by David Putnam
At the curb in front of the station, Detective Jack Hendricks stood leaning against my Ford Ranger. When I’d gone to the station the night before with the shooting team to be interviewed, I left my truck at the crime scene with the blown tires. He tossed me the keys. “You owe me for the two front tires. The rims, too—they were bent.”
I caught the keys. He’d changed the tires for me. “Thanks, I’ll write you a check.” I didn’t know Jack Hendricks other than meeting him yesterday at Lennox Station when Wicks gave us his violent-crimes team philosophy speech. Just the sight of him and his smile went a long way to make me feel better about what happened. He moved to his Pontiac Firebird parked behind my truck. “Hey, that was a helluva lot of fun last night. Great caper. Good job.”
Even if I had not been the one to tackle Armendez, or taste his blood or stand over him while he expired, I didn’t think I would’ve ever called what happened “a great caper” or a “good job.” Jack just wanted to support me and I appreciated it.
I said, “You seen Wicks?”
“Nope, dispatch said he never answered his pages. Hey, man, I gotta run. I’ll catch ya later.”
I nodded. Jack got in his Firebird, started up, and took off.
I wanted to get home and drop into bed, sleep straight through to tomorrow. Only I couldn’t get Armendez’s expression out of my mind, the image of him lying on the sidewalk on his back, in his own blood, his eyelids only open to slits revealing a bit of the whites and a sliver of his pupils. His mouth slack and gaping open.
And worse, the coppery taste of his blood.
I got in my truck, started up, and was unconsciously drawn back to the crime scene. I needed to see it in the daylight to burn a new image in my memory over the one I no longer wanted.
I played the truck radio loud to try and stay awake. Twenty minutes later, Holt and Lewis looked totally different in the light of day. The ominous darkness no longer added to the ugliness of sudden death. I drove past it going eastbound, made a U-turn at Lewis, drove back, and parked a few feet from the large brown stain on the sidewalk. The yellow Sheriff’s crime-scene tape lay on the ground and fluttered in the light breeze. Torn paper packages, blood-soaked gauze, and other items used in the fierce battle to save Armendez’s life still remained in a clutter. Lots of cars zipped by, people going to work unaware that not hours before, someone’s life had ended in that spot.
I turned the truck off, leaned forward, and rested my head on the steering wheel, my eyes closed, disgusted with myself. Somehow, in all the chaos, I’d forgotten about my daughter. How could that happen? I’d left that huge responsibility to my father, and that wasn’t fair. I hadn’t even called him. What he must think of me. I needed to get home.
A loud rapping on the passenger window startled me. Lieutenant Wicks stood on the sidewalk, slightly bent over, peering in. Fatigue showed in his face, in his tanned skin and eyes, though his hair was combed perfectly and his brown suit coat looked fresh enough. He rapped again. In his hand he held a burning Tiparillo cigar, the small kind with the plastic mouthpiece. I didn’t know he smoked.
Anger welled up inside me. This man, my supervisor, should’ve responded to all the pages. He should’ve been there last night to back his team. I got out, slammed my truck’s door, and walked around to the sidewalk. I knew I should cool off before confronting him, but fatigue overcame good sense. He said nothing, smiled hugely, and offered me the box of Tiparillos from his shirt pocket.
“No thank you.”
Still with the smile. “Take one.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Take one.”
The anger started to subside. I took a cigar, unwrapped it, and stuck the plastic mouthpiece in my lips. He took out his Zippo with the Marine Corps emblem and lit it. We leaned against my truck and puffed. I tried not to inhale and suppressed several coughing bouts as the smoke burned my nose and throat.
I couldn’t look at the crime scene and stared at the flowering ice plant on the other side of the sidewalk. The nicotine lit me up. It made my blood rush and my heart beat faster. The fatigue melted away.
The stupid thing was, Wicks had said nothing about what happened the night before and yet I somehow knew he approved.
Still, I had the urge to defend my actions. I said, “He cut his own throat.”
Wicks took his cigar from his mouth and blew on the tip. Some ash fell away as the cherry tip glowed hot. “Come over here.”
I followed him to his county car, a maroon Chevy Malibu, parked behind my truck. He reached into a brown paper bag sitting on the hood and brought out a tall can of cheap beer, Pabst Blue Ribbon. He popped the tab and handed it to me. I hesitated. “You’re kidding me, right? We’re right out in public here. Everyone can see.”
“Take it, that’s an order.”
I took it, the can cold and wet in my hand. He pulled another out of the bag, popped the top, and tilted it back, his throat working a long slug of beer. I did the same and once I started, couldn’t stop. I tossed back the entire can and choked a little on the last part of the foam. It tasted better than anything I’d ever drunk, and since I hadn’t eaten anything for the last twenty hours, the sixteen ounces of carbonated liquid stretched my empty stomach and the alcohol immediately went to work.
A Pomona police car drove by and slowed. The officer saw us with the beers in our hands, drinking in public, an ABC—Alcohol Beverage Control—violation. He pulled out of the flow of traffic and came right at us.
CHAPTER TEN
WICKS RAISED HIS can and toasted his beer to the cop car and took another long drink. The cop pulled to the curb behind Wicks’ county unit. He picked up his mike and started to call it in. Wicks took a step away from the hood of his car, kept drinking, and pulled his coat back to reveal his Los Angeles County Sheriff’s star and his gun on his hip. Only this time, for some reason, he didn’t have his favored .45 Colt Combat Commander. Instead he carried the department issue .38 in his holster.
The cop shook his head with disgust, put the mike down, and pulled back into the passing traffic.
Wicks burped, tossed his empty into the ice plant on the other side of the sidewalk, and pulled another out of the bag. He offered it to me. I took it and popped the tab. The alcohol from the first beer had already hit me pretty hard. I rarely imbibed. I drank more slowly from the second can. I still had a long drive home.
While I did, Wicks said, “Damn fine job last night.”
I jerked the can down and looked at him. “I didn’t cut his throat.”
“I know you didn’t.”
“You do? How?”
He took another long pull on his Pabst, his eyes not leaving mine. He set the can on the hood of his county car. He reached into his suit-coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I tracked down the girlfriend.”
“Armendez’s girlfriend?”
“That’s right.”
“You did? When did you do that?”
The responsibility of Armendez’s death played heavy on my mind, much more than I thought. I wanted to snatch the paper from Wicks’ hand. I needed relief from the guilt, some explanation, no matter how minor, as to why a man died under my hand.
I casually reached for the folded paper. “What did she say?”
He pulled the paper out of reach and smiled. “She said Armendez called her, said that some men were after him. He said that he wouldn’t go back to prison. Said no matter what, he wouldn’t go back.”
I shook my head. “Ah, shit.”
“What?”
“You said he thought some people were after him.” “That’s right.”
“I don’t think we identified ourselves last night. He might’ve thought we were those people, whoever they were, that were chasing him.”
Wicks let me take the paper from him. I opened it, a supplemental report form, handwritten and signed by Wicks. One paragraph stating what he’d just said along with Armendez’s girlfriend’s information.
He
smiled, took a pull off his beer, and then said, “That was a mistake, but nothing to lose any sleep over. You might get a couple days on the bricks for it, no big deal. You’ll know better next time, won’t you?”
“I don’t care about any discipline. What I do care about is whether Pedro Armendez would still be alive if he knew we were cops and not ‘these people who were out to get him.’”
Wicks brought out his finger again and poked me in the chest. “Don’t go second-guessing yourself on this one. It came out in the good, so let it go.”
“Don’t poke me in the chest again or we’re gonna have a problem.”
He leaned back a little and smiled. “Really? You really just said that?”
“I did.”
I crumpled the beer can, shoved it down in the bag, and headed for my truck. He said at my back, “Hey, my wife, Barbara, and I are having some folks over for a barbecue this Sunday, day after tomorrow, to celebrate the team’s first kill. I want you to come. We’re going to grill some shark steaks. Bring whoever you like.”
I stopped and took a couple of steps back toward him. “Celebrate? Are you kidding? A man died. That’s nothing to celebrate.”
He pointed at me. “You need to get over yourself or you’re not going to make it.” He pointed to the dried blood on the sidewalk. “That puke sealed his own fate when he went over that low mod fence at CIM. You did what you were supposed to do. You did it by the numbers, and I’m proud to have you on the team. But if you can’t cut it, you let me know, and I’ll get you reassigned.”
“That’s fine by me.”
He looked shocked. We stared at each other for a moment. He said, “If that’s what you want, fine. But you better think about it first. Cool off a little before you make a decision like this. I’ll give you until tonight at six. We have an op going down at Lynwood Station. If you’re there, we’ll forget we had this conversation. If you’re not, I’ll put in your transfer back to patrol.”
“Like I said, that’s fine by me. Don’t wait on me tonight. I won’t be there.”
We stood there a moment longer. I pulled his 9mm from the shoulder holster, took the few steps back, and tried to hand it to him.
“No, keep it until tonight. I know you’ll cool off and see the error of your ways.”
I didn’t want to argue, stuck it back in my holster, turned, and headed to my truck.
“Bruno?”
I stopped but didn’t turn. I didn’t want any more to do with him.
“What?”
“Come here, I wanna show you something.”
I hesitated and thought about not doing what he asked, thought about just getting in my truck and driving away. I turned around. He’d walked over to the ice plant close to where he’d tossed his first empty beer can. I didn’t move. He pointed at something in the ice plant. “Look.”
I walked over and peered into the ground cover. Something very small glinted in the early morning sunlight. I got down on one knee for a closer look. I pulled away some of the ice plant and saw it: a bloodied X-Acto knife blade without the knife handle. No wonder the crime-scene techs didn’t find it. They’d been looking for a knife, not a small X-Acto blade.
I looked at Wicks. He smiled.
Wicks had come on his own time to look for the weapon Armendez had used on himself. He came to try and help clear his team member.
Me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I TURNED THE music up to stay awake on the long drive home and fought to keep my eyelids from drooping shut.
Wicks called the crime-scene techs to officially recover the X-Acto knife blade. He told me not to wait around, to go home and get some sleep, that he wanted me fresh for the op tonight, a robbery surveillance. I didn’t have the nerve to tell him again that I wouldn’t be there. He’d figure it out when I didn’t show.
I jumped on the Pomona Freeway headed west, mingling among the last of the folks going into LA to work. All that had happened in the last twenty-four hours played in a kaleidoscope of scenes in my mind. The part with Pedro Armendez came out more like some horror flick in stark Technicolor. All it lacked was the ominous organ music.
I couldn’t turn it off. I also couldn’t resolve Wicks in the whole scheme of things. I really wanted to dislike him and couldn’t. He remained an enigma I couldn’t read, not even a little.
The news came on as I continued to fight the nod. I woke up a little from the adrenaline push. Would they describe the incident in Pomona? Would they say Pedro Armendez’s name? Would they say my name in an accusatory manner? Air what happened to the entire world?
Angelinos can rest easy tonight. A brutal robbery and murder suspect is officially off the streets. Damien Frakes Jr., a Holly Street Crip gang member and a parolee at large, was shot and killed last night in the back alley of 123rd Street off of Central Avenue, in South Central Los Angeles. Damien Frakes Jr. was wanted in connection with the triple murder at Franco’s Jewelry store in Torrance and for the shooting and wounding of a Redondo Beach patrol officer.
A lieutenant from the newly formed Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department’s Violent Crime Team tracked Frakes to the back alley. The name of the lieutenant was withheld pending the shooting team’s investigation. A witness at the scene said that when the lieutenant confronted Frakes, they were no more than ten feet apart. The lieutenant yelled, “Drop your gun, Sheriff’s Department.” They both fired their guns at the same time. Frakes was hit in the chest multiple times and was declared dead at the scene. The lieutenant sustained a grazing wound to his left arm, was treated and released.
To recap—
I shut the radio off and drove in stunned silence. Wicks had said nothing of what happened to him the night before—just hours before, really. He had casually offered me a cigar and a beer and invited me over to his house to barbecue shark steaks on Sunday, the same as if nothing at all had happened. Cool and calm.
Cool with a gunshot to the arm.
He didn’t go get his haircut, which I’d recognized at the time as nothing more than rhetoric. But still, I didn’t think he’d go after Frakes, not alone.
What he did do though, and it wasn’t fair at all, was wind up his little toy soldiers and send us off on a bullshit assignment. He then went after the hard target on his own. He went toe to toe in a real gunfight with Frakes.
Son of a bitch.
I’d just stood out there on Holt Boulevard pissing and whining like some kind of baby. And he let me do it. I got mad at him all over again.
That’s why he wasn’t carrying his Colt .45 Combat Commander; the shooting investigators had taken it for routine ballistics comparison.
I still couldn’t get around the fact that he said nothing about the shooting. He didn’t brag or offer it as an excuse or reason why he had not responded to the pages.
Afterward, he didn’t go home to rest, to be consoled by his wife, Barbara. No, instead he drove all the way to the east side of the county to find a bloodied X-Acto knife blade to pull his detective’s cookies out of the fire.
How in the hell could I quit his team now?
Something niggled at the tip of my brain. Something didn’t quite jibe with what happened, either last night or that morning, and I couldn’t identify the problem. Fatigue wouldn’t allow the answer to bubble up. I’d have to think about it tomorrow after I’d had time to sleep.
Thirty minutes later, I came to, sitting in my truck in front of Dad’s house, the house I grew up in, the house where my baby girl now resided. I had no recollection of the drive home and could only believe my truck, like a faithful horse, knew the way and took care of its master.
Dad had already left for work as a postal carrier for the USPS. His work ethic came under the same umbrella as his principles in life: he never missed a day for any reason. Once, he even went to work with pneumonia and a hundred-and-two fever. He ran himself down to the quick. Noble and I thought he might kill himself over his misplaced sense of honor. I didn’t think that would’ve bot
hered Dad at all. Death in the name of honor held a noble calling. Working the street, I found that dead was dead no matter how you cut it.
I staggered into the house and plopped facedown on the couch. I didn’t move until hours later when Dad nudged me awake.
Drool wet one side of my face. Pedro Armendez and the people chasing him populated my dreams, the taste of his blood, the look of his hooded eyes. I rubbed my face and sat up blinking.
Dad, dressed in his blue-gray postal pants and his white shoulder-strap t-shirt, sat down next to me holding Baby Girl Johnson. My daughter. His grandchild. She made cute little noises. He held a bottle in his nudging hand. He said, “You awake yet?”
“Just gimme a minute, and I will be.”
Fatigue had burrowed deep into my bones, took up residence, and fought the eviction. I shook myself awake. I wanted to hold my daughter.
“You smell like booze, Son. Have you been drinking? I’m going to be mad if you went out carousing when you have a child at home waitin’ on you. You have too much responsibility now to—”
“It’s not like that, Dad. I had a beer with my boss. He kind of forced it on me. But, I know, I’m an adult, and I didn’t have to take it. I wanted it. I needed it. I came straight home as soon as I could. It was a helluva night, Dad, one of those that . . . well, I hope I don’t have any more like it.”
“I’m sittin’ right here, why don’t you tell me all about it.” He gently moved the baby up and down to keep her happy. I thought babies that young cried a lot more.
I shook my head. Right after the thing with Armendez happened, all I wanted to do was get home and spill my guts to my dad, a need I had to fulfill. As he sat next to me ready to receive my confession, I couldn’t say the words. The words seemed dirty and laden with so much guilt I couldn’t drag them out to make him a part of such an awful tableau. Especially not in front of my baby girl. “Not now, Dad, okay?”
I reached out to take my daughter from him.
He pulled her away. “Not with all that blood on you. You can hold her after you get cleaned up.”
