Code Four

by Colin Conway

  There it is again.

  The sound he first heard—a faint wheeze followed by a ragged gasp of air.

  He hunched as he hurried through the alley. This time, though, he searched along the fence line. He checked behind a couple of large, rectangular trash cans. Long, sticky weeds protruding from the fences grabbed at his pants. The alley smelled like shit and garbage.

  As he moved toward the next set of trash cans, they rocked suddenly. A darkened figured burst from a hiding place behind them. Veryl Wooley managed one step before Garrett grabbed him with both hands. They pirouetted together for a moment until Garrett tossed the smaller man into the nearby fence line. He bounced off and knocked over a trash can.

  The smaller man exhaled loudly, “Oof!” then fell over the can. His knees struck the ground and his chest flopped onto the side of the can.

  Garrett stepped behind him and punched down onto a kidney, compressing it between his fist and the hard plastic of the trash can.

  Wooley straightened and squealed. His guttural cry was that of a wounded animal.

  Garrett punched again, but this time into the opposite kidney. Veryl Wooley rolled away and tucked himself into a fetal position against the fence. He hollered, “I give! I give!”

  A light came on at the back of the house nearest them. The back door squeaked opened, and an elderly man poked his head out. “The fuck is going on out there?” he yelled.

  “Police!” Garrett shouted. “Caught a prowler out here.”

  Wooley shouted, “He’s not—” but Garrett kicked him to cut off his protest.

  “Need some help?” the elderly man asked. His voice, although clearly aged, was not frail. “I can grab my gun and come out.”

  An armed citizen was the last thing Garrett needed. “My partner is on the way. Please stay inside.”

  Garrett kicked Wooley again for good measure. The smaller man whispered, “I didn’t say nothin’.”

  The back door started to close then it squeaked open again. “If you’re gonna give ’em hell, will you keep it down? I gotta get some sleep.”

  The door squeaked closed, but the rear light remained on. Garrett bent down then and whispered, “Where’s Earl?”

  “Who?”

  Garrett punched Wooley in the midsection. He didn’t connect with anything important as the man was turtled up with his arms crossed over his belly, but the simple act of hitting the man was part of the process.

  “Earl Ellis. Where is he?”

  “How would I know?”

  Garrett kicked him.

  “I don’t know! I don’t know!”

  “Keep it down,” Garrett ordered. “We don’t want to wake the old man again.”

  “Then stop hitting me,” Wooley whined.

  He knelt. “I won’t hit you if you tell me where Earl went.”

  “But I—”

  Garrett faked as if to strike Wooley in the face. The smaller man cowered in response and covered his head with his arms. Garrett punched his exposed belly.

  Spittle flew from Wooley’s mouth, and he coughed several times. When he finally recovered enough breath to speak, he rasped, “If I knew where he was, I’d tell you. I promise, man. I wouldn’t hold out. I promise.”

  Garrett studied Wooley for a moment. The two men remained motionless in the quiet of the foul-smelling alley. Finally, Garrett nodded and patted Wooley’s leg. “I believe you.”

  The smaller man visibly relaxed. “You do?”

  Garrett reached behind his back and slowly withdrew his gun. When he pointed it at Wooley, the cowering man whined, “Ah, fuck.”

  “Shut up and listen. You see or hear from Ellis, you tell him to get in touch.”

  “I will,” Wooley said, his voice laced with fear. “In touch with who?”

  “He’ll know.” Garrett cocked his head slightly. “Do you know who I am?”

  Wooley’s eyes widened and he started to nod his head.

  Garrett extended the gun.

  “No.” Wooley exaggeratedly shook his head side to side. “I have no fucking clue who you are.”

  Garrett slipped his gun back into his holster and stood. “And the next time you see me, don’t run. It just pisses me off.”

  “For sure, man. I won’t—”

  Garrett kicked him a final time. This time was in the shin, which elicited a howl of pain as Wooley grabbed his leg. He left the man moaning and rolling in the alley.

  As he walked back to his car, Garrett’s thoughts drifted away from Veryl Wooley and the missing Earl Ellis to the thing that worried him the most right now.

  He checked his watch. It was almost quarter of three now.

  If he didn’t get some sleep soon, tomorrow would be rough.

  MONDAY

  In the end, your integrity is all you’ve got.

  —Jack Welch, CEO

  Chapter 1

  “Thirty fucking minutes,” Chief Robert Baumgartner muttered as he slammed the telephone receiver into its cradle.

  His friend and confidante, Captain Tom Farrell, froze. The captain remained halfway lowered into the chair opposite Baumgartner. The two men were meeting in the chief’s office to talk about budgeting concerns, but that topic was suddenly low priority.

  “What happens in thirty minutes?”

  “Shit hits the fan,” Baumgartner growled.

  The captain dropped into his chair. “I’m not following.”

  Baumgartner smacked his desk and bellowed, “God damn it!”

  Farrell instinctively flinched, regained his composure, and crossed one leg over the other. He lay his elbows on the arms of the chair and watched quietly as the chief collected himself.

  Baumgartner hated when his emotions slipped out like that, especially in front of members of his staff. He frowned as a sting radiated outward from his palm and he shook his hand in response. His face warmed in embarrassment and he knew his cheeks would soon redden.

  He’d gotten close with Tom Farrell by going to his house for dinners and having him out to his for the same. Dropping his guard in front of him was probably a natural consequence. He wondered how often he did that.

  Baumgartner pushed those thoughts away and leaned back in his chair. He stared at the now silent and observant captain. Farrell waited with the wariness of someone expecting the delivery of bad news.

  Marilyn appeared in the doorway to his office. The disapproving look from his assistant meant his outburst had been heard at her desk which meant it could also be heard out in the hall where officers and detectives might be milling about. The department was a notoriously gossipy bunch. A chief erupting the way he did, especially with Captain Tom Farrell sitting opposite him, would send tongues a-wagging.

  As apologetically as Baumgartner could muster, he nodded once to his assistant. Marilyn reached for the handle of the door that separated his office from the lobby and slowly pulled it closed.

  Farrell leaned forward. “You want to tell me—”

  “DOJ lands in half an hour.”

  The captain’s mouth slowly opened. “The Department of Justice is coming here? For what?”

  Baumgartner shrugged. “We knew this could happen.”

  “But the info they requested, that was months ago. And it was routine stuff, right?”

  “Nothing is routine with them,” the chief said. “If they want something, it means they’re watching.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Stop thinking like a cop,” Baumgartner snapped.

  Farrell’s jaw flexed as he set both feet on the ground. “I’m thinking like a captain.”

  “Of a police department.”

  “That’s what I am.” The captain’s hands wrapped around the arms of the chair as if he was on a plane leaving the ground.

  “You need—no, we need to think like bureaucrats who are part of a government agency. Arguably, the most powerful agency inside our country.”

  Farrell muttered, “I get it.”

  “Do you?” Baumgartner a
sked. “Justice effectively has oversight of all law enforcement agencies. If they don’t like what we do or how we do it, they get to change it.”

  “I know that,” Farrell said flatly.

  Baumgartner lifted a hand. He’d upset his friend. He softened his voice when he said, “I know you do, Tom. Listen, I’m pissed and I’m taking it out on you. Friendly fire. I’ll point it in a different direction.”

  “What do you think prompted this?”

  “You’re kidding.” He might have been wrong for blasting Farrell, but the man seemed to be missing cues or purposefully ignoring the obvious. “Gary Stone,” the chief said.

  Farrell blinked several times before saying, “He was ambushed and… and we got his killer.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  The captain looked down at his hands as they rubbed together.

  “What’s wrong, Tom?”

  “It’s Stone,” the captain said, his voice soft.

  “You liked him.”

  Farrell nodded then shrugged.

  “I get it. I liked him, too, but we can’t let that blind us to the fact that we’ve had three dead officers—”

  The captain looked up. “Three? One of those committed suicide—”

  “Don’t play semantics.”

  “I’m not. Suicide isn’t even considered line of duty. How can DOJ use that to investigate us?”

  “It’s cumulative,” Baumgartner explained impatiently. “They see three dead officers in a short time span, coupled with a series of officer-involved shootings.”

  Farrell’s head jerked away but came right back. “A lot of departments have officer-involved—”

  “Then I stepped in it when I tried to help the mayor with the Betty Rabe thing.”

  That gave the captain pause. “You think that has something to do with this?”

  Baumgartner shrugged. “How would I know? It was all over the news. All I know for certain is they’re here to see how we’re doing.”

  “How we’re doing?” Farrell parroted as he leaned forward. “What the hell does that mean—how we’re doing? Is that what they said they want to find out? How we’re doing?”

  “Those are my words, Tom. Relax. They’re coming out to poke around. If they find something, then they go back to D.C. and make a mountain out of it. If they find nothing, well, there’s always another day.”

  Farrell shifted his position in his chair as he muttered, “Poke around.”

  “Jesus, Tom. The fuck is wrong with you? They want to see what’s going on around here.”

  “Isn’t this sort of…irregular?”

  Baumgartner was surprised at how argumentative his captain was. “What’s irregular is how many dead cops we’ve had.”

  “I get that, but—”

  “What’s irregular is how much we’ve been in the national news.”

  “I under—”

  “What’s fucking irregular is how much shit I’ve had to eat lately, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to stop any time soon.”

  Farrell held his hands up in surrender. Baumgartner licked his lips and sucked for moisture in his suddenly dry mouth.

  “Sorry, Tom. I can’t seem to stop with the friendly fire.”

  “I get it. You just found out.”

  He nodded.

  “Who told you, by the way?”

  “A staff member in Justice. An old friend.”

  “Who?”

  Baumgartner shrugged. “A buddy named Lou. We played football in high school before he ran off to become a lawyer. Anyway, he called me and gave me a heads-up. It’s how the world works beyond the streets. Be nice to people and they’ll be nice to you.”

  “Some friend. Half hour lead time isn’t much.”

  “Half hour is better than nothing. I don’t see any of your old friends calling to give you a warning about this.”

  Farrell smirked. “So what do we do now?”

  “I call the mayor and you notify the captains and lieutenants. Let the system take over from there.”

  “And what do we tell them?”

  “What do you think we tell them? We tell them what’s needed to protect the department.”

  Farrell swallowed as if he was fighting back the urge to vomit. “Are you suggesting…”

  “Am I suggesting what?”

  The captain’s brow furrowed. “Are you suggesting we lie to them?”

  “To who?”

  “To DOJ.”

  “Seriously?”

  “To protect the department. That’s what you said.”

  Baumgartner stared at Captain Tom Farrell. For a moment, the man before him looked scared. It wasn’t a look he’d ever seen before on his friend. It vanished almost as fast as he’d seen it and was replaced with a look he’d often associated with Farrell—concern for the department. Maybe Baumgartner had projected his own fears onto his captain. He rubbed his face and took a deep breath before speaking.

  “No, Tom. I am not suggesting we lie to them. I would never suggest that. I’m also not suggesting we cover up anything. What I’m actually saying is this—less is more.”

  “Less is more?”

  “That’s right. Answer their questions. That’s it. Don’t offer up anything more. Tell your command staff to think before they speak. Advise them to pass that along to their officers as well.”

  “So act like we’re on the stand and being cross-examined?”

  “That’s a good way of thinking about it. Maybe be a little friendlier than that, but you get the point.”

  Farrell leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling.

  “We’re a good department made up of good people,” Baumgartner said. “If we try to game this process, they’ll sense it, and it’ll only fuel their suspicion further. If we do that, we’re screwed.”

  Farrell’s head dropped back to eye level.

  “Tell the captains and lieutenants what I just told you. Cooperate fully, but we don’t need any eager beavers out there. Answer the questions that are asked. Truthfully. Then stop. And if that means one or two people take a beating over something, then so be it. It’s better than the entire department falling under a consent decree.”

  The captain blanched. “Can that happen now?”

  “No. They’re kicking tires on this visit. That’s all. If they find anything, then they’ll be back to stick their foot up our collective ass. I’d rather avoid that.”

  Farrell’s eyes dipped. “This isn’t enough time to get ready.”

  “This isn’t an inspection and we were fortunate to get a heads-up. Otherwise, they would have shown up in our backyard demanding an invitation to our barbeque.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t make the rules, Tom. I’m doing the best I can.”

  Baumgartner lifted the telephone receiver and his finger hovered over the number pad. The captain didn’t take the hint and continued to stare ahead while he absently rubbed his hands together.

  “Tom?”

  Farrell’s eyes focused. “Huh?”

  “I’ve got to call the mayor. It’s time to for you to let the shit roll downhill.”

  “Right,” he muttered.

  The captain stood and left without further word. Baumgartner considered the telephone in his hand, sighed heavily, then dialed the mayor’s direct line.

  Chapter 2

  This is a waste of my time.

  Spokane Police Detective Wardell Clint stood with his arms crossed in the bullpen of the County Sheriff’s Investigation Division. This indication of frustration was the only tell he gave to Detective Cassidy Harris as she spoke about her investigation into the shooting death of SPD Officer Gary Stone. Crossed arms or not, she ought to be able to surmise what he thought of her case simply due to the weak-ass shit she was reciting. That was, if she were any kind of detective at all.

  Despite his thoughts on her conclusions regarding this case, Clint supposed that Harris was decent enough at her job. She was a far cry bette
r than the muscle-head with whom she was still partnered.

  Shaun McNutt stood off to the side, his muscular arms crossed to mirror Clint’s stance. To Clint, McNutt was more concerned about how he looked as a homicide detective than how he performed as one. He had little use for the man.

  When Cassidy paused in her recitation, Clint spoke. “You’ve had this case for six weeks. This is the best you can do?”

  Harris flushed slightly. She opened her mouth to reply, but McNutt hurriedly broke in. “Watch your mouth, Ward. Don’t talk to her like that.”

  “My name is Wardell.” Clint didn’t bother looking at McNutt. It was clear the man didn’t like him, but Clint didn’t find that to be anything special. Lots of people didn’t like him. “And I wasn’t talking to you.” He tilted his head forward slightly toward Harris. “I asked you a question, Detective.”

  Harris recovered quickly. “I don’t answer to you, Detective. This is my case. This briefing is a courtesy.”

  “No, it’s not,” Clint said. “Per the Officer Involved Shooting Protocol Agreement, I am assigned as the shadow from the involved agency. I’m entitled to be with you every step of the way. But over the past four weeks, I’ve agreed to weekly briefings instead. That is a courtesy.”

  Harris clenched her jaw and sighed. “Why do you have to be so difficult?”

  “I’m not difficult. I just expect people to do their jobs.”

  “Hey!” McNutt snapped. “I said, watch your mouth.”

  Clint ignored him. “Six weeks ago, a Spokane police officer was killed in the line of duty. More than that, he was probably executed in a clear ambush. And in those six weeks, you’ve discovered exactly what?”

  “The case is solved, asshole,” McNutt growled. “We got the shooter. What more do you want?”

  Clint let out a derisive snort. “The shooter was found dead at the scene, shot by one of our officers. So, forgive me if I’m not impressed by your investigative acumen. You didn’t get anyone.”

  “Fucking Honey Badger,” McNutt muttered.

  Clint focused on Harris. “Leon Strayer shot Officer Stone at 5606 North Havana. Officer Tyler Garrett returned fire, killing Strayer. Correct?”