by Paul Bishop
Lie Catchers
A Pagan & Randall Inquisition
Paul Bishop
Praise For Paul Bishop
And Lie Catchers
LIE CATCHERS
“Paul Bishop is the real deal – real cop, real writer. You never go wrong with a Bishop novel.” – Max Allan Collins, bestselling author of Road to Perdition
“Lie Catchers crackles with authenticity. Bishop’s thirty-five years as an LAPD Top Cop fuels a turbo-charged novel.” – Robert Crais, bestselling author of the Elvis Cole novels.
“Paul Bishop’s experience as a top-shelf interrogator shines through the pages of Lie Catchers, a fascinating emotional story of truth, redemption, and justice. Bishop presents an intriguing cornucopia of characters, each with their own secrets, motivations, and desires – including the dedicated detectives who use avant-garde techniques to sort through deception and lies. Lie Catchers is an outstanding debut to the series featuring top LAPD interrogators Ray Pagan and Calamity Jane Randall.” – Kathy Bennett, author of the LAPD Detective Maddie Divine series
“Paul Bishop weaves a fictional account so vivid you feel as if you’re riding shotgun with the investigating officers. A crackling good story, you’ll love Pagan and Randall, Bishop’s latest dynamic duo.” – Robin Burcell, bestselling author of The Last Good Place
“Through the narrative of Lie Catchers, Paul Bishop opens the door to the secrets of police interrogation, giving us a unique take on LA crime. With dynamics worthy of Sherlock Holmes, Ray Pagan and ‘Calamity’ Jane Randall are unlike any detectives you’ve seen before…their methods are entirely fresh.” – Sam Hawken, The Night Charter
“Lie Catchers is a remarkable journey into police interrogation tactics and the study of criminal psychology. Bishop has been there and knows all the intimate details. Authenticity simply spills across the pages.” – O’Neil De Noux, author of the LaStanza novels
Also By Paul Bishop
Hot Pursuit
Deep Water
Suspicious Minds
Fight Card: Felony Fists
Fight Card: Swamp Walloper
Nothing But The Truth (Almost)
Short Stories
Running Wylde
A Bucketful of Bullets
Lie Catchers
Paul Bishop
Kindle Edition
© Copyright 2018 (as revised) Paul Bishop
Wolfpack Publishing
6032 Wheat Penny Avenue
Las Vegas, NV 89122
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-64119-263-7
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
A Look At Hot Pursuit:
About the Author
To the wolves – past & present – of LAPD’s
Operations West Bureau Sexual Assault Detail
OWB–SAD
Always fighting the good fight…
Lie Catchers
Chapter 1
“Liar, liar, pants on fire. Nose as long as a telephone wire.”
- Unknown
When I first crossed swords with Rycovic Ray Pagan, he was already an LAPD legend in the interrogation room. Detectives would take bets on how long it would take Pagan to break a suspect wide open. It was said, he never missed – always coming out of the box with something to advance an investigation.
He was revered, feared, and jealousy being what it is, despised.
I was a bit of a legend myself. Twelve years on the job, five as a detective, currently assigned to Robbery Homicide’s elite Rape Special unit, and I still couldn’t get away from the Calamity Jane Randall moniker hung on me during my rookie year.
I’d solved my share of major cases, putting various villains in prison for more years than they had left on earth, but Calamity I’d been tagged, and Calamity I remained. A series of escalating coincidences while I was still in uniform – involving the accidental discharge of a shotgun, a sergeant’s squad car with a blown tire, and a urine soaked PCP suspect – were hard to live down.
My latest debacle – a suspect’s bullet taking a chunk out of my leg while my bullet took a chunk out of his vitals – hadn’t helped much. Nobody was saying the suspect didn’t get what he deserved and the shooting was clean. Nobody was saying the human smuggling ring we smashed wasn’t great police work. But the essence of calamity still hung over everything like a cheap celebrity perfume.
Ray Pagan was going to change that perception – not by changing me, but by allowing me to find my truth-self. Ray was big on truth, or at least his definition of truth. He was going to become more than my mentor. He was going to become my friend, despite me fighting him every step of the way.
However, I knew none of this as I used a black Malacca cane to stiffly walk my left leg into Chief Bullard’s office at the new Police Administration Building. Geographically only three blocks away from where LAPD’s old headquarters – the revered Parker Center – awaited demolition, the new PAB was a soulless warren of narrow hallways and bureaucratic oppression.
The chief stood up when I entered and came around his desk, walking through the shafts of sunlight unmuted by the tint covering the offices’ large windows.
“Jane, how are you? How’s the leg?” Chief Bullard asked as he attempted to corral me toward one of the two chairs in a small sitting area off to one side of his desk. I sat, ungracefully, which is to say I plopped down the last six inches into the leather chair, my leg stuck out in front of me like a fallen redwood.
“It’s coming along,” I said. “Physical therapy is helping.”
“You look great,” the chief said.
I gave an unladylike snort, which made him look uncomfortable.
I’d spent the three months since the shooting in sweat pants and tshirts. Depression had killed my appetite and the physical therapy had burned through whatever calories wine provided. I’d lost weight and the gray Ann Taylor pant suit I was wearing would have looked better on a scarecrow.
“I look like hell, Chief, and I know it,”
He nodded as if deciding something. “What’s the prognosis?” he asked, pointing to my leg. Both of us were relieved to be getting to the point. No more small talk.
“The doctor said I should be certified full-duty in another month, but I can come back light-duty effective immediately.” My voice went up a notch with desperation and I
hated the sound.
The chief looked at me. After a pause, he asked, “Want to try again?”
I fidgeted with my cane. I wanted to cross my legs, but that wasn’t happening.
The chief reached a long arm over and picked up a file from his desk. He opened it in his lap and looked down at it. “The doctors say you’ll always have a limp. Apparently, your right leg is now an inch shorter than your left.”
“Half-inch,” I said. Actually, I blurted the words and could feel myself blush when the chief looked up at me. Calamity, Calamity, Calamity! I couldn’t shake the curse.
I tilted my head down letting my dark hair fall forward to hide my eyes. I’d always used my hair as a defense ever since I’d been the tallest girl in my middle-school class. I paid it little attention beyond brushing and the occasional trim, yet somehow it had stayed rich and full.
The chief closed the file. I waited for the guillotine to fall.
“They are suggesting a full medical pension.”
Whack! Head into the hand basket and on the way to Hell…
“Chief…” I started.
“Relax,” the chief said. He tossed my medical file onto his desktop and sat back comfortably in his chair. “If I listened to doctors, I would have been dead from cancer ten years ago. It’s going to take a lot more than a pessimistic prognosis to kill this old war horse, or to make me give up on a potentially great detective.”
Potentially?
I brought my head up and looked directly at Chief Bullard. He smiled, knowing his word had hit its bull’s-eye.
“Calamity Jane Randall,” he said. “A pretty harsh handle to live with, especially as it isn’t true.”
I took a deep breath. “It kind of is,” I said, then tapped my cane against my leg. I was not going to cry. I would not cry.
“No, it’s not.” The chief’s voice was kind, but there was some steel in it. “I know your record. I know the cases you’ve cracked since you’ve been with RHD. You were shot in the leg, but you kept on going. Not only did you put your attacker down, but you crawled across the floor and, before he died, got him to tell you where twenty-six women were who were locked up in a storage container. They would have died if it wasn’t for you. I don’t call that a calamity. I call it being a hero.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.
“I’ve got a special assignment for you.”
“I don’t want a desk job.” I heard the defensive whine in my voice and cringed inside.
“Have I said it’s a desk job?” There was the tinge of exasperation in Bullard’s tone. “You may be a wizard in the field, but I understand the term calamity is actually appropriate when applied to your paperwork and organizational skills.”
I swallowed.
“Do you know Ray Pagan?”
“I know who he is, but I’ve never actually met him.”
“I’m surprised. Other than his wolves, he’s managed to meet and piss off almost every other detective in this department at one time or another.”
“That’s one of the things I’ve heard.”
“Ray’s a brilliant guy. The best interrogator this department has ever seen. I’d put him up against any interrogator anywhere. He’s that good, but he’s also a loose cannon.”
“I’ve heard rumors he screwed up big time a few years ago.”
The chief gave me a level look. “He did his job. He didn’t screw up. Sometimes bad things happen. You should be familiar with the pattern.”
Ouch.
“What else have you heard?”
I shrugged. “Not much. He was buried in deep freeze – working cases so stone-dead even the Cold Case Unit won’t touch them for fear of frostbite.”
“Ray’s choice, not mine, but I’m putting an end to his self-imposed exile. I want him back in the box, and I want you in there with him.”
“Why me?”
“Because he needs a minder. Ray is at his absolute best when he is freelancing. His wolves would follow Pagan to the gates of Hell. However, everybody else wishes he would go there.”
I wasn’t quite sure who these wolves were, but I guess I was going to find out. “What’s our assignment?”
“You will both be attached to RHD under Captain North. You’re going to be the go to interrogation team in major cases.”
“Who decides when we go in?”
“It will be case by case on direct orders from myself or North. Since Ray sees things others don’t, he can also decide to take a case. He’ll decide if you simply hit and run – do the interrogation and cut loose – or if you work the case further. I’ll make sure you get resources and the cooperation.”
“What’s my role?”
“You have the most important job. You keep Pagan in line and on track.”
“I’m sorry, chief, but I don’t think being the albatross around Pagan’s neck is something for which I’m cut out.”
The chief indicated my cane and leg. “Do you want back on the job, or do you want to be medically pensioned?”
“I want back, but I know a calamity when I see one coming.”
“Exactly,” the chief said. “So, you should be well prepared for the brewing storm. Jealousy is a funny thing. You’d think having a guy who can open up any suspect like a can of cheap tuna would be someone you’d want on your side. But detectives are very territorial. Nobody likes Pagan coming in and making them look foolish by actually getting blood out of a stone suspect. He doesn’t purposely make people look bad. He just has what he himself dismisses as a knack.”
“You’re saying nobody is going to make this easy,” I said.
“Hear me clearly, Randall. I don’t care about fragile egos. I care about results. Ray gets results…and so do you.”
I felt stunned. “What does Pagan think about this set-up?”
“It doesn’t matter.” The chief paused before asking, “You in?”
There was only one answer. “Where do I find this paragon of truth and justice?”
“Court. He’s being cross-examined about an interrogation in one of his cold cases. It should be entertaining.”
Chapter 2
“She entered the territory of lies
without a passport for return.”
- Graham Greene, The Heart of the Matter
L.A.’s Airport Superior Courthouse on South La Cienega was always a hive of activity. I took the elevator up to Department ‘S’ and took a seat in the back. I noticed two Los Angeles Times reporters, a jerk from the LA Weekly who had burned me twice, and several stand-up talking heads for the networks and cable channels in the audience. This was unusual, especially for a thirty year-old case with an octogenarian murder suspect and a total non-celebrity victim.
The draw had to be Ray Pagan.
It was a deep freeze case he’d been working. He’d apparently found something in the old case file and then gone on to obtain the confession, which was currently the main evidence against the suspect.
The defense was preparing to start cross-examination as Pagan reentered the witness box after the lunch break. I could see he was very tall and looked to be wiry under a well-cut suit in a style I’d never seen before. It had a silver-blue sheen and he wore it over a black shirt and silver tie. His shoes were muted, but the same basic color as the suit. Who was this guy? I knew a few detectives on the department who were sharp, but conservative dressers. Pagan was from a whole different fashion show.
When he took his seat on the witness stand every eye in the room was riveted upon him. The jury members were leaning forward as were all the reporters in the audience. Even Judge Rita Billings, as hard-bitten as they come, had turned her chair and was looking at Pagan intently. I couldn’t believe it, but there was a trace of a smile on her thin lips.
“Do I need to remind you about being under oath, Detective Pagan?” the judge asked.
“No, your honor. I’ve done this once or twice.” Pagan’s voice was honey over spikes, and I swear he turned up t
he wattage on the sly, brilliantly white-toothed smile, he sent her way.
Pagan’s straight black hair was brushed back from a devil’s peak on his forehead, dropping over his collar at the back. As he turned to face the defense attorney, Pagan ran his hands back through his hair, securing it behind his ears, and sobered his expression. No crew-cut or department regulation tapered back and sides for this guy.
His features were dark. High cheekbones, hooded eyes. His thin aquiline nose had been broken in some distant fracas. From the amount of time he had on the job, I knew he must be in his early forties, but he looked ten years younger.
Gerald Raines was a big time hired gun defense attorney. Tennis fit and coiffed to within an inch of his life, his dark blue suit cost three times more than any other suit in the courtroom – including Pagan’s. He rarely had difficulty handling even experienced prosecutors like Peter Simmons, whom he was facing today. However, I got the feeling even Raines was intimidated by Pagan.
Next to Raines sat the defendant, Arthur Howell. In his eighties, Howell was bent with age. The black suit he wore bagged at elbows and knees. He was accused of stabbing and killing an-ex army buddy thirty years ago. Howell had served with the victim in the Pacific during World War II, and had survived POW camp in the Philippines with him. After returning stateside, they had lived close and remained best friends. None of the detectives in the original investigation had even looked at Howell as a suspect. Even now, the only real evidence against him was the confession Pagan had elicited after reopening the case.
“Detective Pagan.” Raines paused to clear his throat, excused himself, and started over. “Detective Pagan, isn’t it your job to convict my client?”
