Never the Crime

by Colin Conway

  He nodded again.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing much,” Zielinski said slowly.

  “Like what?”

  “I sort of got the mental guy spun up. I’d been there before, so I knew his hot buttons. He pissed me off, so I pushed them.”

  “And Wagner saw you do this?”

  “Just the result.”

  “Why would he file a demeanor complaint?” Such an action was a pretty big deal, in her experience. A formal complaint was a nuclear move for an agency that worked so closely with the police department. The only thing bigger would be to go public.

  “I might have been a little rude with him, too,” Zielinski admitted sourly.

  “Might?”

  He shifted in his seat. “He probably thought so.”

  Hatcher folded her hands. “You don’t need this right now, Ray.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “If Mister Self-Important ends up cooperating and that first complaint is sustained, then a sustained complaint on this new one gets us into progressive discipline territory.”

  “You think I’ll take a rip for this? A day or something?”

  She shook her head. “I think a suspension is a little harsh, but a verbal reprimand for the first complaint becomes a written reprimand in your file for the second complaint. That’s why they call it progressive.”

  “I know.”

  “If you land in some kind of jackpot after that…”

  The same pained expression covered Zielinski’s features. “Boom,” he whispered.

  Hatcher didn’t respond right away. A couple of sustained complaints like the ones Zielinski was facing provided one hell of a springboard. If there was a following offense big enough, the sustained complaints on his record could mean the difference between a thirty-day suspension and being fired. She didn’t want anything like that to happen to Zielinski. He was a good cop.

  “Ray, what’s going on with you?”

  “It’s…all the stuff I told you about before.”

  “I get it,” Hatcher said, trying to strike a balance in her tone somewhere between firm and sympathetic. “But you’re a good officer. You’ve got to put these distractions aside when you’re on the clock.”

  “I know.”

  “Get your head back in the game.”

  “Okay, Sarge. I will.” He dipped his chin in assent. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  As much as getting a complaint sucked for him, Hatcher knew that knowing was better than it being a surprise from IA. She gave him a long look. “What can I do to help you with the outside stuff?”

  Zielinski thought about it, then shrugged. “Nothing I can think of. I need to keep working the extra gigs until Amber’s alimony ends. Then I can cut back a little.”

  “I think that’d be good for you.”

  “Yeah, as long as I don’t spend the time drinking instead,” he said.

  “Is that something I should worry about?” Hatcher asked.

  “No.”

  “All right, then.” She waited a moment, then said, “If there’s nothing else—”

  Zielinski opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

  “What?” Hatcher asked. “Is there another complaint coming?”

  Zielinski looked pained but shook his head. “No, Cap. Just something else that’s bothering me.”

  “What is it?”

  “Tyler Garrett.”

  Hatcher sat back, slightly surprised. “He’s still on power shift.”

  “I know.”

  “What does he have to do with you?”

  “I worked with him…when everything happened.”

  Hatcher nodded. She’d been the north side evening lieutenant at the time, but she had watched the events unfold from afar. “You think the department is trying to do you over like the city tried with Garrett?”

  Zielinski clenched his jaw. “No, no, I’m not saying that.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’m…I’m not so sure about Garrett anymore and it bothers me.”

  Hatcher thought about his words. Garrett had never been on any of her teams when she was a sergeant, and she didn’t recall him being on her shifts when she’d served as a patrol lieutenant, either. But now she was the patrol captain, and everyone in a uniform was her responsibility now.

  “Ray,” she began carefully, “I think you’ve got more than enough on your own plate right now. Probably too much. Worrying about a fellow officer is admirable, but I think you should focus on your own situation. Let me take care of Garrett.”

  His face twisted into barely disguised anger, but he said nothing.

  “You okay? You look upset.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m good.”

  “I’ll check on him for you,” Hatcher promised. “He’s a good officer, and seems to have bounced back well, but I’ll make sure he’s fine. What is it that made you so concerned?”

  Zielinski swallowed hard, his expression still dark. He gave his head a short shake. “Just worried,” he grunted out.

  Hatcher took that with a grain of salt. The gold bars on her collar sometimes kept even her longtime troops at a distance. Zielinski obviously felt more loyalty to Garrett than to her at the moment. It made sense, even though she felt a bittersweet pang of sadness when she realized what had just happened.

  “I’ll check on him,” she repeated. “But promise me you’ll put a muzzle on the smart remarks, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” came Zielinski’s clipped answer.

  He’s definitely mad. Hatcher didn’t let it bother her. Sometimes people had to hear hard truths, and they didn’t necessarily like it. He would feel differently about it later.

  “Okay,” she said. “That’s all I had to say. You?”

  Zielinski shook his head. Then he stood and opened the door to leave.

  “Ray?”

  He stopped in the doorway and looked over his shoulder at her.

  “Stay safe, all right?”

  “Thank you, Captain,” he said stiffly, then left her office, striding purposefully away.

  Hatcher listened to his footfalls for a few seconds. She was glad he was on his weekend. A couple of days to clear his head, and then a Sunday shift for his first day back, which was usually slow, was exactly what he needed to get his feet under him.

  That is, unless he works extra duty details all weekend.

  She let out a small sigh, then turned back to her notes.

  CHAPTER 31

  Clint didn’t like being summoned. It smacked of the power imbalance he’d endured his entire career. Not to mention what his people had suffered for four hundred years. The fact it was Captain Tom Farrell who did the summoning did little to assuage his annoyance.

  He lurched his patrol car to a stop in the deserted parking lot of the Spokane Arena, his driver’s window beside Farrell’s, a classic police roadside position. “What is it?” he demanded. “You pulled me off a follow-up interview I was headed toward.”

  “About Garrett?” Farrell asked.

  “No, Captain. I’m carrying a caseload, too, or did you forget that?”

  “I’m well aware. I was just asking.”

  Clint thought about pointing out the disparity between how many cases he had versus his colleagues but didn’t. For one thing, he hadn’t seen a new file that morning, which was rare. Plus, Marty Hill was back on light duty, making phone calls with his busted knee propped up off to the side of his desk, and that helped. But mostly, he kept this gripe to himself because despite everything, he believed in the chain of command, and right now his case load disparity was between him and Lieutenant Flowers. The Garrett situation was a special one, though, and that one was between him and Farrell, because they were about the only two people who knew the truth.

  “Can we make this quick?” he asked pointedly.

  “Sure.” Farrell gave him a long look. “You look a little ragged,
Wardell. Everything okay?”

  “Ragged? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Farrell pointed at Clint’s hair. “You usually keep a tight cut. It’s getting a little shaggy. And there’s a stain on your collar. Is that barbecue sauce?”

  Clint stared at him, grinding his teeth.

  My hair? A spot of sauce on my shirt? Is this motherfucker serious?

  “I’m fine, Captain,” he gritted out between clenched teeth.

  Farrell eyed him for another few seconds, then let out a small sigh. “I want to be sure you’re okay, that’s all.”

  “I haven’t been okay since you happy assholes decided that since I’m black, I should shadow Garrett’s shooting. That’s what landed me in the middle of this mess. So spare me the concerned leader bit, Captain. Let’s do our business so I can get back to mine.”

  Irritation flickered across Farrell’s face.

  Oh, you think you’re pissed? How many hours of sleep you getting most nights?

  “Fine,” Farrell said. “What’s going on with Garrett?”

  “Not a damn thing worth reporting, or I would have come to your office on my own,” Clint said.

  “He seems fine to you?”

  “That’s the image he wants to present, so that’s what everybody sees. And everyone seems to be buying it.” Clint thought for a moment, then added, “Except maybe for his wife. She seems to have him figured out.”

  “They’re still separated?”

  “Near as I can tell. He has the kids often enough, but the pickups and drop-offs I’ve seen all happen at the front door. He stays outside, and she looks about as cold as a woman can get. I don’t think he’ll be charming his way back into that house. She’s a smart woman.”

  “Maybe she knows something we can use.”

  “I’m sure she does,” Clint says, “but there’s no way she’s going to tell me or anyone else about it.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Not a chance. She knows or suspects enough to kick his ass to the curb, but she isn’t going to give him up to the police. She’s got kids to think about.”

  “I thought she worked.”

  “She does,” Clint said. He knew all about Angela Garrett’s career, but none of it was relevant to this conversation. Instead, he explained, “Do you really think any mother is going to give up on the child support and the medical and dental that comes with Garrett’s job? If I’m her, I’m wondering what good it does me to send the father of my children to prison and cut off the supply line to those kids. The answer is no good whatsoever.”

  “Except that it’s the right thing to do.”

  Clint scoffed. “Right for who?”

  “So there’s nothing.” Farrell frowned. “He’s being a perfect citizen and model cop?”

  “I didn’t say that. He’s got a couple of chips I’m sure he’s banging, but since he’s separated, and I’m not the morality police, I didn’t see fit to report that.”

  “You know,” Farrell mused quietly, “we might have enough already.”

  “To arrest him?” Disbelief was pasted across Clint’s face.

  “There’s enough,” Farrell persisted. “Think about it. We’ve got two scenes. They’re both connected to Garrett.”

  “We went over this when it happened, Captain. It’s too weak.”

  “An eyeball witness puts him at the Ocampo homicide.”

  “An elderly eyewitness,” Clint corrected. “I doubt she’s gotten more convincing in the last twenty-one months.”

  Farrell ignored him and continued. “There were witnesses at Talbott’s shooting that saw a black male, and Garrett’s buddy lives right there.”

  “Derek Tillman,” Clint said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Problem is, none of them identified Garrett as the male. And even if it was Garrett, the way they described it, he acted in self-defense.”

  “But Tillman—”

  “Isn’t saying shit,” Clint snapped. “He’s Garrett’s boy, and that’s that.”

  Farrell sighed. “It’s still evidence.”

  “You’re right. But most of it is circumstantial, and it’s weak. It goes toward probable cause, but it’s not enough.”

  Farrell muttered a curse in frustration.

  Clint scratched the stubble on his cheek. “There is one thing we’ve got going for us, though.” He glanced at Farrell, whose expression turned hopeful. “The bullet comparison. That could link the scenes.”

  Farrell shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “We know Garrett killed Ocampo and his crew, right? And we know he shot Talbott. If we can match the bullets from both scenes to the same gun, it ties it all together. You see it?”

  Farrell thought about it, nodding excitedly. “That’s great. It proves it was Garrett.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But it’s physical evidence, which doesn’t lie. And it adds to all the circumstantial evidence we already have. You have to ask yourself, what are the chances that all of this is a coincidence? The shooting outside Garrett’s buddy’s apartment, with a black male being described as the other party, along with an eyewitness identifying Garrett at the scene where the same gun was used in a murder?” Clint shook his head. “The sheer weight of the coincidence tips the scales.”

  “Sounds like probable cause to me.”

  “If the bullets match, I agree. Not enough to convict, but probable cause. If the ballistics line up.”

  Farrell knitted his brow. “Do they?”

  “I don’t know. Ocampo was Marty Hill’s case, and the Talbott shooting was investigated by Liberty Lake, with help from the State Patrol. I’m not sure if the lab results on the ballistics are back yet in either case, or if anyone has requested a comparison.”

  “Well, find out.”

  Clint clenched his jaw. “Sure, Captain. I’ll just go raid another detective’s case file. Then I’ll drive over to Liberty Lake, break into their police station, and do the same. And when they ask why, I’ll tell them I’ve been running a secret investigation along with my captain for the past twenty-one months. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Maybe you can use some of your captain magic to get some information for once.”

  Farrell’s expression darkened. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

  “I’m sure I will. I always do.”

  Farrell ignored the dig. “While we wait on that, keep on Garrett, even if there’s nothing happening there.”

  Clint unclenched his jaw, working the muscles for a moment. Then he looked directly at Farrell. “The biggest development with Garrett is that I’m pretty sure he knows he’s being followed.”

  Farrell looked alarmed. “He’s seen you?”

  “I don’t know for certain. It’s nothing I can prove, just a sense I have.”

  “Goddamn it,” Farrell muttered. “That’s probably why he’s been flying so straight.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he’s clever and is taking no chances. It’s not like he needs money. He got the settlement from the city, and this job pays well enough.”

  “What about his visit with Gary Stone?” Farrell asked. “Did you see that?”

  Clint’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you know about that?”

  “Then you saw it?”

  Clint nodded slowly, his mind whirring. Did the captain have a source he wasn’t sharing? Since the Garrett incident, he’d always believed he could trust Farrell, if for no other reason than if one of them went down, they both did. Did he need to reconsider? “He stopped by Stone’s house for about fifteen minutes last night. How did you know about it?”

  “The chief told me earlier today,” Farrell said. “Stone told him about it this morning.”

  “Huh,” Clint grunted noncommittally.

  “According to Stone, Garrett was there to talk about the suicide call he’d been on right before that. Sevente
en-year-old—”

  “Bethany Rabe,” Clint said. “I know. I was on him that night. So?”

  “So Garrett was following up with Stone.”

  “What does Stone have to do with it?”

  “Rabe was connected to city hall.” Farrell spread his hands. “What do you think Garrett is up to? Why is he doing follow-up that a detective should be doing?”

  “I have no idea, but he’s got an angle, believe me.”

  Farrell tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “We can’t take a direct approach and just have his sergeant ask him about it. Then he’d know we’re watching him.”

  “If he doesn’t already,” Clint said.

  And don’t you mean he’d know I’m watching him?

  “We’ve got to find a way to hem him in,” Farrell said. “Narrow his field.”

  Clint grunted. He wished there was a way to do that, but if there was, he didn’t see it.

  “The patrol captain mentioned an idea to me a few days ago. I’d like your take on it.”

  He sat perfectly still, staring at the captain.

  Farrell cleared his throat. “It’s sort of a street crimes unit. A couple of small strike teams drawn from patrol. They wouldn’t be responding to radio calls but targeting prolific offenders.”

  Clint continued staring, saying nothing.

  “They might have a detective attached, too. You know, to work up search warrants, do follow-up, that sort of thing.”

  Clint stared.

  “What do you think?” Farrell asked.

  “I think it’s a typical brass idea.”

  “Typical?”

  “As in stupid.”

  Farrell leaned back. “What’s stupid about it? It’s not like it’s a brand-new concept. Agencies all over the country do it.”

  Clint shook his head. People used to joke about the department dishing out lobotomies at promotions to go along with the gold bars, and he was starting to think they had a point. “Do you people ever pay attention to history?” he asked. “All kinds of departments put out little units like what you’re describing and they get great results, for a little while. Then you know what they get?”

  Farrell shook his head. “What?”

  “They get Rampart scandal. Or the Chicago SOS mess. First, it’s planted evidence, phantom informants, and bullshit reports. Before long, you get people beat, stolen money, cops turning into criminals. All kinds of noble cause corruption, every time.”