by Colin Conway
The shadowy man ahead of him had made it to the alley that ran behind the Ellis home, sprinting through an unfenced yard to get there. He surprised Zielinski by turning left, away from Ellis’s house. If it was Ellis, why didn’t he instinctively run to where he felt safest?
Because it’s Garrett.
A shot of adrenaline zinged through Zielinski. He cut around the front of the same house, taking advantage of the unfenced backyard to close some distance on the suspect. When he turned into the alley himself, he was only about twenty yards behind the man.
That was all. Twenty yards between him and a saved career.
Zielinski put on a burst of speed. The coffee and Baileys sloshed in his belly, but he ignored it. He drove forward, pumping his legs like aged pistons.
Fifteen yards now.
“Stop!” He tried to shout the word, but his voice was raspy and breathless. “Police!”
The man kept running.
Zielinski pressed on, finding the energy for another burst. Before he knew it, he was almost within grabbing distance of the man.
“Stop!” he ordered again. His own hoarse voice sounded foreign to him.
In the dim ambient light, he saw the man turn his head and look over his shoulder. He couldn’t make out features or the man’s expression. The action slowed the suspect’s pace slightly, and Zielinski seized the opportunity. He powered forward and tackled him to the ground.
Zielinski’s knees scuffed along the hard dirt of the alley. They immediately stung with pain. He grunted but refused to let go as the two of them toppled to the earth with a thud.
The man cursed and wriggled to get free. Zielinski reached up to clasp a meaty hand onto the man’s belt. As the man struggled and pulled away, Zielinski kept a strong grasp. He flailed around with his other hand, trying to find purchase on some other part of the man’s body.
Suddenly, the tugging against his hand that held the belt seemed to stop. The man’s pants had slipped off his waist and down his legs. The jeans pooled around the man’s ankles, and he’d risen to a seated position, kicking and thrashing to get his feet free.
“Enough of this,” Zielinski growled. He rose up on one knee and lunged forward with his free hand. He’d intended to strike with an open palm but on the way, his hand instinctively curled into a fist. That fist thundered into the man’s chest with all the force Zielinski could muster from a crouched position.
The sound of the blow was somewhere between a slap and a thud. The force of it knocked the man flat on his back, where he lay still for a moment. Then he groaned and curled his legs in slightly.
Zielinski let go of the man’s belt. He spotted the flashlight where it had fallen from the man’s grip and grabbed it. Then he snapped the light on him.
A white man with stringy black hair and a patchy, wispy beard stared up at him, squinting and blinking against the harsh light.
Zielinski almost groaned in dismay. Just his luck.
Not Ellis.
Not Garrett.
“Don’t move,” he ordered out of habit.
The man put his hands to his chest, rocking slightly. “The fuck, man?”
“Police,” Zielinski repeated. “What’s your name?”
The man moaned, not answering.
“I didn’t hit you that hard,” Zielinski said. “Now, what’s your name?”
“Paul.”
“Paul what?”
“Brown.”
“Paul Brown?” Zielinski repeated.
“What the hell? Yes, Paul Brown. Why’d you hit me?”
“Why’d you run?”
“I didn’t know who you were.”
“I told you who I was.”
“Not until the end there.”
Zielinski replayed the foot pursuit in his head. He couldn’t remember when he’d first identified himself as the police, so maybe Brown was telling the truth. Then another thought struck him. He shouldn’t have said he was the police. He was on suspension.
“Why’d you hit me?” Brown repeated.
Zielinski didn’t answer. He squatted on his haunches, keeping the light shining in Brown’s face. “What were you doing?” he asked.
“Running.”
“Before that.”
Brown hesitated. Then he said, “I locked my keys in my car.”
It all became clear to Zielinski in that moment. To be certain, he ordered Brown to place his hands on his head while he did a quick check of the man’s pockets. The jeans were still tangled around his ankles. Zielinski found what he expected. A screwdriver and a several pieces of porcelain from spark plugs.
Brown was a vehicle prowler. The porcelain bits were used to shatter car windows, and the screwdriver was for prying. Crude tools, but effective ones.
“What are these?” Zielinski asked, holding the porcelain chunks in his open hand and extending them into the halo of light.
“What are what? I can’t see shit.”
Zielinski dipped the light slightly. “These,” he said, giving his hand a shake.
Brown glanced at the porcelain and shrugged. “I never saw those before.”
“I just took them out of your pocket.”
“Tried to plant them in my pocket, more like.”
Zielinski let out a long, frustrated breath. This was a mistake, all of it. He could only hope that no one on Ellis’s block had seen him react, and that his cover remained intact. If Clint heard about this, he’d shit enough bricks to build a wall.
“Where’s your backup?” Brown asked.
Zielinski broke out of his reverie. “Huh?”
“It’s just you. Where’s your backup?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Zielinski stood up and tossed aside the porcelain pieces. “Pull up your pants.”
Brown didn’t move right away. Instead, he kept looking up at Zielinski suspiciously.
Zielinski tilted the light so that it glared directly into Brown’s eyes again. “Your pants,” he said. “Now.”
Brown averted his eyes. He pulled his pants most of the way up, then unclasped the belt, stood and completed the job. As he fastened the belt buckle, he said, “Show me your badge.”
“Shut up.”
Brown shook his head. “You ain’t no cop.”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Then show me your badge.”
Zielinski was almost glad he didn’t have a badge to flash, because he knew he would have done so.
Stay out of trouble. That’s what Hatcher had told him. She even said it was crucial.
Yet here he stood.
“You ain’t got no badge, do you? And I can smell the booze on your breath.” Brown sounded more confident every time he spoke. Zielinski knew he needed to do something about that.
“Here’s the situation,” Zielinski told him. “I can take you to jail for attempted vehicle prowling, possession of burglary tools, and resisting arrest. Or—”
“That’s bullshit,” Brown spat, “and so are you.”
“This is for real,” Zielinski said.
“Then show me your badge, you old drunk.”
Zielinski wanted to grab the man by the front of his shirt and blast him with a punch right into his smug face. Instead, he said, “I have bigger concerns than you.” He shifted and hurled the screwdriver up the alley into the darkness.
“Hey!”
“I’m keeping this,” Zielinski said, bobbing the flashlight.
“You can’t do that,” Brown objected.
“Go,” Zielinski ordered. “Before I change my mind.”
Brown scowled, shaking his head. “You dirty motherfucker,” he muttered. Then he turned and headed up the alley in the direction he’d been running.
Zielinski followed his progress with the flashlight. He watched as Brown stooped and retrieved the screwdriver he’d thrown, then continued on. Once the man reached the far end of the alley, Zielinski snapped off the light and retraced his own steps.
His car was still where he’d left it, t
he engine running and the door standing open. He took a moment to be grateful it hadn’t been stolen. He got in, dropped the lights from high beam to low, and executed a three-point turn. Then he drove out of the neighborhood. Brown’s words burned in his ears.
You dirty motherfucker.
He was done for the night.
Chapter 30
“I’m sorry,” Jean Carter said. “I thought she would have been here by now.”
Édelie Durand frowned, gave a half shrug, then turned her attention back to her notepad. She’d brought along a couple files and was taking the opportunity to review them.
Durand had shown up at city hall without an appointment and asked to speak to Councilwoman Margaret Patterson. Her assistant, the woman who now stood at the door anxiously watching Durand, had phoned Patterson to let her know she was in the offices of the city council members. Patterson stated she would be there in ten minutes and to find a conference room for them to meet.
That was twenty-two minutes ago.
“I’m really sorry.”
Durand glanced up at the woman. Jean wore a muted red dress and her dark hair was cut short. Her hands remained loosely clasped in front of her, yet her eyes couldn’t hide her worry.
“It’s fine,” Durand said. “I showed up unannounced.”
“You sure I can’t get you something?”
Durand’s hand hovered over her file. “I’ve got everything I need.”
Jean turned to leave then stopped. “Excuse me, ma’am. May I ask you something?” Her voice was soft, and her words respectfully chosen.
“You can ask whatever you like,” Durand said. “Whether I can answer is a different question.”
Jean glanced at her hands then asked, “Is this about Gary?”
Durand put down her pen. “Gary Stone?”
She nodded.
“He was your…?”
“Friend. He was my friend.”
Durand leaned back in her chair. “His death is partially why we’re here. I can tell you that much.”
Jean gnawed on her lip then nodded. “That’s good.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I don’t want him forgotten.”
“He won’t be,” Durand said. Thoughts of her husband flashed through her mind. She’d been able to talk with him for a few minutes that morning. “Especially if you keep remembering him.”
Her eyes suddenly glistened. “That’s my worry, you know? I mean, someday, not right away or anything, I’m going to wake up and not think about him. Maybe I’ll even go the whole day through. I don’t want that to happen.”
Sadness washed over Durand and she turned back to her notepad. Images of her husband alone in his bed played in her head. The cancer slowly eating him while she helped save another city that didn’t want to be saved. She lifted a trembling hand to cover her mouth.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” A woman brushed past Jean as she hurried into the room. She wore a green pantsuit with a black blouse. “I’m Margaret Patterson.” She thrust her right hand out as the left tossed a leather briefcase onto the conference room table. “My friends call me Maggie.”
Durand remained seated while she shook Patterson’s hand. She tried to ignore the waver in her voice as she introduced herself.
Patterson smiled broadly then jerked her head toward her assistant. “Did Jean talk your ear off?” The councilwoman scanned the table. “Jean, are you kidding me? Why haven’t you gotten Mrs. Durand a coffee or water?”
“She didn’t want—”
“You want a coffee or something?” Maggie asked Durand.
Durand thought briefly about correcting the councilwoman’s inappropriate use of her gender title. Instead, she shook her head and muttered, “I’m fine.”
Patterson dropped into a chair. When she looked up, she said, “Close the door, Jean. And bring me an espresso. Oh, and something to eat.”
Jean appeared slightly embarrassed and smiled awkwardly toward Durand. When she faced the councilwoman, she asked, “What do—”
Patterson lifted her palms and made a face of mockery. “Make a decision.”
The assistant lowered her head and backed out, closing the door as she went.
“A nice woman,” Patterson said, “but she’s taking longer to acclimate to her role than I would have expected. Anyway, thank you for meeting with me. Dana said to expect your call. I figured we would have set an appointment or something.”
“I don’t have much time,” Durand said. “My schedule has to be flexible.”
Patterson tapped the table. “Totally understand. Totally do. So what can I tell you to help make your case?”
Durand picked up her pen. “My case?”
“You’re here to build a case for a consent decree, right?”
“We’re determining if one is needed. We hope that it’s not.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s in everyone’s best interests that a police department conducts their business appropriately without our intervention.”
Patterson smirked. “But this department needs a consent decree.”
Durand crossed her arms. “Why do you say that?”
“Because the chief is out of control.”
“Baumgartner? What has he done that’s—”
The councilwoman laughed. “Did you hear about the Bethany Rabe thing? About how he and the mayor covered up a rape accusation? I should have Jean bring down my file on that. You should see it. I’ve got all the newspaper clippings from it. When Jean returns with my coffee, I’ll send her back up for it.”
“No need. We have a file on that incident.”
“There you go,” Patterson said with a clap of her hands. “There’s your decree, right there.”
Durand shook her head. “That’s not enough. We need to show a repeated pattern of behavior concerning civil right violations.”
“Civil rights?”
“That’s correct.”
“But Baumgartner acts with impunity.”
“Impunity?” It was Durand’s turn to smirk. “How so?”
“The mayor is afraid of him. He doesn’t hold him accountable.”
“Afraid of the chief of police?”
“Yes,” Patterson said.
“I’ve met the mayor. He doesn’t seem afraid of much. And according to news reports, he suspended the chief for three days after what happened—”
“He had to do something,” Patterson said. The exasperation was clear in her voice. “Otherwise, he would look weak. He had to show he had a grasp on Baumgartner’s leash. But it was all for show.”
Durand didn’t appreciate her analogy. “If you’re worried about him so much, can’t the council remove Baumgartner?”
“No,” she said. “He serves at the pleasure of the mayor.”
Durand shrugged. “That’s not worthy of a consent decree.”
“What about him not promoting women?”
“Explain.”
“That’s a civil rights issue, right?” Patterson tapped the table repeatedly. “There’s a distinct lack of women being promoted over there.”
“The imbalance—”
“Exactly,” Patterson interrupted. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about—the imbalance.”
Durand was about to explain that she’d already spoken with Captain Hatcher about this very issue, but the councilwoman’s enthusiastic interruption revealed her bias. Therefore, Durand decided to push on the other side of the issue and see how Patterson would respond.
“The imbalance is an issue for civil service to address. The Justice Department will step in if clear discrimination is apparent.”
“Your job is to find problems like this and fix them.”
“Just because there’s a disparity in women supervisors doesn’t mean there’s an inequality in opportunity. We’d have to look at a multitude of factors. Such as, how many women applied for promotion? How did they score on their tests? What are the—”
&n
bsp; “Maybe,” the councilwoman interrupted again, “the tests are biased toward men. Ever think about that?”
Durand took a deep breath. “Of course, we have.”
Patterson shook her head, sighed, then threw up her hands. “If you’re not here to help put this department in line, then what are you here for?”
“I’m here for the truth,” Durand said and closed her folder.
“What are you doing?”
“Thank you for your time,” she said and stood.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“We’ve barely spoken for five minutes.”
“I’ve gotten what I’ve needed.”
“Listen, lady—”
Durand scooped up her files and notepad.
“I didn’t bust my balls—”
She stepped toward the conference room door as Patterson’s voice rose.
“—to get down here just so you could—”
When the door swung open, Jean Carter stood there with a cup of coffee and a muffin in her hand.
“—walk out on me in the middle—”
“It’s over?” Jean whispered.
“For me,” Durand said and stepped past her.
“You fucking kidding me?” Patterson yelled from the conference room.
Jean’s mouth slowly opened.
Durand muttered, “Good luck.”
“Waste of my goddamned time!” the councilwoman shouted.
The deputy chief didn’t bother to turn around as she headed toward the elevators.
Chapter 31
William Jefferson Cardwell stuck out his hand and Tyler Garrett shook it.
“Wish this could have been under better circumstances,” Cardwell said with a slight lisp.
Garrett glanced back as Angie slid the glass door closed to leave the two men alone on the deck. Her smile was kind before she turned to deal with the kids.
“Yeah,” Garrett said, turning toward the white man who patiently waited to sit at the picnic table.
Cardwell’s face was fucked up. The left side was badly swollen, and his eyes were darkened like a raccoon’s. Several bandage strips were taped across the bridge of his purpled nose. His lips were cut in several places and when he spoke, two of his upper teeth on the left side were missing.
