Never the Crime

by Colin Conway

  “Did I?”

  “Don’t be coy,” Clint said. “Isn’t journalism supposed to be about the truth?”

  “Fair statement,” Davis said. “But whose truth?”

  “I’m talking about objective facts.”

  “I haven’t heard any yet.”

  Clint forced himself to remain focused on his purpose. He didn’t want to spar with her, and he didn’t want to tell her off and ruin any chance of her cooperation. “Your article refers to sources. That’s a fact.”

  Davis shrugged, conceding the point. “I have a source who confirmed an unfiled report of a sexual assault. That is a fact.”

  “Confirmed?”

  “And I attempted to interview the mayor, the chief, and Officer Stone but none have returned my calls yet. I’m expecting a call from the city attorney any time now.” “I’m conducting an investigation into Sonya Meyer’s murder,” Clint said. “I need to eliminate some suspects from consideration.”

  “Who are the suspects?”

  Clint shook his head. “It’s an ongoing investigation. I can share everything with you when it’s resolved, but not before.”

  “Once it’s resolved, I can get it all through a freedom of information request,” Davis said. “I won’t need you at that point.”

  Clint thought of his coded case notes. “You’ll still need me. There’s always stuff that doesn’t make it into the official report.”

  “Are you suggesting there’s corruption within the homicide unit?”

  “No. I’m stating a fact. Not every fact or nuance makes it into the official report.”

  Davis took another sip of her cappuccino, watching Clint. Then she said, “On most days, I might enjoy playing this game of who’s going to show who first, Detective. But I came over here to relax and soak in the sun. So how about you just get to the point?”

  That was fine with Clint. “I need to know your source for the story.”

  “No, you don’t. You want to know the source for my article.”

  Clint shrugged.

  Davis shrugged back, miming him. “People in hell want ice water. That doesn’t mean they get it.”

  “It’s important to my investigation.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s true, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no way I’m betraying my source.”

  “Not even to help solve a murder?”

  Davis sat up straight. “Tell you what, Detective. You lay out your case for me and explain how knowing my source will solve the murder. If it really means bringing a killer to justice, I’ll tell you. But you’ve got to show me.”

  “It’s an open investigation,” Clint said. “I can’t.”

  “Well, that article is part of an open investigation, too. So I guess we’re both stuck, unless we decide to trust each other.”

  Trust. If the English language made any sense, trust would be a four-letter word.

  “I’m not asking for anything official,” Clint said, trying a different tack. “I can find evidence through other means. I only need some indication, to narrow the field so I know where to focus.”

  Davis shifted back in her seat, crossing her arms.

  “Was it Tyler Garrett?” he asked, watching her carefully.

  Clint thought he saw a flicker—a micro-expression—but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Or was it Gary Stone?”

  Davis’s expression hardly changed, and he couldn’t read the slight variations he saw with any certainty.

  “Garrett?” she asked. “Stone? Are you telling me that you suspect these officers were involved in the murder of Sonya Meyer?”

  Clint hesitated, considering his answer. “I…I’m not discussing that. I only want to know—”

  “Detective,” she interrupted, “I don’t know exactly what is going on in your police department, but while I fully intend to report on it, I am not going to be dragged into the middle of it. I operate under a code of journalistic ethics that are nonnegotiable. You can’t swoop in here and interrupt my coffee break with your broad pronouncements about what you need and expect me to betray those ethics. What did you think was going to happen? That I’d see your badge and be overwhelmed?”

  Clint realized this was a lost cause. He stood up. “Journalistic ethics, huh? Sounds like a contradiction in terms to me.”

  “You mean like police integrity?”

  Clint bit back his reply. He saw her true colors now, so at least the encounter wasn’t a total loss. He knew her agenda. In a strange way, it aligned with his own, though she didn’t see it yet. Even so, her refusal to help him today actually helped Garrett, regardless of who her source was.

  You motherfuckers are all protecting him. Even the ones who don’t know it.

  The reporter was still watching him, so he gave her a short nod. “Ms. Davis,” he said stiffly.

  “Detective.”

  Clint turned and left the coffee shop.

  EPILOGUE

  In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.

  —Sun Tzu, Chinese general, author, The Art of War

  CHAPTER 70

  Ray Zielinski stood outside the door to the hospital room, suddenly unsure. When he’d changed out of his uniform after shift, he’d had no plan to come to Holy Family Hospital. Tonight was rare in that he didn’t have an extra duty gig, and he looked forward to the down time. But when he got into his personal car, the idea came to him, and he started driving until he was in the parking lot, and then walking into the hospital.

  Maybe part of the reason had been the notification from IA that one of his demeanor complaints had been suspended as inconclusive. He’d learned that first thing in the morning, and while he’d have liked to have been exonerated, an inconclusive complaint was, for all practical purposes, just as good. The complaint was dead. His unreported collision still lurked out there, but for now, at least one less thing hung over his head.

  Then, right after lunch, he got a call from his dumb shit attorney, who informed him that the judge had denied Amber’s motion requesting an alimony extension. She could still force the issue to trial, but due to the denied motion, the legal costs would be at her expense. His attorney didn’t think she’d do that, and Zielinski thought he might be right. Maybe the guy wasn’t quite the dumbass he’d thought.

  So it was entirely possible that this trip to the hospital came to him out of the blue because he was feeling good, like things were breaking his way, and that he shouldn’t let anything get in the way of doing what he thought was right.

  This is probably still a bad idea.

  He knocked, anyway.

  “Come in,” a weak voice called from within.

  Zielinski eased open the door. He saw Lindsay Wagner sitting up in the bed nearest the door. The other bed was empty and made.

  Wagner seemed surprised to see him, because he didn’t say anything right away. The man’s hair was flat and greasy, and his beard disheveled.

  Zielinski moved closer to him, standing at the foot of the bed.

  “I thought I’d see how you were doing,” Zielinski said.

  Wagner cleared his throat. “Yeah, huh?” He pointed next to where the blanket covered his single leg. “Still hurts, even though it’s gone.”

  Zielinski had heard of that. Phantom pain, it was called.

  “They’ve got you on meds?”

  Wagner nodded. “Best the city can buy. But I try to take it easy on them. I’ve seen too many people get hooked, you know?”

  He realized he was staring at the way the thin hospital blanket formed around the nub of Wagner’s missing leg. How there was so much empty space below it, next to his remaining leg. It looked odd to him.

  He glanced up, shaking his head a little. “I’m…I’m sorry they had to take it.”

  Wagner’s eyes watered, and he looked away angrily. “It’s not your fault. Infections happen, even in hospitals.”

  Zielinski didn’t know how to a
nswer that.

  Wagner wiped at his tears, his jaw set. “They tell me that the bullet clipped my femoral artery. My doctor said the tourniquet you put on probably saved my life. So…thanks.”

  The words had an angry, hollow tone to them, but Zielinski muttered, “You’re welcome.”

  They both fell silent for a long minute. Then Wagner turned toward him again. “I’m sorry. That was a piss poor way to thank someone for such an important thing.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not. But it’s…it’s been hard. Sometimes I feel angry about what I’ve lost, other times I feel grateful to be alive. I’m all over the place emotionally, and the drugs don’t exactly help keep me grounded.”

  “It’s a good thing you work for Mental Health, right?”

  Wagner gave him a strange look, then actually laughed. “Yeah, I guess so. I know all of the resources my department has to offer. Good point.” He thought about it, then laughed a little more. “I can’t believe you dragged me by my beard.”

  “I can’t believe they let you wear a beard like that.”

  Wagner chuckled. “The benefits of a government job. You would if you could.”

  “I have a government job,” Zielinski pointed out. “And I’d never grow a beard like that.”

  “And yet, they let you get away with that ’stache.”

  Zielinski grunted, disguising a laugh. Score a point for the social worker.

  Another silence set in, this one a little easier. Wagner stared down at his hands, and Zielinski gazed out of the hospital window at the lights of the nearby houses. He imagined the people inside those houses, many of them sitting down to dinner, all going about their lives, never touched by the darker underside of their city.

  “I heard it all, you know,” Wagner said, after a while.

  He looked back at him. “All?”

  Wagner nodded. “I was pretty panicked at first, and I don’t remember much. Just the shots and the pain and the blood, and then you grabbing me. But once you put that belt in my hand, things cleared up. I was still scared as hell, but I was aware. I heard Lyle yelling ‘shit’ right before you took off running toward the house.”

  Zielinski watched him speak, saying nothing.

  “It’s weird,” Wagner said. “I mean, I was absolutely terrified that I was going to die. But when I heard you yell at Lyle not to move, I was just as afraid that you were going to shoot him. That you’d kill him.”

  He nodded slowly, not knowing what to say.

  “Cops in this city don’t exactly have a great track record when it comes to shooting people,” Wagner said. “I’ve seen the national statistics. Maybe it’s an aggressive philosophy, or maybe it’s bad luck. I don’t know. But I can tell you that I was afraid for Lyle.” He paused, licking his lips before continuing. “That fear didn’t go away when I heard Lyle yell that he’d dropped the gun. All I heard was the terror in his voice when he begged you not to murder him.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Zielinski whispered.

  Wagner swallowed. “I wasn’t sure. You’d been there before, and things didn’t go well. And Lyle had been shooting at us…at you.”

  “I would never do that,” Zielinski repeated.

  “I know,” Wagner said. “I know that now.” Wagner smoothed the blanket in front of him and took a wavering breath. “I want to thank you for that. For…Lyle. People like him are the whole reason I went into this career. He can’t help himself. Hell, he can’t even get out of his own way. He needs me to help him. Maybe I can’t save him from everything, but I can help him. That’s all I want to do. Getting back to work is the only thing I’m focused on right now.”

  “You’ll get there,” Zielinski said quietly.

  Wagner met his gaze. “I will.” His expression was hopeful, even as tears sprang to his eyes again. “I will.”

  Zielinski swallowed and was surprised at the lump in his own throat. Despite the emotion, he felt strong. He nodded to Wagner.

  “I know,” he said.

  CHAPTER 71

  Captain Tom Farrell sat in his staff car, all alone in the nearly empty parking lot at the Spokane Arena, waiting. The spring sun was almost completely behind the mountains to the west, splashing a deep violet across the sky. The hum of passing cars on nearby Boone Avenue mixed with the steady chatter on the police radio, but despite the background noise, everything seemed still and quiet to Farrell.

  He’d heard Garrett getting flagged down by a citizen reporting a suspicious circumstance of a possible dead body. He reported he was in Baker sector following up on a hit-and-run. Baker sector was outside his normal assigned patrol zone, but criminals didn’t live and operate in neat zones the way the department deployed its teams. Regardless, he was sure Clint would have a theory or two why Garrett was really in Baker sector and it would have nothing to do with a collision investigation.

  A couple minutes later, Garrett came over the radio. “Charlie three sixteen.”

  “Three sixteen,” dispatch responded. “Go ahead.”

  “Sixteen,” Garrett said, and then, for some reason, repeated his unit identifier, “Sixteen, confirming there is a dead white male at my location.” The address he provided was up north.

  “Three sixteen, do you need a medic?”

  “Negative. He’s been there some time. Start a supervisor and some additional units.”

  “Three sixteen, copy.”

  It sounded like a stinker and he’d smiled at that. Let the hotshot deal with an unpleasant call. It was a little karma, the first of what he hoped would be a slew of it coming around for Garrett.

  His phone buzzed, and he checked the text. It was from Clint.

  Seems a legit call. G probably did it, though. Headed to arena now.

  Farrell chuckled slightly. He couldn’t tell if Clint was being sarcastic or if he really thought this random event was Garrett’s doing. That had become the default for the detective. To his eye, everything evil that happened in the city these days, Garrett was responsible for until proven otherwise.

  He knew he had to manage Clint better. But how to do that? No one had ever really been able to accomplish it without resorting to pure hierarchal authority, and even then, Clint’s compliance was grudging.

  Besides, Clint was at his best when he followed his own way. He couldn’t hold it too much in check or guide it with too firm a hand, especially since what they were doing was so far off book that he sometimes wondered if he was breaking any laws.

  At least Gary Stone took direction well. He’d sent the officer to a two-week vehicle surveillance school in Seattle. Having a purpose seemed to brighten the young officer’s morose attitude. Farrell counted on that continuing as he formed his team. He still needed to select a sergeant and the rest of the team members, but he had a few names on his short list, one in particular. They’d slow the upward crime trend, he knew. Maybe even reverse it.

  That would make Baumgartner happy. After battling through the Rabe/Hahn incident, the chief was looking for a few wins to hold up to the public, and to the public safety committee. He’d confided to Farrell that Councilwoman Patterson was clearly gunning for him. Farrell didn’t know Patterson well, but she seemed formidable. His bet was still on Baumgartner, though.

  For his part, Farrell had been able to move things along. Hatcher remained cold to him, but he’d work on that by including her in the team’s activities and successes. He understood why she was angry, and in another time and place, he would have stopped at nothing to kick the team back to her. It had been her idea. But he had another reason for commanding this team, a deeper purpose, and it was more important than anything.

  He’d always heard that what goes around, comes around. But he’d also learned that sometimes you have to be the one to bring it around.

  I’m coming for you, Garrett. We’re coming for you. And you will pay for the evil you’ve done.

  Farrell took a deep, cleansing breat
h. The day had been warm, and he could smell asphalt, but also the cool air coming off the Spokane River. It was a clean smell, and it gave him hope. Clint would be pulling up next to his car window soon, full of pragmatic pessimism and a thousand suspicions, but that was still a few minutes away. For now, he enjoyed the last light of the day, the smells and the sounds of the city, his city.

  CHAPTER 72

  Near the corner of Haven Street and Wellesley Avenue, Officer Tyler Garrett pulled his patrol car to the curb. He clicked off the local news channel and the political roundtable he’d been listening to on the radio.

  He’d become a news junkie over the past several weeks since the story broke about Councilman Dennis Hahn and Betty Rabe. It was something he would never openly admit, but he liked watching how everyone danced to the music he played.

  The resulting public outcry following the article was loud, and there was still an ongoing story today, although much of the initial anger and anguish had petered out.

  At first, Mayor Sikes laid the blame entirely at the feet of Chief Robert Baumgartner. He tried to fault Officer Stone, but the chief cut that line of fire off, leaving the mayor to grumble openly about his police department, instead of a single officer. Garrett could not believe his good fortune that the two men who had screwed with his life following his shooting were openly sniping at each other in the news. Sharing the story with Kelly Davis had turned out better than he anticipated.

  The potshots by the mayor and chief didn’t last long, though.

  Shortly after the story came out, the chief held a press conference and stated unequivocally that only he was to be held responsible for the screw up in reporting. Kelly Davis asked the chief directly if Officer Gary Stone had been instructed to keep the report out of the system. Baumgartner stated he had given poorly worded orders to Stone, but that was not his officer’s fault.

  To Garrett, Stone was a decent guy, but he was a poor cop. He was better suited for sipping lattes and creating PowerPoint presentations than kicking in doors and chasing down lowlifes. He was honestly surprised that Stone survived the incident. He wasn’t sure where he’d been transferred to within the department, but he hadn’t been terminated. It just reinforced the adage it wasn’t what you knew, it was who you knew.