Code Four

by Colin Conway

  Officer Ray Zielinski arrived at the Public Safety Building via a route he couldn’t remember using for many years—the public entrance. To add insult to injury, he had to wait in the long line out front as it wended forward toward the metal detectors at the security checkpoint inside.

  Zielinski kept his head down and shuffled forward with the line. The young man in front of him had the earnest, frantic look of a mental, something that he’d seen plenty on patrol, so he didn’t want to make eye contact and invite conversation. The overpowering essence of cologne wafted from behind him, mixed with someone’s pungent body odor. He wasn’t sure if the smells came from the same person or not and didn’t care to investigate. His mind didn’t let him off that easily, though, and he guessed the sources were a lawyer and a junkie, respectively. He used an old patrol trick, breathing shallowly through his mouth, to endure it.

  The experience was radically different than swiping his ID card at the west doors or pulling his patrol car into the basement sally port. But those methods of entry were reserved for cops, and since his suspension, he barely qualified as one.

  He slowly made his way through the front door and into the lobby. The line crawled as each person removed items from pockets or placed a briefcase or bag on the conveyer belt to go through the X-ray machine. Or whatever kind of rays the machine used.

  Zielinski had purposefully traveled light this morning. Just his keys and his wallet. He removed his driver’s license to show the security guard when his turn came. He no longer carried his police identification. They’d taken it after he was placed on suspension.

  Administrative leave, he reminded himself. That was the official term, and it was what Lieutenant Sutherland had called it when he collected Zielinski’s gun, badge, and ID. He supposed it sounded better than suspended, but it amounted to the same thing. At least he was still getting his paycheck during this process.

  How long will that last?

  Zielinski pushed the thought away. Just a bump in the road, he told himself. Every officer with a long career had a few of them. The fact that his happened over some overzealous, off-duty police work didn’t make any difference.

  He hoped so, anyway.

  Zielinski was fifth or six in line now, so this small torture was almost complete. Or that’s what he thought until someone addressed him.

  “Officer?”

  Zielinski glanced up. One of the security guys in a pale blue uniform shirt was looking right at him.

  Oh, please no.

  “Officer?” the heavyset guard repeated. He beckoned to Zielinski. “You don’t have to wait in line. Come on up here.”

  Everyone in line stared at him. Several scowled, though he caught a couple inquisitive expressions, and a young man with a military haircut grinned at him.

  “Officer?”

  Zielinski didn’t want to move, but immediately realized that he would only prolong the situation if he didn’t. It reminded him of someone wanting to give him a cup of coffee on the house while he was on duty. To refuse only called more attention to what was happening and ran the risk of offending the giver. Better to accept it and leave a tip worth two cups of coffee.

  Without a word, Zielinski stepped out of line and joined the security guard, whose name tag read Amos. He held out his driver’s license, but the guard waved it away. “I know who you are.”

  “You do?”

  Amos nodded. “I live next door to Lyle Bunney. That dude that shot at you?”

  Zielinski suppressed a wince. “I remember.”

  “I know he seems batshit crazy, but he’s a decent guy. I appreciate what you did.”

  “I arrested him.”

  “But you didn’t shoot him. And you coulda.”

  Zielinski peered closely at the man. “How do you know this?”

  “Lyle told me.”

  “Huh.” Zielinski grunted. “Well, thanks.”

  He started to go through the metal detector, but Amos held out a hand to stop him. “You don’t need to do that. Here.” He unclasped the security rope next to the metal detector and pulled it aside for Zielinski. “Have a good day, sir.”

  Zielinski thanked him and headed past, ignoring the angry stares he was sure were being fired at his back from the others in line.

  “Why does he get to skip the line?” someone asked.

  “He’s a cop,” Amos said, almost proudly.

  Zielinski went directly to the front desk for the city police. The desk was staffed by a patrol officer and a senior volunteer. Citizens brought complaints, sought advice, and filed reports there, although Zielinski knew that online resources had diminished the importance of the front desk.

  Even so, there was another line of people waiting. He didn’t recognize the senior volunteer, who was busy listening to a very animated woman explain something. But the man in uniform was Sergeant Kelly Ragland. Zielinski figured the sergeant must be filling in for an absent officer.

  Sergeant Ragland noticed him immediately. He held up his finger to stop the person talking mid-sentence and came around the desk to greet Zielinski. He didn’t know what to expect from Ragland, so when the sergeant gave him a cool greeting of “Officer,” he wasn’t entirely surprised.

  “Sergeant,” he responded in kind.

  “Follow me.”

  Ragland led Zielinski through the outer doors, swiping his card with a bit more flourish than Zielinski thought necessary. They went down a short, familiar hallway with a couple of small conference rooms and the Crime Analysis unit. He noticed the conference rooms were full and recognized some of the lieutenants busy arguing about something. Before he could process that, the two of them turned sharply left into the section of hallway widely known as Mahogany Row, where all the command brass was located. Another pair of lieutenants walked past, only one of which Zielinski recognized. Both studiously avoided making eye contact with him, though he noticed Lieutenant Larry Keon cast a furtive glance his way as they passed. The contempt in the fleeting look was apparent.

  Zielinski tried to ignore them and kept walking. When they reached one of the open conference rooms a little further on, Ragland said, “In here.”

  The small room had a table with six chairs around it. A whiteboard hung on one wall. Zielinski looked back to Ragland. “Thanks,” he said.

  “I’m not supposed to leave you here unescorted,” Ragland said. “But I have duties to attend to. Can I trust you to stay in this room until Dale Thomas arrives?”

  Zielinski scowled at the sergeant’s condescending tone. “What if I have to go to the bathroom?”

  “You hold it. Or piss all over everything. That seems to be your thing.”

  Zielinski shook his head in disgust. He wanted to tell Ragland where to go, but if he ever got through all these troubles, he didn’t want to find an insubordination charge waiting for him on the other side.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Ragland turned and left.

  Zielinski listened to the sergeant’s descending footfalls on the tile floor until they faded.

  So this is what it feels like to be on the outside.

  He left the door halfway open but chose a seat out of sight of anyone walking past. No matter how confidential Internal Affairs matters supposedly were, he knew people talked. Facts were shared, and if facts were unavailable, speculation filled in until it became accepted as fact. Some people might hear about him searching for a wanted suspect on his day off and think he made a good arrest. Others might wonder what his motivation was and think he was dirty. Right now, he didn’t want attention from either.

  I’m not dirty. I’ve had some bad luck, and maybe even messed up a little, but I’m not a dirty cop. Not like Tyler Garrett.

  Ever since Clint had filled him in on Garrett’s actions, which Zielinski had already suspected, it amazed him how Garrett somehow managed to come out looking like a hero, while Zielinski was on paid administrative leave, his career in jeopardy.

  He waited f
or almost ten minutes before Dale Thomas shuffled in the door. The union president looked flustered. Zielinski couldn’t remember ever seeing him appear that way before. A lawyer by trade, Thomas usually exuded confidence.

  “This will have to be quick,” Thomas said without a greeting.

  “Why? What’s up?”

  Thomas waved away his question and lowered himself in the seat opposite him. “No time.” He placed his phone in front of him on the table. “Has anyone contacted you directly?”

  “No. Dale, what—”

  “If they do, you know not to talk to them, right? Everything goes through me, or my aides.”

  “No one has.”

  “And you’re keeping out of trouble?”

  “Christ,” Zielinski said, shaking his head. “This is starting to feel like I’m meeting with a probation officer.”

  “Don’t be like that. This is the process.”

  “The process sucks,” Zielinski snapped. He tapped the table with his first two fingers. “I need to get back to work.”

  “These things take time. But that’s so we get it right. You want to get back to work, that’s the cost.”

  Zielinski leaned forward. “I need the money, Dale.”

  Thomas gave him a confused look. “You’re on paid admin leave. Are you not getting your regular check?”

  “No, I am. But that doesn’t cut it. I’ve had to take some construction work on the side, but it’s only day work, so it isn’t steady. Besides, swinging a hammer isn’t going to put my kids through college.”

  Thomas’s face took on a concerned expression. “Ray…” He stopped when his phone buzzed. Thomas quickly looked at the screen and swiped several times. He let out a small sigh. Then he looked back up at Zielinski. “Your finances are your own issue. I can’t help you. You’ll need to find a way to live within your means.”

  “Live within my means?” Zielinski repeated, shocked.

  “It’s something we all have to do.” He glanced down at his phone when it buzzed again. His eyebrows knitted. “We need to move this along.”

  “I’m sorry I’m such a goddamn inconvenience to you,” Zielinski snarled.

  Anger flashed in the union president’s eyes. “You’re not my only member. There are three hundred others who need my services.”

  “But I’m the one sitting in front of you now.”

  Thomas pressed his lips together. He took one last look at his phone, read something for a moment, then swiped it away. He’d barely looked up at Zielinski before it buzzed once more. “This is routine follow-up, Ray. Nothing has changed in your case. Internal Affairs is investigating. When they’re finished, the case will be reviewed by command. It’s all standard.”

  “Sitting at home with an ulcer doesn’t feel standard to me.”

  “I understand that you’re worried.”

  “Should I be?”

  Thomas hesitated, and Zielinski’s stomach fell.

  “The Darold Barden arrest you made on your day off is questionable,” Thomas said.

  “The guy had a warrant.”

  “He did. But asking why you were there in the first place is a reasonable question. It’s odd, Ray. And Internal Affairs feasts on odd.”

  “Funny. I thought they only ate cheese.”

  Thomas didn’t smile.

  “Because they’re rats,” Zielinski added.

  Thomas waited a beat, then continued. “Barden’s saying that you forced your way into Alejandra Sanita’s apartment.”

  “That’s bullshit. She invited me in.”

  “He says you spent the whole day hassling everyone who knows him, trying to run him down.”

  Zielinski didn’t answer. That part was true.

  “He’s also telling IA that you went by his house a few days prior. That all of this is you doing a favor for a buddy because Barden is seeing your buddy’s ex-girlfriend.”

  Also true.

  “How bad is it?” he asked Thomas.

  “I think you should prepare yourself for the very real possibility that when all is said and down, you’ll take a significant hit.”

  “What does that mean? Suspended without pay? What?”

  “It depends on which of the allegations are founded.”

  “What’s the range I’m looking at?”

  “I’m not a soothsayer.”

  “I’m not asking you to read the goddamn tea leaves, Dale!” Zielinski hollered. “I just want some idea what I’m facing.”

  “Don’t yell at me.”

  “I’m not yelling!”

  The phone on the table buzzed. Thomas reached for it. Zielinski slapped his hand over the lawyer’s, trapping it on top of the phone. “Tell me,” he said.

  Thomas pulled his hand away, and the phone with it, but he didn’t look down at the device. “I don’t like to speculate, but if I were to do so, I’d say that a month’s suspension without pay is the likely floor.”

  “The floor?” Zielinski licked his lips. “Then the ceiling is…?”

  “Termination.”

  Zielinski leaned back, deflated. He’d known this was theoretically a possibility, but he’d spent the last few weeks convincing himself that it wouldn’t happen. Thomas’s words dashed those hopes.

  “Fired,” he mumbled. “They’re really going to fire me.” Absently, he rubbed his stomach while he spoke, as if to massage away the internal ache.

  “That’s always the worst case,” Thomas said. He glanced at his phone, then spoke distractedly while he scrolled. “And only if the investigation sustains the complaints. If that happens, we’ll do everything we can to mitigate the penalty.”

  Zielinski sat perfectly still, dumbfounded. He was going to lose his job. No, his career. He couldn’t believe it.

  When Thomas stood, he whipped his gaze back to the rotund lawyer. “Where are you going?”

  “We’re done here. And I’ve got even bigger problems to deal with.”

  “Bigger?” Zielinski balled a fist. He wondered if his situation would get any worse if he decked his own union representation.

  “The Department of Justice just landed in Spokane,” Thomas said. “They’re on their way to jam a fist down our throat.”

  “DOJ?” Zielinski struggled to process the news. “What do they want?”

  “I just told you.” Thomas walked toward the door. “I have to go,” he said, and disappeared from sight.

  Zielinski listened to another set of footfalls fade away. Over the past few weeks, he had vacillated between anger and deep worry over his situation. Now, he only felt numb. He sat in the conference room for several minutes, waiting for one of those emotions to return. When neither did, he rose and showed himself out of the police department that he still thought of as his own.

  Chapter 7

  Clint rapped on the door of the green and yellow house. There was a new paint job on the door, a deep shade of red, and the yard was nicely tended. Clint figured a landscaping service took care of the lawn and the bushes, though in this neighborhood, it wouldn’t surprise him if an enterprising young man handled it. But the door? He was nearly certain that Mrs. Aurelia Ellis had painted it herself, seventy-one years old or not.

  As if on cue, the latch clicked, and Aurelia Ellis was before him. The elderly black woman wore a stylish dress of burnt orange that hung loosely from her tall, thin frame. She held the door open wide but stood squarely in the center of the entryway. From inside, Clint could smell baking bread.

  Aurelia’s expression was neutral, but the message was clear, as it had been on his previous visits. She would talk to him, be respectful of the law, but he wasn’t going to be allowed into the house.

  This was one of those times he wished he could have brought Marty Hill along with him. Clint was an able interviewer but did best when there was a direct line of questioning to pursue. Here, he knew that he couldn’t ask her the only two true questions he had for her. Not yet. The situation required rapport building, not his strongest suit.


  “Hello, Mrs. Ellis.” He forced an awkward smile.

  “Detective.”

  Clint glanced around at the sky and the clouds. “It’s a nice day.”

  Aurelia Ellis nodded primly.

  “Only a two percent chance of rain, I heard on the radio.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Clint nodded. He took a deep breath and let it out. He glanced around the neighborhood before saying, “Barometric pressure’s nice, too.”

  She frowned and crossed her arms. “Detective Clint.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “You aren’t much good at small talk, are you?”

  Clint shook his head. “No, ma’am. I have little use for it, if you want the truth.”

  “Well, that makes two of us. So while I do enjoy the sun on my face, I have a chair on the patio that is much nicer than here at my front door.”

  Clint took a stab. “Are you inviting me inside, Mrs. Ellis?” He glanced past her. All that was visible was a beige wall about ten feet inside, with a hallway opening to both the left and right. A free-standing coat rack was nudged up against the wall, holding a sparse two jackets. One was a pink raincoat, and the other a light blue windbreaker.

  “No, Detective,” Aurelia answered, her tone congenial but firm. “I am inviting you to ask your questions and leave.”

  Clint admired her directness. In a way, he appreciated her loyalty, too, even though it was hindering him now.

  “I only have two,” he said.

  “That’s all you ever have.”

  “Is Earl here?” Clint asked.

  “No, sir, he is not. I haven’t seen him in two months.”

  Clint wasn’t sure if he believed her. She was believable, that was certain. And her denial sounded much the same as the ones she’d made on his previous visits to her door. But she could be lying to him. If so, she was good at it.

  “Do you know where he might be?”

  “He might be anywhere,” Aurelia said. “But as to where he is at this moment, I have no earthly idea.”

  Clint cocked his head. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Mrs. Ellis?”