, but don’t touch anything.”

  Lyle reversed his wheelchair to allow them entry. Zielinski followed Stone inside. He had to give the officer some credit. He’d read into Lyle’s possible paranoia and played on it to get them invited inside the house.

  Zielinski took up a position away from Lyle and off to the side while Stone talked.

  “Mr. Bunney,” Stone said, “do you know why I’m here?”

  “To harass me,” Lyle said. “Or arrest me for no reason and hold me without bail. I know how SPD operates.”

  “I’m not planning to arrest you,” Stone said. “But I am concerned about a letter you wrote to Councilman Hahn.”

  Lyle didn’t reply. He stared at Stone with deep suspicion.

  While the two of them spoke, Zielinski alternated between watching Lyle’s hands and scanning the interior of the home. At first, it struck him as a mess, but as he looked more closely, he determined that while it was cluttered, the house itself was clean. There were no stray dishes in the living room, or discarded clothing. No dog or cat waste, which Zielinski saw—and smelled—all too often. He gazed beyond the living room and into the kitchen, noticing the counters were mostly bare and the sink empty.

  “Stop looking around!” Lyle snapped at Zielinski.

  Zielinski motioned toward Stone. “I’m just standing here.”

  “You can’t look at my stuff without a warrant.”

  “I can’t stand here with my eyes closed, either, pal.” He pointed at Stone. “Mind your business with him. Things will go faster.”

  Lyle glanced back and forth between Zielinski and Stone. “You two trying to trick me?”

  “No, sir,” Stone said, “but we do need to talk about a few things.”

  “So talk!” Lyle lifted his arms and dropped them in frustration.

  Unruffled, Stone began to ask him some general questions.

  Zielinski eyed the clutter more closely. It consisted mostly of newspapers, magazines, and composition notebooks. He picked up one of the notebooks and flipped it open to a random page. The shaky, condensed handwriting revealed Lyle’s thoughts on the connection between the assassinations of both Kennedy brothers and Martin Luther King, Jr. In the short paragraph he read, Zielinski got the sense that it was the CIA who had been responsible in all three cases, using patsies to accomplish their ends. Lyle’s multi-pronged analysis concluded that the remaining Kennedy brother was allowed to live because he forswore running for the presidency.

  Zielinski frowned. Didn’t Ted Kennedy make a run one year? He couldn’t remember. Maybe he was thinking of Gary Hart.

  Lyle spotted him holding the notebook. “I said don’t touch anything!” he yelled, pointing a finger. “That’s a violation, right there. That’s a lawsuit.”

  “Mr. Bunney—” Stone tried to placate him, but Lyle ignored him.

  “I’m suing you!” he shouted at Zielinski.

  “Yeah?” Zielinski said, unmoved. “Well, the line forms to the right.”

  Lyle blinked, not sure what to make of the reply. Even Stone looked at him like he was unsure of how to take Zielinski’s response.

  He put the notebook down and lifted his hands in a there you go gesture to both Lyle and Stone. “All better?”

  Lyle pressed his lips together. “Leave my stuff alone.”

  Zielinski didn’t answer him. Instead, he stood in place and waited for Stone to resume his conversation with the man.

  “Mr. Bunney,” Stone continued, “your letter made some interesting allegations.”

  “They’re not allegations. They’re true.”

  “That may be, but there was one thing that concerned me.”

  Zielinski waited until Lyle was fully engaged with Stone again before he slowly moved around to the other side of the living room. As he passed the coffee table, he noticed several stamped letters stacked there.

  “What concerned me,” Stone said, “was how you ended your letter. Do you remember what you wrote?”

  “I remember everything.”

  Stone pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. “Well, I don’t, so I took a picture of it. You wrote, ‘Stop your terrorist ways, councilman, or I’ll stop them for you. Permanently.’ Do you remember writing that?”

  “I just told you I remember everything. The chem trails haven’t affected me yet. That’s because I stay inside most of the time.”

  “Chem trails?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. They issue you people pills to counteract the effects.”

  “Okay,” Stone said amiably. “But what you wrote, Mr. Bunney, it sounds like a threat. At least, you can see why someone might construe it that way, right?”

  “I wrote that letter to Councilman Dennis Hahn of the fourth city district. It was strictly intended for his eyes only. You’re violating federal law by intercepting private correspondence.”

  “Councilman Hahn gave me the letter, Mr. Bunney. I didn’t intercept it.”

  “So you say.”

  “What you wrote worried the councilman.”

  “It should,” Lyle said.

  Zielinski lifted the sealed envelopes and glanced at the addresses. “There’s one here to the mayor,” he said, thumbing through the small stack. “And two state senators. Oh, and this last one is to the chief of police.”

  “Put those down!” Lyle shouted at him. “You’re touching my stuff!”

  Zielinski let them fall to the coffee table. The thick envelopes thudded against the wood. “Were you going to send these, too, Lyle?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are they stamped?”

  “I can send letters to whoever I want! It’s my first amendment right. Freedom of speech. And freedom of the press.”

  “You’re a journalist?” Zielinski said, doubtful.

  “Yes.”

  Zielinski gave him a skeptical look. “What news outlet?”

  “I’m an independent.”

  “Of course you are,” Zielinski said. For a second, he wondered if he was pushing his luck with this guy. He was clearly a little crazy, but crazy didn’t keep people from calling Internal Affairs. One demeanor complaint hanging over his head was enough.

  “How’s that work?” Stone interjected, drawing Lyle’s attention back to him.

  Lyle stared at him for a moment without answering. Then he said in a low tone, “I have a blog.”

  Stone’s eyebrows went up. “Really? What’s it called?”

  “Piercing the Veil,” Lyle answered, his voice a mixture of pride and irritation.

  “That’s a cool name,” Stone said. “What kind of journalism do you focus on?”

  “The kind that sheds the truth on all the lies in our society today.”

  “Like what?”

  Lyle’s eyes bugged out at Stone. “Like what? There’s literally hundreds.”

  “Which lies are you most concerned with?”

  Lyle proceeded to tell him. Zielinski tuned out the conversation, listening only to the tone of Lyle’s voice to monitor it for danger. He wandered into the kitchen and glanced around, seeing nothing of interest. When he turned to the hallway that led to the back of the house, though, he spotted a rifle leaning against the wall.

  Immediately, a small flare of adrenaline flashed in his stomach. Being crazy with some conspiracy theory issues was one thing. Being crazy with some conspiracy theory issues and a gun was a little different.

  Zielinski made his way to the hallway with his hand on his pistol. After peeking into the bedroom to make sure no one else was there, he picked up the rifle. It was a .22 caliber with a bolt action and open sights. A small clip fed the bullets into the loading assembly. Zielinsk
i pressed the magazine release and removed the mag. Empty. He worked the bolt to check the chamber and found it empty as well.

  Well, he’s not shooting anyone with an empty gun.

  Still, getting bullets and loading the rifle would be easy enough. He wondered if Lyle had it in him. He doubted it. Half the time, the crazy bastard probably forgot it was his gun and thought it was the CIA planting evidence to make him a patsy for the next assassination.

  When he returned to the living room, Lyle was telling Stone about the nefarious purpose of fluoride in the city water.

  “What’s with the gun?” Zielinski interrupted.

  Lyle stopped mid-sentence and turned to look at him. “Are you searching my house?” he asked. “Where’s your warrant?”

  Zielinski ignored him. “He’s got a .22 rifle leaning against the wall in the hallway,” he told Stone. “It isn’t loaded.”

  “You touched my stuff! That’s another violation!” Lyle said. “That’s another charge in my lawsuit.”

  “Good luck with that,” Zielinski said. “You can’t get blood from a turnip.” He glanced at Stone. “Or a stone, for that matter.”

  “You can’t search my house,” Lyle persisted. “I know my rights.”

  “I didn’t search. I saw.”

  “It’s the same thing!”

  “No, it’s not.” Zielinski looked at Stone. “We about done here?”

  Stone frowned at him but shrugged. “I think so.” He turned to Lyle. “Mr. Bunney, you can write all the letters you want—”

  “I know I can. I know my rights.”

  “That’s fine. But what you can’t do is threaten people. Especially public officials. It’s a crime, and you can be charged for doing so.”

  “That sounds like persecution to me.”

  “It’s the law. Now, tell me: what did you mean when you wrote about stopping Councilman Hahn’s terrorist ways permanently?”

  Lyle stared at him, his jaw clenched and working. Stone waited, his expression neutral and open. Zielinski watched them both, feeling his patience slipping.

  Finally, Lyle gritted out his reply. “I meant getting him thrown out of office. Or not reelected.”

  Stone eyed him closely. “How?”

  “Through my blog. And voting.”

  “But not hurting him somehow?”