by Colin Conway
No sign of Wooley.
Speeding up again, Clint drove to the next residential street, stopping in the middle of an uncontrolled intersection. He looked in all directions, scanning for movement. All he saw were a few regular citizens engaged in routine activity.
Cranking the wheel, he headed up the street directly behind Moran’s house. Wooley couldn’t have gotten far. Even a fast runner would still be within two blocks. And now Clint had the advantage, being in a car.
He rolled down the windows so he could hear the outside environment. Someone might shout in surprise at a strange man running through their backyard. Or he might hear the crashing sound of a less-than-sturdy fence giving way under Wooley’s weight as he tried to clamber over it.
Nothing.
At the end of the block, Clint slowed to a stop again. He scanned all four directions. No sign of a running man.
He considered the possibility that Wooley had gone to ground. Like in any residential neighborhood, there was any number of viable hiding places within a block of Moran’s house. Given time, Clint could search them all. A K-9 unit would be much quicker, but he didn’t want to call for one. Given the time of day, it was unlikely one was on duty, so the response time would be considerable. More than that, Clint didn’t want to call attention to this arrest.
Where did he go?
Clint started forward, intending to go to the next block away, when he suddenly had a realization. Instead of asking where Wooley might go, he should have been thinking about where Wooley expected a cop chasing him to look. Or more to the point, where a cop wouldn’t look. The answer was someplace he’d already been.
He took a right and drove until he reached the alley that ran behind Moran’s house. He turned into it, slowing down. His eyes searched every possible hiding place. Before he’d gone one lot in, a skinny white man in a black T-shirt rose from behind a garbage can and fled up the alley toward Moran’s house.
Clint slammed the car into park and leapt out. He sprinted behind Wooley, closing ground rapidly.
Wooley looked over his shoulder, his expression strangely calm. “What do you want?” he yelled, still running.
“Stop!” Clint called in reply.
Instead, Wooley turned and lowered his head as he sprinted harder.
Clint pumped his arms, pushing himself. They were nearing the fence behind Moran’s house. If he got there, Clint expected Wooley to climb over. That would complicate matters. He would have to decide whether to go around or follow the suspect. If he followed, the dog on the other side of the fence was sure to attack, which left Clint with only one option—to shoot the animal.
Reaching deep down inside himself, Clint put on another burst of speed. He caught Wooley just as the man was reaching for the top of the fence. All it took was a small shove in the small of the back to send him tumbling into the wooden slats, before collapsing to the ground.
Clint took a moment to catch his breath. Wooley surprised him by using that delay to spring to his feet. On the other side of the fence, Clint could hear the pit bull snarling and attacking the barrier. But Wooley didn’t try to retreat. Instead, he raised his fists and beckoned at Clint.
“Come on, then, motherfucker! Let’s do this!”
Clint shifted his stance slightly, and let his hands hang loosely at his side. He could have drawn his gun and ordered Wooley to the ground, but he didn’t think the man would comply, and he wasn’t willing to shoot him if he didn’t.
He eyed Wooley placidly, waiting. The criminal didn’t disappoint. He lunged toward Clint, throwing a looping right hand at Clint’s head.
Clint stepped forward, short-circuiting the power of the attack. With his left hand, he deflected Wooley’s punch. Using his right fist, he struck Wooley in the chest, pivoting his own hips as he did so. The force of the blow sent the skinny man staggering for two steps before he fell to the ground in a heap.
Clint waited.
Wooley rose again, though not as quickly as before. This time, he charged at Clint completely without technique. He screamed in rage as he ran, reaching for Clint as he drew near.
Clint side-stepped at the last moment. He caught one of Wooley’s grasping hands at the wrist, twisting and turning. Once Wooley reached the end of his charge, Clint used the man’s own momentum, redirecting it in a circular fashion and using his two-handed grip at Wooley’s wrist to guide him downward.
Wooley crashed to the ground for a third time. He let out a grunt when he fell.
Clint adjusted his technique, maintaining the wrist lock and taking control of Wooley’s elbow as well. He lowered a knee into the man’s back, causing him to grunt again. Then he levered Wooley’s arm against his other knee.
“Ow!” Wooley screamed. “I give!”
Clint said nothing. He used his free hand to remove his handcuffs and ratcheted one cuff onto Wooley’s exposed wrist. On the other side of the fence, the pit bull’s fury remained unabated as it growled and yelped, battering and clawing at the wooden barrier.
Once both of Wooley’s wrists were secured, Clint assisted him to his knees, and then to his feet. Without a word, he led the man down the alley toward his police car.
The interrogation room was bare. Just a table, three chairs, and a short bar along the wall near the table. Clint knew that the cuff rail was a violation of the fire code, but so far no one had pushed the matter. He imagined DOJ would change that.
Wooley rubbed his wrist after Clint unlatched the cuff that had restrained him to the bar. He glowered at Clint but didn’t voice any of the usual complaints. Instead, he just wiped both hands on his black concert T-shirt with the words Der Stürmer.
Clint had noticed the shirt in the alley on the way back to his car. While Wooley waited in the box, chained to the wall, he’d stepped out to grab a photograph from his file for the interview. He used the opportunity to do a quick bit of internet research. What he’d found hadn’t surprised him.
“You’re a music fan,” Clint said, sitting down opposite Wooley.
“None of that jungle jump shit you probably listen to,” Wooley sneered.
“I like Muzak,” Clint deadpanned.
“Huh?”
“Elevator music. The kind they play at the mall.”
“I don’t go to malls,” Wooley said. “Why did you arrest me?”
Clint considered pushing him on the T-shirt angle but decided to wait. He knew the friendly approach was out for this interrogation, though. That was fine with him. He did better when it was contentious, and when he could bring logic to bear on the suspect.
“Ten months ago, you had a charge suspended pending vacation in drug court. You violated the terms set in place by the judge, and that charge is now active again.” Clint gave him a cold smile that was more of a grimace. “You’ve been violated.”
“Bullshit. I didn’t get a notice. They can’t violate you without a notice.”
“You keep a consistent mailing address?”
Wooley shifted uncomfortably.
“Because,” Clint continued, “you are not the easiest person to get in touch with.”
Wooley scowled. “I like my privacy. The government doesn’t need to know my business.”
“I tend to agree.”
Wooley’s scowl took on a suspicious edge. “You’re part of the government, you dumb fuck.”
“I’m a public servant. And the city is a far cry from the federal government.”
“Government is government. None of you bastards need to know anything about me.”
“Maybe, but it does make it difficult to give you court notices.” Clint brought the conversation back on point. “And once the court has done its due diligence in attempting to make notice, the judge can proceed with a violation. Which, in your case, is exactly what he did.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m a cop. I’m not allowed to lie.”
Wooley let out a snort. “That’s a good one. No, you’re a cop and you’re a…well, that’s
reason enough right there for me to know you’re lying.”
“When I book you into jail, it won’t feel like a lie, I can guarantee that.”
“Then book me.”
“I will. After we talk.”
“I’m not saying shit. Get me a lawyer.”
Clint didn’t react. When he’d looked into Wooley’s vacated charge, he couldn’t find out if he’d failed to meet the terms or if the slow bureaucracy that was the criminal justice system simply hadn’t caught up on its record-keeping. Normally, he would have waited until he knew for sure, rather than try to bluff an experienced criminal like Wooley. But DOJ’s arrival forced his hand. He was running out of time.
“I said, get me a lawyer, boy.” Wooley’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. “And then get on back to the fields.”
“Here’s your situation,” Clint said, keeping his tone even. “I book you on your violation and you sit in jail until you get sentenced for the charge, or you talk to me. If you tell me what I need to know, I won’t book you. I’ll let you contact the court and work things out.”
“Lawyer,” Wooley repeated.
Clint leaned back slightly. “You don’t like me much, do you?”
“I don’t know you. But I don’t like your kind, no.”
“Baptists?”
“What? No. Your people.”
“Cops, you mean?”
“No! Well, yeah, cops, too. But we both know what I’m talking about here.”
“Then why won’t you say it?”
Wooley shook his head and motioned to the camera in the corner of the room, near the ceiling. “I ain’t stupid. I’m not risking any sort of bullshit hate crime.”
“That camera isn’t activated.”
“Sure it’s not.”
“I’m confused,” Clint said. “I’m offering you a way out of your situation, but you won’t take it. Now if you were keeping quiet on account of a white guy, I’d understand. Pale solidarity and all that. But the man you’re defending is black.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Earl Ellis,” Clint said.
“Who’s that?”
Clint slid a photograph in front of him. It was one he’d taken of Ellis and Wooley meeting at a park. He’d chosen a shot that caught the pair in the middle of a hand-to-hand exchange.
Reluctantly, Wooley looked at the picture. Clint saw a flicker of a reaction, but then the criminal veneer descended again. Wooley looked up at him and shrugged. “Nice Photoshopping.”
“It’s real, I can assure you.” He tapped the photo. “And that’s you.”
“So what? I don’t know the dude’s name.”
“What’s he giving you?”
“If you don’t know, then I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“I want to know where he is,” Clint said.
“Want in one hand and shit in the other,” Wooley responded.
Clint gave him a hard look. “You can walk on all of this. Do you realize that? You give me Ellis, and you cooperate, and I can guarantee none of this comes down on you. That includes the drug court charge.”
Wooley laughed. “You won’t let that go, will you? Well, you fucked up, boy. Because I did everything that I was supposed to. I went to the classes. I even got the stupid little certificate. It’s at Lori’s house. So there’s no way the judge issued a warrant for me.” He glared at Clint. “You’re full of shit.”
Clint hid his disappointment and forged ahead. He tapped the photograph of Wooley and Ellis again. “I’ve got you. But who I want is Ellis. Trading up is my preference, but if you don’t do it, someone else will.”
“Maybe so. But not me.”
“I still don’t get it.” Clint motioned toward his T-shirt. “That band is a white power band. You clearly have a problem with black folk. But here you are,” he motioned toward the photo again, “doing business with a black man. Not just doing business but taking orders.”
“I don’t take orders from anyone, least of all one of you.”
“It looks like it in this picture. Am I wrong? Are you the one giving him orders? Should I be charging you as the head of this operation?”
Wooley’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not in charge of shit. But I don’t take orders neither.”
“So why work with this black man?” Clint tapped the picture of Earl Ellis. “Why not give him up and go free yourself?”
“I’m not admitting shit.”
“Theoretically, then. Why would a white man who hates black people do business with one?”
Wooley seemed momentary conflicted. Then he said, “Theoretically?”
Clint turned up his palms.
“Because the most important color is green, that’s all.”
That’s when Clint knew the interview was over.
He booked Wooley into jail for assaulting an officer. He knew it wasn’t a charge that would hold water in the long run, but it took the man out of circulation for the next few days. After that, it wouldn’t matter.
As he drove slowly through the East Central neighborhood, he felt the burn of having lost the interview. It was his own fault. He hadn’t been armed with all the facts, and so his bluff had fallen apart. The DOJ visit had him pressed for time, but that was no excuse. He should have found a way to get the accurate information.
Ellis. Ellis was the key to everything. The man could give up the entire network and put Garrett at its head.
Once everything was out in the open, other evidence could be brought to bear on Garrett. For instance, if the bullet from the Ocampo quadruple homicide matched the one in Detective Butch Talbott’s death, that would prove the same gun was used for both. The previously flimsy evidence that linked Garrett to each scene would get stronger when one considered that the two scenes themselves were linked. At some point, coincidence would become correlation.
That reminded him. He needed to check to see if the results had come back from the lab on the Ocampo bullet yet. The case was Marty Hill’s, but he could manage a surreptitious look at the file. Once the finding was back, he’d need to think of a way to get Hill to compare it to the Liberty Lake shooting in which Detective Talbott was shot and killed.
Clint pressed his lips together in frustration. He hated even thinking of the dead man with the title of detective. Talbott was as dirty as Garrett and had sullied the badge just as badly. Clint despised them both for it.
As he approached his destination, he spotted Ray Zielinski’s beat-up ride parked up the street. He slowed, and when Zielinski saw him, Clint gave him a nod as he passed. Then he drove to the front of the house and parked. He got out of his car, walked up to the red door, and knocked. A few moments later, Aurelia Ellis answered it. Her face bore the same placid expression of respectful noncompliance. Behind her, the pink raincoat and light blue windbreaker hung on the same coat rack as always. And just like the last time he’d been at her door, the pleasant smell of something baking wafted from inside the house.
Some things don’t change.
“Hello, Mrs. Ellis,” Clint said. “How are you today?”
Chapter 17
When Chief of Police Robert Baumgartner walked into the conference room, he paused. He suddenly understood how the family of bears felt when Goldilocks visited their home.
Danielle Watson sat at the head of the large table—a spot customarily reserved for him. She already had several folders opened and spread in front of her.
On the right side of her was a yellow pad that she’d been making notes on.
To her left was a small cup of Starbucks coffee with its lid removed. A mostly eaten croissant sat directly on the table. Its crumbs were scattered about.
She held a crumpled napkin in her hand as she read a document.
Baumgartner coughed to get her attention.
When she looked up, Watson blinked a couple of times before checking her watch. “Chief,” she said and tossed the napkin to the table. She returned her attention to her notes and absently
waved toward a chair along the side of the table. She muttered, “Thanks for making time this morning.”
Goldilocks. That girl broke into that home. She committed a god damned felony.
The chief pulled a chair out and sat. It had been at least a decade since he sat in the middle of the table. He didn’t like the view from here.
Watson finished jotting down her thought and looked up. Her eyes appeared slightly red. Baumgartner wondered briefly if she was hung over. After taking a sip of coffee, she flipped over to a clean sheet on her notepad. “Tell me about the Anti-Crime Team.”
Baumgartner glanced over his shoulder to the conference room door. “Isn’t Ms. Durand joining us?”
“It’s just you and me,” she said.
“Is she too busy?”
Watson raised her eyebrows. “For what?”
“To sit in on this interview. I would have thought—”
“She had other things to do.”
Other things to do? He had other things to do yet he showed up like a schoolboy about to get scolded. “What does she have to do that’s more important than this interview?”
“I don’t know. Important things a deputy chief does.”
Baumgartner’s lip curled. “I’m a chief.”
Watson shrugged. “Important things a deputy chief at The Department of Justice does. She assigned me your interview. I do as I’m told.”
He frowned. He knew what this was.
“You would expect the same of your subordinates, I assume.” Watson popped the last of the croissant into her mouth and spoke while she chewed. “Doing what they’re told, I mean.”
Having him interviewed by Danielle Watson was another one of Durand’s power plays. Since that was the case, she would expect him to be upset that he was being interviewed by a subordinate—a younger woman no less. Well, Ms. Édelie Durand could kiss his ass. He knew when he was being played and he wasn’t going to fall for it.
“So about the Anti-Crime Team,” Watson prompted.
