Never the Crime

by Colin Conway

  In a way, he was glad for the restriction. Darla was a smart woman, and she knew way more about a lot of things than he did. Politics, policing, guns, and football were all subjects in which he was the master and she the student. Everything else, it was her. He enjoyed learning new things from their conversations, and even the casual ones like during their picnic were revelatory for him.

  Now, sitting on his deck with a cold beer in his hand while Darla napped on the couch, he was about ready to call this a perfect day. There was more to come, he imagined, but it had already been outstanding.

  So why was he thinking about Mayor Sikes? And Councilman Hahn?

  Why was he wondering how Gary Stone was doing, or what Officer Garrett was up to?

  He almost called Tom Farrell. He reached for his department phone but stopped himself.

  It’s a perfect day.

  Don’t fuck it up.

  Gary Stone sat alone in his house. The TV was off, and his computer was powered down. There was no music playing. Reading a book held no interest to him.

  Instead, he silently sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the picture on the wall. He’d taken the photograph several winters ago while visiting an uncle in Montana. It was of a snow-covered bison.

  He wasn’t sure why the moment appealed to him so much when he took the photo with his cell phone. It was a cold and windy day. The falling snow was heavy and had quickly accumulated. As he took the photo from the roadside, the bison stood there, eyeing him with something that Stone guessed was apathy. There seemed no curiosity nor fear in the animal’s eyes. Stone was so proud of how the photo turned out that he had it blown up and professionally framed.

  He also wasn’t sure why it appealed to him in moments like this, but the lonely animal touched something stoic in him. The bison stood solid and unwavering while the elements beat down on him. His heavy exhale of breath plumed in the cold, winter air below his muzzle. Gary often wondered if he would be capable of being so resilient in his life, especially in trying times.

  For the first time since he became a police officer, Stone didn’t look forward to returning to work. It no longer held the promise of excitement nor the opportunity to experience something fresh.

  Instead, it held an implied threat to his well-being. It was a new danger not from strangers or even criminals, but rather from those he worked with closely to protect and serve the community. During the academy, one of the instructors warned him that there would be more stress from within the department and city hall than he would ever experience out on the street. At the time, he hadn’t been willing to believe it.

  Those words now seemed prophetic.

  MONDAY

  For there is nothing hidden that will not be revealed, and nothing concealed that will not be known and illuminated.

  —Luke 8:17

  CHAPTER 37

  Day shift roll call came early, something Ray Zielinski still wasn’t used to, even this far into his tenure on this new assignment. Having to be in the drill hall, in uniform, and ready to go for a six a.m. roll call was nothing short of brutal.

  Especially with the kind of weekend he’d had.

  “Hey, Ray,” Ben Varone greeted him. “You look like shit.”

  Zielinski grunted. Varone was always blunt, but that didn’t bother him. Seeming way too alert this early in morning was another matter. He hated him for that.

  “Let’s get coffee right after roll call,” Varone said. “We’ll get you fueled up.”

  Zielinski grunted again.

  Varone settled into his chair and checked his watch. “Shit, only five fifty-four. I could have slept another six minutes this morning.”

  “Don’t act like you weren’t up at three,” Zielinski croaked. God, his voice sounded horrible. His throat was still raw from the puking he did that morning. A first-thing vomit sucked, but he had to get the poison out.

  “Three thirty,” Varone admitted. “I hit the gym, but I don’t think I’m going to be going there anymore.”

  “You giving up on working out?” Varone was a fitness nut, so Zielinski doubted that was the case.

  “No. I’ll just have to find another gym. Bummer, too, because their collection of free weights is great.”

  “I don’t get it,” Zielinski said. “Why a new gym?”

  Varone frowned. “I had a beef with a guy there last week. After I lifted, I checked out the racquetball challenge court. Some dude was there, so we played. He played dirty but was one of those pussies who whines when you dish it back. You know the type. I bumped him a little, he started a yelling match, and it got…physical.”

  “You fought?”

  “He started it.”

  “Did he know you’re on the job?”

  “No,” Varone said. “And after everything broke up, we talked it out. I even bought him a protein shake at the bar while we cooled down.”

  “So what’s the problem? The gym management?”

  Varone shook his head. “Some other civilian saw it all, and then heard from someone else that I might be a cop. He called in a complaint to Internal Affairs. It didn’t take much detective work for them to run through the membership lists to figure out it was me. Hell, we get a law enforcement discount at the gym, so even Sutherland’s cheese-eaters can follow that trail of breadcrumbs.”

  Zielinski froze, staring at him. The idea of another civilian seeing him tap Neil’s car and calling 911 never occurred to him. He imagined a concerned citizen reporting how they’d just seen a police officer hit another car. Dispatch would check for any units currently out on a collision and see none. The supervisor would forward the anomaly to Internal Affairs.

  “I’m sure it’ll end up a founded demeanor complaint,” Varone continued. “But who cares? My file is clean. All of my complaints are old and have timed out of my active file. Besides, I’m in the KMA club, as of February. They come down too hard on me and I’ll just say ‘kiss my ass,’ and retire.”

  How long would it take for Internal Affairs to figure out who was in that collision, Zielinski wondered. There were only so many officers on day shift. Many of them would have been out on calls at the time. Some were on days off. The field of possibles would be small enough to call them all in for an interview. The question would be straightforward enough. “Were you in a crash at this approximate location on this date?” He couldn’t lie to IA. That was a death sentence. So they’d find it was him. Then things would get nasty.

  “You okay, Ray?” Varone asked. “Your stomach take a trip south?”

  “Rough weekend,” Zielinski said quietly.

  “I bet.” Varone clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll get some eggs and coffee in you in about…” he checked his watch again, muttering, “Two minutes to roll call, seven minutes of bullshit from the lieutenant, five minutes to get a car, three-minute drive to Waffles ’n More…what’s that? Less than twenty minutes?”

  Zielinski gave him a weak smile.

  Varone chuckled at him. “You definitely need a cup, brother. After that, things’ll be better.”

  CHAPTER 38

  It was only a few minutes after eight and Councilman Dennis Hahn was already waiting outside his Gary Stone’s office. Hahn hadn’t noticed him yet and, for a moment, Stone thought about turning around and leaving the seventh floor. Maybe he could run down the stairs, slip out the side entrance, and spend the day at the police department. There were plenty of other assignments that Stone had beyond city hall. He could keep himself busy and easily avoid Hahn. That would take care of today, but there would always be tomorrow. Whatever Hahn wanted, he knew it would somehow involve Betty Rabe. He could not escape moments like this forever.

  Then he remembered the photo of the bison standing in the snow and it gave him a strange calm. Stone continued walking toward the councilman. He recalled standing outside The Hot Box with Jean on Saturday.

  What was the girl’s name that Jean said?

  When Hahn re
cognized Stone, he forced a smile, but it did little to hide the anger seething underneath. He was dressed stylishly, and his short hair was gelled to perfection, but his eyes were panicked behind his tortoise-shell frames.

  Stone nodded as he walked past Hahn and into his office. “Good morning, Councilman. Are you waiting for me?”

  Hahn dropped the pretense of a smile. “Why else would I be outside your office?”

  “I don’t know,” Stone said. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  The councilman swung the office door shut, causing it to slam. He scowled and looked through the window to see if his action had caught the attention of anyone in the outer office.

  Stone dropped his interoffice mail onto his desk and sat in his chair. He envisioned the bison in the snowstorm.

  Be the bison.

  When the councilman turned back to look at him, he said, “Call Tyler Garrett.”

  “About what?”

  “You know what.”

  Stone certainly did know, but he wasn’t going to be bullied by Hahn. He didn’t respect the man and he was trying to focus on developing the mindset of the bison this morning.

  The cold does not affect the bison.

  Stone remained silent and stared at the councilman.

  “The fuck is that?”

  “What?”

  “The stupid look you’re giving me.”

  “I’m waiting for you to tell me what you want.”

  “I want you to run interference on Garrett. He came by my house on Saturday night and threatened me.”

  Stone leaned forward. “He threatened you?”

  “Most definitely, he did. He came to my house and said he knew.”

  “Knew what?” Stone asked, refusing to play along.

  “He knew about Beth Rabe, you simpleton.”

  Stone leaned back and crossed his arms. He worked to envision the bison again.

  The falling snow does not bother the bison.

  Hahn patted the air with his hands. “Hey, now, I’m sorry about calling you that. I’m under a lot of stress. You understand what that’s like, right? I mean, this whole Beth thing has us all upset.”

  “She liked to be called Betty,” he said.

  “What? No. That’s ridiculous. Her name was Beth. I always told her how pretty I thought that name was. She knew I liked it.”

  Stone watched Hahn, refusing to engage him further. He struggled to envision the photo, but he remembered the look in the bison’s eyes.

  The bison is apathetic to those smaller than him.

  “So, anyway, Garrett asked me a bunch of questions about her. Did you tell him about her letter?”

  “No,” Stone said, realizing only after he’d spoken how easily the lie came.

  “He said she killed herself. I tried to call her, but she didn’t answer.”

  “Why didn’t you call her parents?”

  “Don’t be a jerk, Stone.”

  Stone held his breath and thought about the picture. The bison seemed more obscured by the snow. His vision of the picture was not as he remembered it.

  “Don’t you go to the same church?” Stone asked.

  “She was coming to church for a bit, but her parents don’t believe. They didn’t attend.”

  “You could have called her friends.”

  “Are you doing this to just needle me? I’m asking for your help and you say stupid stuff like that. No, I couldn’t call her friends. Think about what you’re saying here.”

  “Garrett is investigating her suicide. Tell him the truth.”

  “Have you lost your mind? You’re supposed to work with us.”

  The bison seemed smaller in the picture than he remembered it. Stone’s mind was now playing tricks on him. He concentrated harder to bring it in focus but was trying to stay engaged in the conversation with the councilman.

  To control himself, Hahn looked up at the ceiling. “I can’t talk to Garrett. He’s like super cop.”

  Stone nodded. “Yeah, he’s pretty good.”

  “He already knows what I did. He’ll make me confess and I’ll be ruined.”

  “You know, I didn’t make those choices, you did.”

  Hahn’s mouth opened. “You didn’t just say that.”

  “What?”

  “You’re blaming her death on me?”

  As hard as he tried to envision the photograph, the bison was completely obscured by the snow now.

  “I didn’t say it like that,” Stone said. “I was only trying to say, you know, that you make your own choices. We all do. I’m not responsible to clean up your mistakes any more than you’re responsible to clean up mine.”

  Hahn’s mouth fell open.

  “I want you out of city hall, Stone.”

  He felt his courage ebbing, so he stood to be on equal footing with Hahn. “I work where the chief tells me to work.”

  “Well, it’s not going to be here any longer.”

  “This is the seventh floor,” Stone said. “You don’t have any authority here. You’ll need to talk with the mayor.”

  Hahn pointed at Stone. “You just crossed a line, my friend. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to ruin your career. And when I do, I want you to remember this moment.”

  Regardless of how much he struggled, Stone could no longer envision the bison in the snowstorm.

  CHAPTER 39

  Command staff meetings were never high on Captain Tom Farrell’s list. In his opinion, they ruined Monday mornings. He liked Baumgartner well enough, but he often let the meetings go on much longer than needed. Everyone got a say, even if not everyone had something worth saying.

  That morning, aside from a quick update on a couple of higher profile investigations, he had nothing for the good of the order. As usual, Barry, the administrative captain, blathered on about numerous things, most of which might have been worth discussing at the sergeant level, but weren’t command-level concerns. Farrell guessed that looking important was more the point the man was going for, and quantity over quality was the approach he took.

  Ellis, the civilian member who commanded crime analysis, records, and other civilian functions within the department, was even more concise than Farrell had been. He was grateful for that and made a mental note to take the guy to coffee later in the week.

  When Ellis finished, Baumgartner turned to Dana Hatcher. She had her game face on this morning, so he had a pretty good idea what was coming. At least her idea would be worth spending some time on, unlike the thimble counting that Barry had been doing.

  “Chief, we’ve all had a chance to see the NIBRS advance report,” Hatcher said, “as well as the more recent statistics Ellis’s crime analysts have put together.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to review those yet,” Barry said.

  “None of it overlaps with your division,” Farrell responded, unable to resist the not-so-subtle dig.

  “The numbers are ugly,” the chief said. “Let’s leave it at that. Dana?”

  “Sir, I believe we need to be proactive about this issue. We keep chasing our tails, taking calls, writing reports, doing follow-up, but we’re constantly behind the curve.”

  “What do you suggest?” Baumgartner asked briskly. “And don’t say you need more cops, because number one, there isn’t any money in the budget, and number two, even if there was, I can’t just go to the cop store and grab you a few off the shelf. Any new recruits are eighteen months out before they’re trained up enough to help you.”

  “I realize that, sir,” Hatcher said evenly. “I have a plan that will utilize existing resources from within patrol.”

  Baumgartner waved for her to continue.

  “Historically, a large amount of our crimes are perpetrated by a small number of criminals. They—”

  “I’ve always heard that,” Barry said. “Is there statistical support for the claim, or is that just popular myth?”

  Hatcher gave him a
look that clearly said he should shut the hell up. Barry’s small grin in reply was smug.

  “It’s anecdotally true,” Baumgartner said. “But could we quantify that, Ellis? Could your whiz kids pull that data?”

  “Yes,” Ellis said, “but it would be a massive undertaking, the equivalent of a master’s thesis or a doctoral dissertation. I can’t spare the analyst time.”

  “Michelle Tremblay said the same thing when I asked her,” Hatcher said. “And—”

  “Who’s Michelle Tremblay?” Barry asked.

  “She’s my senior crime analyst,” Ellis answered. He turned back to Hatcher. “Sorry for the interruption.”

  Hatcher’s gaze flicked to Barry. Farrell could see that her patience with him was waning. “No problem,” she said. “She said it was too big a project, but she asked her other analysts for their best guess and made her own ballpark estimate, and collectively, they believe about five percent of the criminals are causing at least seventy percent of the crime.”

  “No way,” Barry said. “I can’t believe that.”

  Hatcher set her jaw. “Are you basing that on all your experience as a crime analyst, Barry?”

  “No, but I am basing it on thirty-one years of law enforcement experience.”

  Farrell couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. Barry had managed to worm his way into specialty positions outside of operations for the majority of his career. What little time he was actually assigned to patrol was spent parked in his cruiser, tucked into safe little nooks all across the city, studying for promotional exams.