Bury the Past

by James L'Etoile

  “I don’t miss this,” Paula said.

  “What? Spending quality time with me?” Lassiter asked.

  “The whole investigating-other-cops deal.”

  “You did a good job when you were here.”

  “Still, with a few exceptions, it was soul-sucking.”

  “The SSPNET takedown was important work, and you were central in that case.”

  She nodded. “Didn’t take long for your bosses to get wind of Burger getting himself killed.”

  Lassiter bit his lower lip, a tell that would make him a perpetual loser at a poker table. “My bosses are the same as yours—and yeah, there’s a hell of a lot of interest in how he ended up dead before he could testify. Let’s do this. You ready?”

  “Let’s get it over with.”

  Lassiter clicked the red button on a small recorder and slid it on the table between them. “I’m Sergeant Larry Lassiter, internal affairs division, interviewing Detective Paula Newberry on April twenty-third at eleven ten AM concerning the circumstances surrounding the death of Lawrence Burger.”

  Paula knew she’d been summoned because of the property records, but to be questioned by IA in connection with Burger’s death was still unsettling.

  “You’ve waived your seventy-two-hour notice and representation for today’s interview. Is that correct, Detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know Larry Burger?”

  “I did.”

  “When did you first meet him?”

  Paula closed her eyes and searched for the memory of coming across the dirty cop from Solano County. “Approximately three years ago while conducting an internal affairs inquiry concerning criminal activity within the SSPNET task force.”

  “Was Burger one of the subjects in that investigation?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Have you had any contact with him since that investigation closed?” Lassiter asked.

  “No. None.”

  “As I understand it, you discovered his car was disabled by means of a Sacramento Police Department–issued spike strip?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I didn’t discover it at the crime scene. That was crime scene tech Karen Baylor. I retrieved the spike strip from beneath Burger’s vehicle.”

  “Who was there when you retrieved the spike strip?”

  “My partner, Detective John Penley, and Karen Baylor were present.”

  “Who was present when you checked out the spike strip from the department’s inventory?” A slight grin crossed Lassiter’s face.

  “I don’t have any knowledge of how the spike strip came from property, or how it ended up under that assho . . . Burger’s vehicle. It wasn’t issued to me.”

  Lassiter passed a document across the table. “I am providing Detective Newberry with a copy of the property log in question. You’ve seen this document?”

  “I have. I’m the one who reported it.”

  “It shows that you received a spike strip from the department’s property storage a month ago.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “How can you explain this entry?” He tapped a finger on the line with her name.

  “I can’t. Someone made a mistake; that doesn’t even come close to my signature.”

  “No, it doesn’t. That’s your badge number, right?”

  “Not exactly secret information. Like I said, someone made a mistake.”

  “Any idea who’d want to make that kind of mistake? Burger wasn’t exactly voted most popular.”

  “Neither was I. And no.”

  “That concludes this interview.” Lassiter clicked off the recorder. He pocketed the device and leaned back. “Paula, you know this is the kind of case that makes the brass see shadows in bright sunlight.”

  Paula stood and tucked her hands in her pants pockets. “Yeah, I get it, but was all of this really necessary? Someone’s got their butt all puckered up because they lost a witness. Wasn’t the first and won’t be the last.”

  “No one should give you any grief because of this.”

  “Thanks, LL.”

  Lassiter shook her hand and held it a bit too long. “That being said, watch your ass, Paula. Politics make people lose their minds.”

  John waited in the hallway, popping up from the wall he leaned against when she came out.

  “How’d it go? You should have let me come in with you. How did they know about this so fast? Did they tell you—”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Penley—is this how you treat your daughter when she comes home from a date? Breathe.”

  “Kari doesn’t date.”

  “I can see why. Come on and buy me a coffee. Talking with LL gave me an idea.”

  They walked outside to one of the roving coffee trucks that kept the office caffeinated. They took their two coffees and walked to the far end of the parking lot, away from the line of cops that had appeared from inside the building.

  She took a sip. “Who stands to gain if Burger doesn’t testify?”

  “Potentially any of the SSPNET officers who got scooped up in the initial takedown.”

  “And people who were on the fringes of that investigation. His testimony could have identified more dirt.”

  “Nobody connected with that case would want him to talk.”

  “Politically, the city wouldn’t want it known that they have more dirty cops on their police force. If the case goes away, no one questions their management,” she said.

  John looked into his cup and tossed the bitter coffee in a trash can. “The DA hasn’t been on the chief’s Christmas card list ever since . . .”

  “She had to dismiss a dozen cases after Carson got caught selling dope out of the evidence room. I remember; that was the case that got me the boot from IA.”

  “You have to admit, you colored a bit outside the lines on that one. An unauthorized surveillance of another cop caught the chief’s office by surprise.”

  “Don’t go pretending that Carson didn’t get what he deserved. He was dirty, and the old boys’ club closed ranks around him and all but blamed his shit on me.”

  “Paula, I don’t like this. They were too damn quick to pull you in and sweat you. You’re a common thread between the SSPNET and Carson case. You dealt with both of them while you were in IA.”

  “There has to be more to it than that. LL didn’t even ask me about Carson. It was all about the spike strip and Burger.”

  John’s cell chirped.

  “Penley.”

  He listened and said, “Yeah, she’s here with me.” He paused. “We’ll be right over.” He disconnected the call and shoved the phone in his pocket.

  “Patrol units in Del Paso found Bullet rummaging in a dumpster.”

  Paula cocked her head. “How’d they know to call you?”

  “Actually, he’s asking for you.”

  SIX

  John parked the Crown Vic behind a dollar store at the corner of Harris and Norwood. The store was the nicest place at the intersection, which also boasted a burned-out fast-food joint and a check-cashing business. The vacant lot across the street was a well-used pickup spot for hookers and drugs for long-haul truckers. Easy access to Interstate 80 let the truckers get back on the road quickly, topped off with grass and ass.

  Bullet sat on a concrete parking bumper with his hands cuffed behind his back. A pair of uniformed officers stood nearby. The foot traffic paid no attention to the action as they went in and out of the dollar store, testifying that police activity here was a frequent occurrence. Bullet was shirtless; his sweat-stained thermal was tucked in his lap. He had welts on his face and chest from his escape through the brush. The oil-stained denim jeans were held up around Bullet’s thin hips with a pair of elastic bungee cords.

  When John and Paula got out of their car, the older of the two officers stepped toward them. His nameplate identified him as Stark, but John could’ve identified him by the self-important swagger alone.

  “This one bel
ong to you, Penley?” Stark yelled from halfway across the parking lot.

  “Now I know why he called you instead of me,” Paula whispered.

  “I’m tellin’ you, Penley, that broad is gonna be your undoin’,” Stark said.

  “That’s enough, Stark,” Penley said.

  “You know she’ll sell you off to IA in a hot minute.”

  Stark hitched up his utility belt and closed the distance.

  “Stark’s an asshole. Don’t let him get to you,” Penley said.

  When Stark reached them, Paula asked, “He asked for me?”

  Stark’s jaw tightened. “You stoop to using toothless junkies to rat out cops now?”

  Paula squared up. “I don’t know this guy. You’re the one saying he wants to talk to me.”

  Stark ignored Paula. “Penley, you got this? We got real police work to do.”

  “Yeah, you need me to swap out cuffs?”

  “Nah, he’s in flex cuffs. Do what you wanna do with the shit-stain.” Stark walked back to his patrol car and signaled his uniformed partner to leave Bullet.

  Paula noticed a change in Bullet’s posture. He tensed his legs, and his eyes opened wide. “Don’t even think about it. Sit.” Paula pointed at the pavement. Bullet relaxed and slumped forward.

  “Why did you want to see me?” Paula asked.

  Bullet screwed up his face and looked up at her. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Detective Newberry.”

  Bullet tilted his head and looked like a confused hound dog. “You’re Newberry?”

  “Why did you tell Officer Stark you wanted to talk to me?”

  “I didn’t tell that redneck I wanted to talk to you. I said I heard your name is all.”

  John stepped forward, and Bullet flinched. John slowly lowered himself down onto one knee so that he was eye to eye with Bullet. The homeless man’s pupils were wide, and they danced back and forth. Bullet was high.

  “Look at me, Bullet. Where did you hear Detective Newberry’s name?” John asked.

  “Look, I’m sorry I said anything to that cop. I won’t say nothing. Just let me go, and you’ll never see me again.”

  “Say nothing about what?”

  “Man, I don’t wanna get involved.”

  Paula towered over Bullet. “You are involved. This have anything to do with what you saw last night on Garden Highway?”

  Bullet started to sway back and forth. “Man, man, man, I don’t know nothing—please.”

  “What’s got you all worked up Bullet?”

  “You know, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Tell me, and I’ll cut you loose,” John said.

  Bullet’s expression changed as he weighed the risk in trusting a cop’s word. His head bowed in acceptance. “All right, all right. I heard the guy who got killed last night say the name Newberry.”

  “You sure? What did he say, exactly?”

  Bullet closed his eyes and searched for the memory in the cobweb of his broken and burnt brain cells. “The big dude was asking him who he been talking to. And he said Newberry.”

  “Larry Burger said he’s been talking to me?” Paula asked.

  “If the dead guy’s Burger, then yeah,” Bullet said.

  “Did you know the guy asking the questions? The big dude?” John asked.

  He shook his head. “No, I just heard him and followed him back to the dirt road after.”

  “Why’d you follow him?” John continued.

  “I just seen what he did, and he was heading toward our camp.”

  “Did he see you?”

  Bullet nodded. “When he got to the road, there was someone parked down there. I heard some voices, and the big dude musta heard me because he turned around and saw me. I ran, but he saw me.”

  “What’d he look like—other than big?” John said.

  “White dude, bald and yoked.”

  “What about the car? Make? Model? Color?”

  “Old blue van with some kinda sticker on the back panel—it was dark.”

  “You said you heard voices? Did you see who he was with?”

  “I never saw no one else. Musta stayed in the van,” Bullet said.

  “Anything else you can remember?”

  “I don’t know who the dude is, but the voice and what he looked like—I know I seen him before. I don’t know where.” Bullet pressed his eyes shut. “I can’t remember.”

  John pulled a folding knife from his belt and cut the nylon flex cuffs. He handed Bullet a business card and said, “Get outta here and keep your head down. You see that guy again, you get in touch with me. Got it?”

  “Yeah man, I got it.”

  “You want us to take you to the Effort, get you some detox treatment?”

  “No, man, I’m cool.”

  Bullet rubbed his wrists, stood from the concrete parking bumper, and snatched his dingy thermal shirt. Penley’s card went into a sagging pants pocket, and Bullet left the front of the dollar store, cutting through the vacant lot. He looked back, and he slowed his pace once he was certain he wasn’t being followed.

  Paula kicked at a water bottle cap. “I don’t get it. Burger hasn’t been talking to me. What was that about?”

  “You sure? I mean, the guy’s getting the crap knocked out of him, why would he say he’s talking with you? Makes him sound like a CI.”

  “I know. But Burger wasn’t one of my current informants, confidential or otherwise.” She took another kick at the bottle cap, and it rolled under their car. “I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe Bullet didn’t hear it right. I mean, the guy’s a mess,” John said.

  “I haven’t talked to Burger since that IA investigation a couple years back. He left me a phone message. I never returned his call. Whoever he’s been talking to, it wasn’t me. Might be worth pulling the old file and going over what he said back then. I mean, it’s the only thing I can think of that links me and Burger.”

  “Burger was coming home from work out at the truck stop, right? Let’s swing by there and see if they can shine a little light on what he’s been up to. We gotta reconstruct his last few days and see if we can find another intersection between him and you.”

  Paula tipped her head and let out a sigh. “I’m getting a bad feeling about what Bullet claims he watched happen out there. It sounds like an interrogation and execution.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? What could Burger have that was that important? I get that the DA wanted him to testify, but that’s old news, really. Sounds a bit desperate if your entire case comes down to the word of one junkie.”

  Paula opened the passenger door and rested her elbows on the roof, looking across at her partner. “Unless he was going to give up new names.”

  “If he was gonna do that, the DA would have already gotten a statement from him to prepare for putting it on the record in open court.” John got in and started the sedan. Paula took a last look around the dollar-store parking lot. A light-colored object near the dumpster caught her attention.

  “Hang on one second.”

  She trotted to the dumpster and found a wrinkled sandwich bag containing a dozen pills. She snagged a latex glove from her pocket and picked up the bag by a corner. She held it up for John and then turned the glove inside out wrapping the baggy inside. Paula returned to the car with the contraband.

  “Didn’t your old buddy Stark say they caught Bullet rummaging through the dumpster?” she said.

  “Yeah, so how did he not see that?”

  “Maybe he did. I mean, Stark is big and bald.”

  “Whoa, Stark’s been an asshole since he graduated from the academy, but that doesn’t make him our guy. He’s a sloppy cop maybe, but I don’t see him being a killer.”

  She held the baggie between them. “Burger had plastic shoved down his throat. We saw that this morning. If Bullet—”

  “Let’s not get too far with this. We can try to twist Bullet for what he knows about the pills. But we didn’t see him with them, and Star
k missed it. It’s uncontrolled contraband.”

  “I’ll see if Karen Baylor can pull prints from the plastic. It’s a long shot, but what isn’t in this case?”

  John pulled the gearshift and left the parking lot, headed toward the Interstate 80 on-ramp. They passed a parked eighteen-wheeler with a woman climbing down from the cab. Purple hot pants and a yellow tube top couldn’t hide the jagged pink scar that ran from her waist to somewhere under the clingy fabric. Another survivor of life’s grind-you-down plan.

  SEVEN

  The truck stop on Highway 99 hadn’t seen a paintbrush in a decade. The peeling, faded red siding was now more the orange hue of a construction cone. Appropriate, since the parking lot was a rough crumble of asphalt and gravel-filled potholes. There was enough space for twenty eighteen-wheelers, but commerce mostly bypassed this section of south Sacramento, and only four truckers rested their rigs outside.

  John and Paula entered the main door, walking toward a man in a brown uniform shirt similar to the one Larry Burger died in. The attendant was a skinny black man who could have passed for twenty years old from a distance. His close-trimmed hair held a few speckles of gray up close. He sat on a stool behind a laminate counter worn by years of keys and coins passed across the surface.

  John identified himself and Paula to the attendant.

  “How can I help you? I’m Brian, Brian Watters.”

  “Do you know Larry Burger? He worked the night shift here,” John said.

  Brian narrowed his eyes. “You say ‘worked,’ like he’s not coming back.”

  “He was killed last night. We think he was on his way home from work,” John said.

  “Huh. You mind if I get the owner up here? He should hear this.”

  “Yeah, sure. He working today?”

  “He’s here.” He didn’t say “working,” John noted.

  Brian got on the intercom and called, “Mr. Benton, up front, please.”

  Paula nosed around the office area and peeked down a hallway. One side of the passage was lined with lockers where truckers locked up their personal items while they rinsed off the road dirt in one of the truck stop’s showers. The first few lockers had names written on masking tape: Benton, Watters, Smith, and Burger.