She glanced up. “He’s busy—”
Brad continued down the hall and into Sturgeon’s office. It was about the size of a broom closet. The desk was a step up from Brad’s WWII-surplus, fake-wood veneer over pressboard. But, unlike Brad, who worked in a room with twenty other detectives, Sturgeon had his own office. There was something for that. Now if only there were a place to sit. A file box occupied one chair with piles of file folders on the other. His desk was covered with crime scene photos.
Sturgeon didn’t glance up, but said, “Sure. Come on in. I’m not busy at all. You’re dressed up today. Job interview?”
“I have court this afternoon. You appear tired. Did you miss your morning coffee?”
Sturgeon glanced up from comparing fingerprints. “Morning coffee? I’ve been at work since last night dealing with a death. I’m living on coffee.”
Brad stared at Sturgeon, confused. “I saw nothing significant from last night.”
“You wouldn’t. It was a traffic fatality. Hit and run. Totally beneath the gods of Homicide.”
Brad shrugged. “I had an excellent sleep. Heck, Lobo even let me sleep until about six-thirty.”
“Arse.” Sturgeon pointed to a chair. “You might as well sit and make yourself at home like you generally do.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Brad set his coffee on Sturgeon’s desk, moved the box to the floor, plopped into a chair, leaned back, and locked his hands behind his head. “What’s so important about a hit and run?”
“Hit-and-run fatality. Old guy crossing the street a block from the Cecil Tavern when he was hit. He died in hospital.” Sturgeon rubbed the stubble on his chin. “We found the car last night in The Bay’s parking garage. I had it towed here. It’s the right car. The windshield is cracked with blood and hair. There are dents in the hood, roof and trunk. The right headlight is broken.”
“You’ve got the driver?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Brad’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why not?”
“Sergeant Toscana sent a cruiser over to the registered owner’s house in Altadore about three this morning and woke him up. He was sober. His wife said he’d been with her since he came home from work at five-thirty.”
“Of course, the guy has an alibi from his wife.” Brad reached for his coffee.
“His kids, as well. They were awake until about nine. He didn’t have a drink all night. We’ll take his photo to the Cecil and other nearby bars today and see if anyone can identify him.”
“Dead end there.” Brad sipped his coffee. “Where was the car stolen from?”
“Down the block from his house. The houses are close together, and no one has a garage. Street parking is at a premium.”
Brad reached for the crime scene photos. “Was the car locked?”
Sturgeon snatched the photos away before Brad could grab them. “He says so.”
“What did you find in the car? Fingerprints? Tissue? Coffee cup? Chip bag? Convenience store receipt? Bodies in the trunk?”
“Well, damn, why didn’t I check for those.” Sturgeon glared. “The answer to all is no. We were at the crime scene all night. We’ll process the car this morning. Now get the heck out of here. Unlike you, I have work to do.”
“About that.” Brad leaned forward. “Anything from the drug dealer murder?”
Sturgeon shook his head. “No. Why? Do you expect something?”
Brad stood. “I guess not. Have a great day.”
“Arse,” Brad heard as he headed down the hall.
Chapter Eleven
At one-fifteen, Brad grabbed his gray pinstripe suit jacket and light blue shirt out of the garment bag and slid it on. He adjusted his navy tie, then headed out of the detective bullpen, down the second-floor hallway past the memorial to fallen officers and toward the court building. Coming the other way was a lady in a black pant suit with a white blouse. Her short raven hair was combed behind her ears.
“Toscana?”
She stopped. “Detective.”
He did a double-take. “I didn’t recognize you. What’s with the serious business suit?”
“I just had my promotion interview. If I pass, then I’ll be a full-time sergeant, not just in an acting role.”
Brad stepped back as a group of uniformed officers raced past on their way to court. “How did it go?”
Toscana shrugged. “How do you ever know how an interview goes? I’ve had some I was sure I nailed and was passed over. Some sucked, and I got the job. I’ll just have to wait.”
“I’m sure you did fine.” Brad glanced toward the executive offices, then back. “I hear you are doing a superb job.”
She laughed. “If you heard that from Briscoe, I’d be surprised. He’s riding my ass all the time.”
“I know the feeling. You know he will never stop.”
“That’s a frightening thought.” She lifted a thin eyebrow. “Where are you going all dressed up? That’s a fine gray suit. You attending as a lawyer?”
Brad laughed. “Nope. I’m testifying from a case earlier this fall. If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, then bluff with a nice suit.”
“I’ll have to remember that.” Toscana smiled and adjusted his jacket collar for him. “Have fun.”
Brad shivered as he took the outdoor walkway from police headquarters over to the court building. It was only twenty feet, but it chilled him to the core. He was testifying in courtroom 201. Court started at one-thirty, but he’d be lucky if they called him to testify at all today. As he strolled, he reviewed the domestic assault from over two months ago. He’d responded to a call with Detective Don Griffin, where an asshat named Vinnie Bevan was beating up his girlfriend, Sylvia. A fight ensued during the arrest and Brad had, some said, aggressively subdued the suspect.
Brad headed to the front of the courtroom to check in with Prosecutor Jenni Blighe. She leaned over her table scanning the files she’d laid out. The view was impressive to say the least. She was all business. It made sense in court, even though they’d worked together for a month preparing documents, evidence and strategy for the trial of Logan Hirsch, the surviving sniper.
She wore a dark blue skirt and jacket, and a white blouse with a large blue bow tied at the neck. Her blond hair hung straight, barely touching her shoulders. She glanced to the side as Brad approached.
“Good afternoon, Detective.”
“Prosecutor Blighe. Nice power suit. The bow is a lovely touch.”
Blighe snorted. “Flattery won’t help you today. You know the defense attorney Harry Townsend is going to come after you for excessive force.”
“He’s tried before. He can give it a go again.”
“Just keep your answers brief and stay calm.” She rotated to face him and glared. “I’m serious. Don’t get in a pissing match with him.”
“Me?” Brad stared at Blighe in mock terror.
Blighe glared back. “You are a cop testifying, not a lawyer. Remember that.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Brad nodded.
“Go wait in the witness room. I’m calling paramedic Jill Cook first so she can describe the injuries. Then Detective Griffin and Sergeant Briscoe. You’re the last witness. Have a snooze.
Brad sat in the corner of the witness room with his head back against the wall, eyes closed. The aged pine paneling hid the soundproofing. The chairs were comfortable, better than the rigid courtroom benches. Better still, the air conditioning kept the room at a perfect temperature for sleeping. They’d just called in Briscoe. Once he completed his testimony, they’d call Brad. He was the last person in the room, which suited him fine. He appreciated quiet moments like this—he sought them out.
However, his brain was not cooperating. Rest and relaxation were not an option. He opened his eyes and stared at the white ceiling tiles. How could something that happened less than two months ago seem like forever ago? Worse, though, was that he didn’t have a great recollection of that night. It had been his first night back on duty. He w
as champing at the bit to work. The night had been slow until the assault came in. Since they were the closest unit, they’d responded.
The door to the interview room opened and a voice called, “Detective Coulter.”
Brad glanced up and followed the uniformed bailiff to the witness box in the courtroom where he nodded to the judge and was sworn in. He shrugged his shoulders to relieve the tension. Not that he was a stranger to court, but more was at stake today. He glanced around the courtroom. To his right, at the table opposite Blighe, sat the accused, Vinnie Bevan and his lawyer, Harry Townsend. He had been a defense lawyer for over twenty years and seemed to be in court every day. Tall, with salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, a hawkish nose, and beady eyes, the man came alive in court. He was impeccably dressed in a dark blue pinstripe suit, white shirt, and blue tie with shoes that gleamed from the florescent lights.
Crown Prosecutor Jenni Blighe approached. “Good afternoon, Detective Coulter.”
“Good afternoon, ma’am.” He stood straight, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Please state your name and spelling for the court.”
“Detective Bradley Coulter. C-O-U-L-T-E-R.”
“Detective, you are a sworn officer of the Calgary Police Service.”
“Yes.”
Blighe consulted her notes. “Were you on duty the night of October 4, at approximately 2200 hours?”
Brad nodded. “Yes, I was.”
“Can you please, in your own words, describe the incident you attended.”
“I was working with Detective Don Griffin. A call came on the radio for a domestic assault. We were the closest unit.”
Blighe stepped away from her table and took a few steps toward Brad. “Isn’t it unusual for detectives to respond to the initial call?”
Brad shrugged. “We are cops, and we were closest. Domestics can be tricky to handle. Additional cops are better than too few.”
“I see. Continue.”
“We double-parked out front and raced up the stairs to the second-level apartment. As we ascended the stairs, we could hear an assault in progress.”
“Objection.” Defense Attorney Harry Townsend stood buttoning his blue pinstripe jacket. His gray eyes sparkled as his performance began. “Speculation by the detective. He had no way of knowing what was happening.”
“Sustained.”
Townsend was technically correct, but Brad’s statement was still heard in court. The judge couldn’t unhear something.
“On the way up the stairs, we heard shouts and crashing. In the shouting, we heard the victim—” Brad glanced at the defense lawyer. “Sorry, a female voice screaming for help. When we entered the apartment, we saw a skinny guy, the accused”—Brad pointed at the man seated next to Townsend—“Vinnie Bevan, standing over the victim. Bevan held the victim’s hair in his left hand and was poised for a punch with his right fist.”
“Objection.” Townsend leaned forward, ready to stand. “Again, the detective seems to know things that didn’t happen.”
The judge pursed his lips. “I’ll allow that.”
This time Townsend stood. “Your Honor—”
The judge held up his hand. “Detective, have you ever witnessed a fight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And in any of those fights, did someone draw back their arm and throw a punch?”
“Certainly.”
“I stand by my decision to overrule the objection. I am confident the detective can identify risk.” The judge stared at Townsend until he sat.
Blighe nodded to Brad. “Please continue.”
“We had drawn our pistols because we were unsure what the threat was. I shouted to Bevan twice to put his hands where I could see them. The accused refused my requests and punched the victim, his girlfriend, Sylvia, in the jaw. Blood and spit spattered the bedroom wall. I raced to the bed and dove at the accused before he could hit her again.”
“Objection.”
The judge waved Townsend back into his chair.
“I dove at the accused. We crashed into the wall and then slid onto the floor. The accused continued resisting arrest, and with the help of my partner, Detective Griffin, we subdued and handcuffed Bevan.”
“Anything else you want to add?” Blighe asked.
“Yes. The paramedics treated Sylvia in the apartment, and then moved her on a stretcher out to the ambulance. As the accused was being escorted from the apartment by uniformed officers, he said, ‘I’ll finish this later, bitch.’ Then he broke free from the officers. Fearing he would hit the victim again, I subdued him. The uniformed officers took him away.”
Blighe nodded. “I’m sure Mr. Townsend is going to question the force you used. Can you explain that for the court?”
“Absolutely. You’ve already seen the photos of Sylvia taken at the hospital. Bevan exhibited extreme violence toward her. I had no way to know what he would do next—my goal was to subdue him as fast as I could.”
“Did you punch him?”
“I did, to stun him. He was obviously out of control. Sorry … to me, it appeared he was out of control.”
Blighe asked her next question. “And the second time you had to subdue him?”
“Again, he appeared furious. As he pulled away from the uniformed officers, I was afraid he’d knock over the stretcher and continue his attack on Sylvia. I was also worried about the safety of the paramedics.”
Blighe nodded. “Thank you, Detective. I’m sure my learned colleague has some questions.”
Townsend stood and smoothed his jacket, taking his time as every defense lawyer did.
“Detective, do you recall the words you used when you told my client to put his hands on his head.”
“I believe I said, ‘Police, hands where I can see them.’”
Townsend nodded. “That sounds right for your first order. You said my client did not comply. Is it possible he couldn’t hear you?”
“Sure, that’s possible.”
Townsend’s eyebrows raised, and he cocked his head.
Brad suppressed a grin. “Because he was so focused on beating his girlfriend.”
Townsend held his hands out to the judge.
The judge chuckled. “I believe you stepped into that yourself, counselor.”
Townsend made an act out of studying his notes. “What did you say to my client the second time?”
“When the accused did not comply, I repeated my order.”
Townsend consulted his notes again. “Would it be accurate to say your order was along the lines of, ‘Let her go, or I’ll spray your brains onto the walls?’”
Brad nodded. “That sounds like something I’d say.”
“You threatened my client with death?” Townsend asked.
“It was an assault in progress right before me. I had already given the accused a chance to stop. Sylvia’s life was under direct threat.”
“Yet, you didn’t shoot, you tackled and assaulted my client.”
Brad hated this part of the court game. “I’m confused. Are you upset I didn’t shoot your client?”
Townsend puffed out his chest and grabbed his jacket lapels. “Detective, I get to ask the questions.”
“Sorry, I’m just confused.”
“Let’s move to later that night, when my client, was handcuffed …”—Townsend paused for effect—“and was being escorted to a police cruiser. You said you were afraid for the victim, which is honorable. But I understand other officers had to restrain you from further assaulting my client. That, in fact, your attack left my client gasping for air and near death.”
“The accused continued his attempts to attack Sylvia on the stretcher. During the scuffle, he may have been struck in the throat.”
“May have, Detective?” Townsend cocked his head and frowned. “Or you punched him in the throat?”
“I can’t say for sure how it happened.”
Townsend stood directly in front of Brad. His way to intimidate Brad. Good luck with that
.
“Detective, you are under oath.” Townsend folded his arms across his chest and paused. “Do you want to revise that statement?”
Brad scrunched his eyebrows. “I’m not sure what your question is?”
“The question, and I’ll state it clearly for you, is that, isn’t it true you deliberately struck my client in the throat with intent to inflict a potentially life-threatening injury?”
Brad glared at Townsend. “I believe earlier you counseled me on not guessing what someone was thinking or their intentions. It seems to me you are taking some vast leaps into my mind and my intentions. Let me assure you, my intention was to ensure Sylvia and the paramedics were safe and the accused would harm no one else that night.”
Townsend approached the judge, arms outstretched. “Your Honor, I am not on trial.”
“Could have fooled me,” Blighe said.
Townsend shot Blighe an icy glare. “Your Honor, please advise the witness to answer my questions.”
“Counselor. Be sure you are asking a question.”
Townsend consulted his notes. “Detective, this was your first night back at work, correct?”
“Yes.”
“After two-and-a-half months on leave.”
Blighe jumped to her feet. “Objection, Your Honor.”
“To what, Ms. Blighe?” the judge asked.
“To the direction of this questioning. Detective Coulter’s leave and the reasons for that leave are not relevant in this case.”
“Your Honor,” Townsend said. “I believe the detective’s state of mind is relevant.”
The judge sat back, fingers steepled under his chin. “You may continue, Counselor, but tread carefully.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Townsend nodded to the judge and stepped in front of Brad. “Detective Coulter. Can you please explain, for the benefit of the court, the circumstances around your leave?”
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