by Randy Alcorn
“It would be hard to pinpoint.”
“During Christmas season you answered your phone, ‘Ho, ho, ho … homicide.’ ”
“Oh yeah.”
“And what is the public supposed to think? We take our work seriously here, Detective.”
“I thought it was an internal line. Another cop.”
“That doesn’t make it right. We need to set examples for each other. And don’t you agree we need to give the public a good impression?”
“I agree that we need to do our jobs.”
“And you don’t consider leaving a good impression part of your job?” The sweat on his forehead was building.
“Sometimes we’re pulling double shifts, haven’t slept for a day and a half. What we do is serious. A little humor helps.”
“Appropriate humor.”
“Yes, sir.” I don’t know if my voice conveyed respect. If it did, it was lying.
“You’re a rule bender, Chandler,” he said, saying the word like Jack Bauer would say terrorist.
“I’m a risk taker. I do what it takes to get my job done.”
“Policies govern how you can do your job.”
“Some policies keep me from doing my job.”
“So you ignore them?”
“I try to figure out how I can fulfill them and still catch the bad guys.”
“That has to change.”
“If it does, fewer bad guys will get caught.”
His face turned cherry. I knew he was about to explode into a lecture I’d heard before. But he didn’t. That unnerved me.
“Why are you telling me this now, sir? What’s going on?”
He took a file folder and scanned neatly typed notes. He took a deep breath. “The Oregon Tribune and the police department have a long history of tense relations.”
“You mean we hate each other’s guts?”
“You’ll be glad to know, Detective Chandler, that you have the opportunity to help mend fences.”
“I do?”
“You know Raylon Berkley?”
“The Tribune publisher? Sure. He’s an idiot.”
“He’s brilliant. And a potential ally to our cause.”
“What cause would that be?”
“The cause of … this police department. What we stand for. Justice.”
“What did I miss? What happened to make an enemy an ally?”
“Raylon has never been our enemy. The media’s job is to press hard, ask the difficult questions, hold us accountable.”
“And lie about us?”
“You’re talking about your situation fifteen years ago?”
“Berkley was there then. He never struck me as an ally.”
“He doesn’t write the stories.”
“No, but he pays to have them written, then makes the bucks when they’re sold.”
“Actually, the Tribune has lost money the last two years.”
“That’s what I hear. You have no idea how many sleepless nights it’s caused me.”
He lifted still another file folder that showed rubber band marks. “You feel the Tribune accused you of police brutality.”
“It’s more than a feeling.”
“The investigation cleared you.”
“Sure. But our neighbors, my wife’s coworkers, and my kids’ friends will always think I beat up that guy unnecessarily, and I did it because of his skin color. I used force against him because he was acting violently and putting people at risk.”
“So you said.”
“So I said because it’s true.”
“You’re going to have to get beyond your stereotype of Raylon Berkley.”
“Why? Is he a new homicide sergeant?”
“Look, Chandler, the last two years haven’t just been bad for the Tribune. They’ve been bad for the Portland Police.”
I agreed, though I would have taken it back five years, to the day he became chief, not long before Mulch introduced himself to his pant leg.
He picked up a clipboard that held what looked like a dozen pages of handwritten notes. “We’ve had a series of shootings, two where officers were found liable for the deaths of innocent citizens.”
“The Tribune found them liable.”
“In one case they were right.”
“Okay. Blalock was a jerk and deserved to be busted. I’m all for that. I hate dirty cops. But what about Collins? Sure, he’s back on the streets, but nobody trusts him. You can’t do your job when everybody thinks you strong-armed a store owner and destroyed his shop.”
“It looked bad.”
“And who made it look bad, before all the facts came in, before the two witnesses came forward who saw the store owner pull his gun on the cop? The Tribune and the news stations. Collins’s life will never be the same. Trust me. People still think I’m a racist and brutalized some helpless guy.”
“My point is, our problems with police behavior and the fund-raiser and the embezzlement … it’s hurt our image.”
“So? Where are we going here?” I squirmed, feeling like I was wearing a wool sweater with no undershirt.
“Raylon Berkley and I have had lunch a half dozen times the last two months. We’ve come up with a plan we believe can be good for both of us. Something that will bolster the public’s understanding of our department and at the same time increase sales of the Tribune. Raylon has taken it to their directors, and I’ve taken it to our advisory council. Everybody’s on board.”
“What board are they on?”
“You have to remember that PR is everything.”
“Everything? What about justice?”
“Well, yes, justice, naturally. But you can’t have justice without good public relations. Anyway, in order to be on the same team with the Tribune, in order for them to see us as we are, we need to spend time together, see each other at work, get to know each other.”
“Like … dating?”
“A crude analogy,” he said. “But there’s truth in it.”
“Look, I’ve got murders to solve. Are you going to tell me what’s going on here?”
He shook like a volcano about to erupt.
Instead, he calmly said, “We have a plan. A Tribune reporter will cover a murder case, working alongside one of our homicide detective teams, start to finish. They’ll be there from crime scene to lab, interviews, every aspect of the investigation. The reporter will write it up for the public—” he raised his hand when he saw my face—“leaving out anything that could compromise the investigation. Two days a week an article will be written, allowing the readers of the Trib to follow the investigation.”
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Look at the success of COPS. It shows people what we really do. People love it. Just like they love CSI.”
“Right, and they expect cases to be solved like they are on CSI. And juries now demand CSI-type evidence to prove guilt when it normally doesn’t work that way. And people who watch COPS figure out ways to outsmart the system.”
“But people have gained a much greater understanding of our work. It’s helped our image. We need it here in Portland. I had a few conditions, of course, and so did Raylon. All but one of his conditions were reasonable.”
“I think it’s a big mistake. But you don’t need my permission.”
“I certainly don’t.”
“So again I ask, why am I here?”
The barbecue coals in his eye sockets flamed on. Lenox slammed down his clipboard on his desk, three inches from my fingers. “Because Raylon Berkley’s condition is that his reporter has to work with you.”
3
“I should prefer that you do not mention my name at all in connection with the case, as I choose to be only associated with those crimes which present some difficulty in their solution.”
SHERLOCK HOLMES, THE ADVENTURE OF THE CARDBOARD BOX
“I’M NOT ASKING YOU,” the chief said, wagging his finger at me. “This isn’t a democracy.”
“There’s no way I
can do my job with a journalist in my pocket. Ridiculous!”
“It’s not your call, Detective.”
“What about Jack Glissan or Brandon Phillips? They’re perfect. Veterans. Punctual. Look good in suits. They’re fit. Hair’s nice, everything the public likes.”
“For once we agree,” Lennox said. “That’s what I told Raylon. But no, he said, ‘I want Ollie Chandler.’ ”
“Had he been drinking?”
“I couldn’t believe it either,” the chief said. “Why choose a velvet Elvis when you can have a Monet?”
“I have a velvet Elvis hanging in my garage. Who’s Mohnay?”
He nodded, as if proving a point.
“So why does Berkley want me?”
“He said it’s because you’re colorful and interesting and you have a history.”
“I’m good-looking and brilliant too, but Glissan or Phillips are still better choices.”
He stood, face red, waving his hands like a conductor. “I think the real reason was stated—the exact words were, ‘Chandler can act like a moron.’ I think he hopes you will.”
“I’ll bet you stuck up for me when he said that.”
“He didn’t say it. I did. You’re a fish out of water. And your career direction … you’re up a creek without a paddle.”
“One day my ship will come in. You can’t judge a book by its cover.”
“Raylon thinks the handwriting’s on the wall. When you mess up, readership increases. After all, idiots can be interesting.”
You’re an idiot and you’re not interesting, I said.
Okay, I didn’t say it, but I thought it. And that’s why I’m putting it in italics. (I’m hoping eventually to turn this into a detective novel. I figure any idiot can write one of those.)
“Well, if you don’t want me to do it, and I don’t want to do it, why are we even talking about it?”
“Because … we’re that desperate.” He sighed and plopped into his chair.
“We?”
“Our future’s at stake.”
“Do you mean your future?” Chicago was on his mind.
“The future of the police department!”
“Are they considering dismantling the department and having the city run by gangs and vigilantes? Because I’m thinking that may not work too well. Didn’t work in Chicago.”
“It’s signed, sealed, and delivered. You’re going to do it. Unless you want to turn in your badge and find a job in mall security.”
With three hours’ sleep and eight cups of coffee, I had one nerve left and the chief was getting on it. I stood and walked to the door.
“Malls have their upsides. There’s a pet store. Caramel corn. Starbucks. Hot Dog on a Stick. Beats the lousy vending machines in detective division.”
I walked out the door, right past Mona and her cute little lapdog, who pretended they weren’t eavesdropping. The chief followed me. I turned and said, “Chicago winters are rough anyway. As we speak, it’s probably raining cats and dogs.”
I rarely leave the Justice Center until after rush hour. But I had to escape.
I went out of my way to gaze on the cornerstone inscribed with Martin Luther King’s words: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Ironic that he spoke those words while locked up in a place like this. It burned me that injustice still worms its way inside the building that bears those words.
I crossed the Morrison Bridge, got on I-84 east, then exited early and pulled into a 7-Eleven on Halsey. Bought a six-pack of Bud, then drove to a Minit Mart two miles down Stark Street and bought another six-pack. When you’re a cop, you have to be careful. Somebody might think you have a drinking problem.
My last stop was Taco Bell, where I ordered a bean burrito, two chicken chalupas, and a steak gordita. I turned on the car radio and in forty seconds heard about a kidnapping, arson, and an escaped child molester. I punched it off.
I walked in my front door, and Mulch did the doggy dance of joy. I let him out onto my splintery back deck, catching the faint smell of burnt English muffins, gazing at my measly yellowish lawn and its unspread pile of moldy bark dust, by the rotting elm tree.
I grabbed two beers and poured one into Mulch’s bowl. He lapped it up. Then I popped in a 24 DVD and settled onto the couch. I handed Mulch a chalupa. He inhaled it in three seconds.
When Nero Wolfe, master detective, wants a beer, he presses a button and Fritz comes in with a tray. I don’t have a Fritz. Or a Theodore to tend the orchids. Or an Archie to do my legwork. All I’ve got is Mulch. But I wouldn’t trade him even for Fritz, Theodore, and Archie.
I love Nero Wolfe and Jack Bauer and Chuck Norris. They’re my escape from a world that doesn’t make sense, a world I find myself liking less every day.
I pressed the remote and watched Jack Bauer save the country despite the bureaucrats. Justice prevails. It’s a nice thought. After the fifth beer it’s almost believable.
If there is a God, I wonder if He gets as tired of this world as I do.
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 6:30 A.M.
My shaky, headache-riddled memories of the night before included Walker, Texas Ranger roundhouse kicking a gang of thugs into tomorrow and Jack Bauer chopping a bad guy’s hand off to save the city from a nuclear bomb. Or something.
They say that when the boogeyman goes to sleep, he checks his closet for Chuck Norris. Superman wears Chuck Norris pajamas. Chuck Norris doesn’t sleep; he waits.
That’s why I like Chuck Norris and Jack Bauer. They do what the rest of us can’t. Hey, they can get McDonald’s breakfast after ten thirty. They scare the crud out of bad guys, and they give us hope that maybe in the end good will beat out evil.
I also remembered my conversation with the chief, reason enough to drink myself into unconsciousness. At least I’d made it all the way to bed this time.
I sipped coffee to pull myself back into the world I’d checked out of twelve hours ago. Beer pulls me out; coffee pulls me back. A bungee cord effect.
I pulled three case files out of my briefcase. The Jimmy Ross murder was on top. It had been so easy, but a few things about it niggled at me, like a carpenter ant munching wood siding.
Let it go. Why was that case still bugging me?
I stood on Justice Center floor 14, the detective floor, at the watercooler, watching bubbles rise. The sun coming through the windows of Portland Homicide was suddenly eclipsed. I looked up. Hovering over me was a human planetoid.
“Clarence Abernathy,” I said. I stepped back so as not to be sucked in by his gravity. “Big as life. Bigger.”
“Hello, Detective.”
I suppose we both felt awkward, like guys who should be friends by now but aren’t. We see each other once a week, at Lou’s, for lunch with Jake. Never anywhere else. Clarence and I get along only if Jake’s there. Without him, our chemistry goes bad.
He wore a meticulous black suit, maroon tie, and dress shoes, looking like a CEO or corporate attorney. His clothes appear permanently ironed. He’s a columnist for the Oregon Tribune, where most of the reporters dress like war protestors. But Abernathy always looks like he’s come from the tailor.
His back’s half an acre. There’s so much of the man you’re tempted to stare. He’s no more than thirty pounds overweight—not bad for a guy who maybe hit three hundred pounds at fifteen.
“I haven’t been here since … since Dani …” He peered out the huge windows overlooking Portland, his voice sounding like distant thunder. I remembered that night we’d met, at his sister’s house, forty minutes after she’d been murdered.
“You’re wondering why I’m here.” His words were clean and precise, like a Shakespearean actor. He gave me a half smile.
“Being a detective, I think I just figured it out. Are you the chosen one?”
“When I heard Berkley cut a deal with your chief and wanted someone assigned to you, I volunteered. I figured I’d rescue you from my colleagues.”
“Am I supposed to feel relieved t
hat I’m ending up with you rather than one of those arrogant journalists who thinks he knows everything?”
“It could be worse. I could be one of those arrogant cops who thinks he knows everything. Besides, I figured I was the only one who could get past your … idiosyncrasies.”
“Never underestimate a reporter’s ability to overestimate his ability.”
“They call us journalists now.”
“Yeah, and they call drug addicts chemically dependent. Doesn’t Berkley know we’re friends? I mean, as much as a cop and a journalist can be friends.”
“Berkley knows your reputation. So he wanted to assign you a woman or a minority.”
“Are you the woman or the minority?”
“You’re a pain, Chandler. What was I thinking?”
Clarence sounded like a disgruntled bull. I like that sound, so I make a point of pushing his buttons. Jake is our buffer, managing to keep us civil. It’d been years since I’d gone one-on-one with Clarence.
“C’mon, sit down,” I said. “Give the sun a chance to shine. So you think we’re going to be partners?”
“Not partners. Two guys doing their jobs. I’ll be happy if we don’t kill each other.”
“Can we lower our sights to something more realistic? Like, we’ll kill each other, but quickly and with minimal suffering?”
“I assume your chief made the decision without you?”
“Quit calling him my chief. I’ve been sideswiped. Berkley and Lennox are a couple of big egos. And they’re using us.”
“Your chief isn’t keen on you either. Berkley said he called you King of the Idiots.”
“He actually said King of the Idiots?”
“Don’t take it personally.”
“Like his opinion matters to me. King’s not bad. Beats Queen. Or Jack. Actually, you’re lucky, Abernathy. Not many journalists get to see a mastermind at work. Watson wrote up Sherlock Holmes. Every Holmes needs a Watson.”
“I’m not your Watson. Anyway, here’s the deal. The moment you get notified of a murder, you’re to call me. Immediately. You give me the address, and you’re not supposed to do anything until I get there. I need to see everything as the case unfolds.”
“You’re already taking charge?”
