The Last Innocent

by Rebekah Strong

  Luke clicked play. The interview room in the video was bathed in cold yellow from the florescent light reflecting off beige carpet and walls. Onscreen, Cummings took a seat at the table opposite the camera hidden in the fire alarm. He was instructed to sit there and did so without fuss.

  Nicholas Cummings was a nervous junkie with track marks up and down both arms, some of them still bleeding. He wore a stained canvas fishing vest over a rumpled black t-shirt and jeans. His hair was a long mess of frizz except the scalp, where unwashed grease plastered it to his head. On the monitor, Luke saw himself and Thad come in and take their places at the table.

  The man hadn’t had much to say, Luke remembered as he forwarded the video through the introductions. He’d come to talk and then didn’t talk. But as he hit play, Luke knew that assessment was wrong.

  “I…I think I know who killed your Senator, there.” The man leaned forward trying to get close to Luke so he could speak quietly. His voice was still caught by the microphone hidden in the power outlet by the man’s chair. He looked around nervously, his left hand compulsively rubbing up and down his right arm.

  “You do?” Luke winced as he heard his condescending and dismissive tone. Preconceptions were the undoing of an investigator, and he had passed judgment before a word passed between them. No wonder the man bolted. Everything gets attention, no matter how small. Now he had to watch his smug self breaking his own rule over and over on camera. “Mr. Cummings, do you mind telling me why you think the Senator’s death was a murder?”

  “I got ‘em…I got ‘em. The drugs, see. Wanted the good stuff. Good enough to make him sleep, see.” He spoke in staccato tones and short bursts. Even now it grated Luke’s nerves, but not as much as his own indifference at the time.

  In the video, Luke and Thad glanced at each other for a split second. Luke could see the man’s awareness of drugs used in the Senator’s death had bothered him greatly at the time.

  Greg’s press conference had been three minutes long and stated only that Twomey's death was being investigated by his office. He gave no details about the case beyond a scant reference to the trafficking connection. Even Greg wouldn’t cross that line. He was just trying to put Luke in his place.

  Twomey's camp had been vigilant to keep any mention of drugs out of the press coverage. They couldn’t cover up where his body was found, but the evidence, including the ME’s report, had not been made public. It would not be until Luke’s investigation was complete. Assumptions could be made, but it didn’t sound like Nicholas had been making assumptions. He sounded pretty damn sure.

  An international conspiracy and a local druggie was the one with his finger in the dam. Figures.

  “Mr. Cummings, can you be more specific? Who were the drugs for?”

  The man on the video grinned. His rotten teeth had turned Luke’s stomach. “For your boy in Atlanta.”

  “My boy? Mr. Cummings, do you have any specific information for us?” Again, Luke cringed as he heard his superior tone. He hit pause and ran his hands through his damp hair then clasped the back of his neck.

  It was too late now. He could beat himself up for his obvious blunder, or he could keep moving forward. He messed that up big time, but it was too late now.

  The handle clicked and Thad pushed the door open. Luke’s hand went back down to the mouse. He let the cursor hover over the play button until Thad shut the door.

  Thad knew what Luke’s expectant look meant. He threw the bolt and held up an envelope. “I got it.”

  “Good.” Luke held out his hand and Thad gave him the white envelope.

  Thad took a seat in his chair and started tapping on his phone screen as Luke hit play. Like Luke, he knew the tape by heart.

  Nick’s voice quivered through the speakers. “He wanted an eight ball. He said it was for him, but I knew better. He paid me double. He always paid me double, to keep my mouth shut, see.”

  “Mr. Cummings, who bought it?” Luke saw himself lean forward hoping for a name, the first real interest he’d shown since the man came in.

  “He said,” the man trailed off and stared at the wall, his eyes unfocused.

  “Who?” Luke prompted.

  Suddenly Nicholas’s face grew distraught. He began shaking his head. “I can’t. He’ll kill me.”

  “Mr. Cummings, you need to tell me who you’re talking about.”

  The man looked wild-eyed at Luke. “Can you get me out of here? I don’t have any money. The FBI can get me out, right? Set me up fresh somewhere new? I need money.”

  Luke saw himself sit back and study the junkie in front of him. “I can’t do that unless I know you have something I can use. I can put you in witness protection, but I need to know that your life is in danger and that you have information vital to prosecuting this case,” lied Luke. Witness protection would never be authorized in a suicide investigation, even if he had something they could use. Luke said it to keep him talking.

  It didn’t work. The man clamped his mouth shut and started shaking. Luke watched as his onscreen self looked away and exhaled loudly, annoyed at the man across the table. Nicholas sat with his arms crossed and palms tucked under his armpits. He began rocking back and forth blubbering that he was going to die and that he never should have come.

  Then Luke watched his screen self lose all patience. “Mr. Cummings,” he roared at the pathetic mess across the table. Both the man and Thad jumped on the screen. “Why did you come here?”

  Nicholas Cummings began to move his head back and forth. It was halfway between shaking and twitching. It was a repugnant sight with, Luke remembered, a smell to match.

  “I shouldn’t have…shouldn’t have come here. He’ll find out.”

  “Not if you tell me who you’re talking about. This investigation is confidential.”

  The man gazed at Luke as though something had occurred to him. “He probably already knows. He’ll clean up after himself.” Then in a quick movement, Nicholas pushed his seat back and moved toward the door. “I need to leave. I need to leave. Shouldn’t have come,” the microphone picked up his fevered words repeated over and over. “Need to leave.” He rushed to the door and scratched at it like an animal in his haste to leave.

  Luke had let him go. He’d gotten the man’s information, including the homeless camp he lived in, with a plan to follow up with him later. Maybe.

  Onscreen Luke waived a hand to Thad, who rose and showed the man out. Luke saw his legal pad on the table with only the man’s name and birthdate written at the top.

  He shouldn’t have let the man leave. He should have made him stay and tell everything. He should have given that dirt bag whatever he wanted.

  But video Luke hadn’t thought Nicholas Cummings knew anything of value. That he was some junkie who saw a headline and thought he could capitalize on it. Video Luke had been dead wrong.

  Luke snatched up the rumpled Savannah Tribune from Sunday. The page header was the official photo of a police officer in uniform. The caption read, “Decorated Officer Slain in Police Station Parking Lot.” He’d memorized it, but he read it again. The doubt that had taken hold the past week blossomed into dread at what he would see on the disc Thad brought.

  The Savannah Police Department has released the name of the police officer killed in the line of duty on Friday evening. The officer was ambushed while returning to the station at the end of his shift. The officer succumbed to his injuries on the scene after being shot in the parking lot of the Historic District Station.

  At approximately 6:30 pm on June 19th, the officer, now identified as veteran Officer Peter Easton, 38, was approached by the suspect in the parking lot. The suspect pulled a gun and fired at the officer hitting him in the torso, below his body armor.

  The suspect, identified as Nicholas Cummings, 46, of Savannah, was killed by responding officers after he refused to drop his weapon. Cummings has a significant criminal record and no known permanent address.

  Officer Easton is survived by his
wife and six-month-old daughter, mother and father, and two sisters. Details of the funeral and memorial service will follow.

  Luke threw the paper down and ripped open the envelope Thad just delivered. The funeral announcement was not the only thing released that week. As it always does in the days following an incident, information began free flowing from the PD as their investigation wrapped up. The security footage was released yesterday, the day before the funeral. Another video Luke knew he would watch on repeat for a week.

  “I can’t believe that stinky bastard would go and kill a cop. I’ve been thinking about that all week. He was a piece of work, but a cop killer?” Thad swung around as soon as Luke hit stop. “I’m still having a hard time with that one.”

  “It gets worse.” Luke inserted the disc into the desktop. It whirred to life.

  “You keep saying that. I hate it when you say that.”

  The cursor hovered over the icon that popped up as if Luke didn’t want to touch it and speak at the same time. “Peter Easton called Nicholas Cummings on his personal cell phone about two weeks before Cummings showed up here.”

  Thad raised an eyebrow. “Your girlfriend at the phone company tell you that?”

  Luke ignored him and double clicked the icon.

  The parking lot blinked onto the screen in black and white. The footage was clear, but the vantage point was far away. The camera was attached to the building at the far end of the lot.

  Luke and Thad watched the gate slide open and a marked cruiser pull into the lot. A shadow darted around the back fence and slipped through the gate before it slammed shut. No one had noticed then. It was painfully obvious now.

  The car pulled into a spot in the middle of the lot. The occupants did not immediately get out. They stayed in the car for over four minutes according to the clock in the lower right corner. It read 18:57 when the trunk popped, and the passenger door slammed open.

  A woman in uniform got out of the car. A little too fast. Luke wondered if they had fought. She seemed upset as she retrieved a long gun case and black bag from the trunk then headed into the building at a fast clip.

  It was her. Pete’s partner. The woman at the funeral standing so far away from everybody.

  She grew larger as she approached the door below the camera. The bottom of the screen flashed silver as the door opened and she disappeared inside.

  Easton had been driving. He was still in the car on the phone with his wife. They knew that now.

  On the top left corner of the screen, Cummings stepped timidly from behind the dumpster and moved toward the cruiser. Easton must have seen him now because the driver door sprang open and he got out, phone still to his ear. Easton ducked his head and tossed the phone on the driver seat, the line still open. They knew that now too. His wife heard the shot that killed her husband.

  Easton faced the approaching trespasser with a hand out, but with no particular alarm. Luke noted that Easton didn’t even reach for his gun. Luke watched the junkie for anything that looked like fear. Why else would he go there with a gun? The man’s terror had been real.

  Cummings appeared anxious and most likely high, but it never approached what he displayed in the interview room. The man in the parking lot looked more determined than afraid. He looked like a man with a goal. In less than twenty-four hours, Nicholas Cummings seemed to have grown a pair.

  The men spoke, more like argued, for several moments. What they said was lost forever. The security camera had no audio.

  Then the footage showed Cummings trying to go around Easton toward the ‘authorized personnel only’ entrance where Easton’s partner entered the building. Cummings had made no attempt to get in through the main door on the other side of the building.

  Easton moved to block him, placing his beefy frame between Cummings and the building. Cummings tried to push past, pointing urgently at the building.

  That’s when the suspect pulled out the small black semi-auto. The police report said it was a Lorcin L9, a cheap gun readily available on the street. He clearly had no idea how to handle it. He was jumpy and shuffled his feet as Easton reacted to the sight of the gun. The officer raised his hands and tried to talk the assailant down when Cummings stepped too close.

  Easton grabbed the wrist holding the gun and pushed it to the side. The men struggled, locked together as Easton reached for his radio. The footage blurred as the action onscreen sped up. Nicholas Cummings was stronger than he looked, common with people high on certain drugs. Luke’s stomach hurt as he watched the men locked in combat, the gun somewhere between them.

  Then he saw Easton twist. There was no report, not even a muzzle blast onscreen to indicate the gun had gone off. It was pressed into Easton’s torso. His body jerked and both men stopped fighting in an instant.

  Easton staggered back and hit the car he had exited only moments before. He fell against the vehicle and slid down to the ground, arms limp at his sides.

  Cummings staggered back, the gun still pointing at the fallen officer. He looked at the gun in his hand with a stunned look.

  A silver blip flashed in the lower right-hand corner of the screen as the door below the camera slammed open. Pete’s partner had run from the building.

  A few frames later, the woman, Tully Meara, came into view. She moved through the parking lot with quick decisive movements. Crouching while she ran, she used the parked cruisers as cover while she stalked the shooter with her AR-15 rifle at low ready.

  Luke watched her kneel for a split second behind a car and admired her ease with the weapon. He saw the flex in her forearm indicating she switched the safety off. A scant movement separating life from death.

  Rising from her knee, she stepped into the open her gun pointed steady at the shooter. He turned to look at her but did not drop his gun.

  She didn’t hesitate. This time he could see the muzzle flash and the suspect’s instant reaction to it. He jerked. Then another flash and he jerked again, and the gun fell from his hand. One last burst and Nicholas Cummings became the late Nicholas Cummings.

  Feeling like he wanted to throw up, Luke watched Easton’s partner fall to her knees and crawl to him. She didn’t try to revive him. She clung to him like a child to a teddy bear. None of the combat effectiveness she displayed survived the sight of her bleeding partner. Thad turned away from the computer, and Luke heard him sniff as he shuffled through some paper.

  A few hours earlier Luke had stood in a drippy cemetery watching her for the first time, soaking wet from the rain in her civilian clothes. Like she was desperately trying to be there but remain separate at the same time. She should have been up front with the family and her fellow officers for support, not in the back, but he knew why she was there.

  “I need to talk to her,” said Luke.

  “Who?” Thad sounded suspicious.

  “Easton’s partner. Meara.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean ‘why’?”

  “Why do you need to talk to her? We can look into this guy on our own. You don’t need to go to the local 5-0 and tell them you think their dead hero is a hitman. I’m beginning to see why people think you’re not right in the head.”

  “First, I’m going to be doing the talking.” Luke glared at Thad. “And two, that’s not how I’m going to approach it. She may know more about Cummings.”

  “Right.” Thad didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm.

  “I don’t want to go barging in there any more than you do, but we don’t blow off leads when they’re unpleasant,” Luke said, thinking of the first video. “Every lead gets vetted. We’ll wait a while, of course. We’re not going tomorrow.”

  Thad opened his mouth to speak but swallowed it. He turned around and said nothing else.

  EIGHTEEN

  Luke sat at the conference table staring through the glass wall at the CID cubicle field beyond. He wondered which detectives’ torrid love affair made this fish tank of a room seem like a good idea.

  One look at the
faces milling around the cubicles and his smirk disappeared. No one was really working. As ordinary as that is on a normal Friday, the faces of every Savannah PD employee marked this Friday as anything but ordinary.

  Two weeks had passed, but the sadness was as tangible as the wood table propping up Luke’s elbow. Every few minutes, the receptionist dabbed her kohl-rimmed eyes with a Kleenex. Grief smothered the building like a wool blanket in the Georgia summer, the same taunt expression on every face. The dead officer had been well loved.

  And in swoops the FBI. Luke steeled himself for his unpleasant task.

  The Captain had been accommodating on the phone, but he didn’t know the questions they were about to ask. Luke got the distinct feeling his visit would not be well received. The week he’d waited out of respect didn’t seem long enough now, judging by the suspicious looks thrown his way.

  Thad faced him at the other end of the table tapping away on his laptop. He glanced sideways every few minutes gauging the dirty looks, then went back to his screen.

  Luke crossed his arms and met each glare as it came. They all looked away when he didn’t. He didn’t want to be here any more than they wanted him here. But that didn’t matter. What precious few leads he had weren’t yielding much, and his most promising lead was dead. He had no choice but to pull on this string. It would hurt a little more this time.

  The click made him turn. He rose to his feet as the door swung open. A man in his late fifties entered in full dress uniform and took off his five-point hat. His thick silver hair was combed lightly over the thinning spot on the back of his head. Dark bags under his eyes made him look as tired as he had sounded on the phone.

  “Captain Timothy.” Luke held out his hand, and the Captain grasped it firmly, nodding.