Bury the Past

by James L'Etoile

  “Could you call him over for me?” John put the printout back in his jacket pocket.

  “Fine.” Bob rapped a knuckle on the window, and his workers knew that was a signal. All of them stopped and looked to the window at their boss. Bob pointed to Ronland and crooked his finger, ordering him to the office.

  Ronland nodded and glanced over at John. He stared for a moment until Bob knocked on the window once more. He dropped a wheel brush in a bucket and walked to the office door.

  The others went back to work but kept an eye on the office to see if Ronland got “rolled up”—slang for getting sent back to jail.

  Bob gestured out front. “There’s a picnic table you guys can use.” In other words, take this confrontation out of my office and away from paying customers.

  John followed Ronland outside, where the worker sat at the picnic table with his back resting against the tabletop. He kept the car wash and the other workers behind him as well. John got the message: sit next to him to appear less adversarial. Years of watching cops on the streets, in prisons, and in jails made the men who worked here experts at reading body language. Facing away from them took that out of the equation.

  “What brings you here today? I don’t think it was for the fine customer service experience at Bob’s Urban Car Wash.” Ronland fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to John.

  “No, thanks. I quit last year. You remember Charles Sherman?”

  “Huh, how could I not?” Ronland blew a perfect smoke ring.

  “How about Bobby Wing and Larry Burger?”

  “Yeah. What is this, a walk down memory lane? Listen, I got involved in stupid shit with those guys. I cooperated, did my time, and I’m done with them. I haven’t seen them, talked to them, or ‘associated’ with them.” He used his fingers to air-quote “association,” which would be a technical violation of his probation.

  “I hope not, ’cause they’re dead,” John said.

  Ronland dropped his cigarette. “What?”

  “Your old road dogs are dead, and Sherman might get a new trial because of it.”

  Ronland stomped on the smoldering cigarette. “Larry and Bob—both?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Ronland fidgeted with his menthol pack and tossed it on the table. “We knew that was always a possibility. I mean, going up against a dude like Sherman—he’s got friends. But when he got sent up, we thought that was gonna be the end of it, ya know?”

  “Why is it that you got county time instead of prison?” John asked.

  “We all cooperated with the DA in the prosecution. Burger agreed to testify, but Wing and me didn’t have to raise our hands and swear in open court. We were on the witness list, but Burger wanted to be the one to do that. We got county time, Burger got a suspended sentence.”

  “Kinda leaves you as the last man standing, doesn’t it?”

  “Looks that way. You know who killed them?”

  “Working on that. When’s the last time you saw either of them?”

  “Man, that would have been . . . three—no, two weeks ago.”

  John expected Ronland to say he hadn’t seen either of the dead men since the trial. “How did you manage to catch up with Burger and Wing? An ex-cop reunion?”

  Ronland glanced over at John. “Dude, you guys need to talk to each other. We all got called into the district attorney’s office once Sherman filed his appeal. Met with Madame District Attorney herself to go over testimony in case the court granted the defense motion for a new trial.”

  John’s gut tightened. “How’d that go?”

  “Let’s just say DA Clarke wasn’t too thrilled to see her star witness coming down the backside of a three-day pill binge.”

  “Burger?”

  Ronland nodded. “That left Wing and me to carry the weight. We agreed to testify again, and she promised to get our convictions set aside, for what that’s worth. Can’t give me back the time I spent in jail.”

  “Has anyone from the DA’s office gotten in touch with you since Burger died?”

  “I didn’t know either of them were dead until now.”

  “Any idea who Sherman would use to take out Burger and Wing?”

  “Man, it could be anyone. That guy had his hands in more shit than any cop I’ve ever seen. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had them killed.”

  “Where does McDaniel figure in this?” John brought up the other local SSPNET man on the street.

  “He’s a piece of work. A real Aryan Warrior, that one.”

  “Could he be Sherman’s man on the outside?”

  Ronland shrugged. “It wouldn’t be totally out of character.”

  John stood. “Thanks. You keep your head down with what’s been going on. If you can swing it with your PO, you might want to get out of the city for a while.”

  “I’m fine. I’m living at my sister’s place in Natomas. I’m no threat to anybody.”

  “I’ll arrange for a car to sit out front of your house for a while.”

  “I hear ya. But I’ll take my chances.” Ronland got up and stuffed his cigarettes back in his pocket.

  John started to leave, then stopped and turned back. “You ever hear anyone mention Detective Paula Newberry?”

  “Oh, that one. The IA cop who brought the task force down. Yeah, everyone talked shit about her.”

  “Like?”

  “Hey, I get it now. She was doing her job. At the time I got caught with my hands in the proverbial cookie jar, not so much. I thought she had it out for us. Maybe did some things she wasn’t supposed to do in her investigation. Searches, wires, that kind of thing.”

  “You ever hear any talk about her paying you guys to testify?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. By the time the trial came around, we all agreed to do what we needed to do. Sherman was a cancer, and we had to make sure he didn’t spread any further.”

  “Who’d want to get back at Detective Newberry?”

  “Sherman, no doubt. He was obsessed with her and talked about how he was gonna get even someday. Just kinda wrote it off as Sherman pissing in the wind.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  Ronland went back to his place in the car wash line and grabbed his wheel brush.

  John sat in his car, closed the door against the noise of the car exhaust and water hoses. Ronland didn’t know anything about the payoff to Burger. Sherman’s attorney would argue Ronland wouldn’t have known about the money. If he could get McDaniel to corroborate the idea that there was no payoff, it would go a long way to clearing Paula from this mess.

  He started the engine and pulled out of the car wash, glancing at the Natomas address for George McDaniel. The address was familiar, but John couldn’t put a finger on why.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Once John turned on Elverta, he remembered this address. A line of motorcycles filled the driveway and spilled out onto the brown lawn. From a half block away, you could hear the loud, heavy metal music blaring from inside the house. He and Paula hit this place last year after a tip from a confidential informant who swore there was a meth lab operating out of the house. They didn’t find any drug operation, but it turned out to be an Aryan Brotherhood flophouse. Nothing technically illegal about that housing arrangement, but nothing good could come of it either.

  John pulled up to the curb and counted eleven bikes in the driveway. The garage door was open, and two guys worked on another ride in the shade. George McDaniel was one of the men. Still sporting his shaved head, the ex-cop had added a little muscle to his frame while in the joint. Like most prison bodies, all the added bulk was in his shoulders and chest, above skinny chicken legs. Killing a cellmate or fending off an attack didn’t require lower body strength.

  Both of the bikers put down their wrenches when John got out of the car. One disappeared inside while McDaniel stood and stayed near one of the bikes. The former cop was a little unsteady on his feet, and the pile of empty beer cans and a wisp of smoke rising from a two-foot-tall bong
said the bikes weren’t the only things getting a tune-up.

  “Hey, George. I’m Detective Penley, Sac PD. I’d like to ask you a couple quick questions.”

  “What’s this about?”

  John leaned on a corner of the garage so he could watch the front and keep engaged with McDaniel. “How long you been out?”

  “A couple months. I’m not on parole, so don’t get all wound up about me having a few beers.”

  “And some weed.”

  “What if I was? It’s legit now. ’Sides, I got a card. A medical condition.”

  “I’m sure you do. Have you been in touch with any of your old SSPNET crew?”

  “Not since court. Why?”

  “What do you know about Wing, Ronland, and Burger?”

  A flash of beer-buzzed anger flashed at the mention of the names. “Those cheese-eaters? They’d sell out their own mothers if they got something out of it.”

  “You seen any of them lately?”

  McDaniel spread his arms. “We don’t exactly run in the same social circles anymore.”

  “How about Charles Sherman?”

  McDaniel started turning a motorcycle handlebar. “What about him? He’s still inside, isn’t he?”

  “He is. Have any contact with him?”

  “Me? No. Why you asking about Sherm?”

  “So Sherman didn’t ask you to kill Larry Burger and Bobby Wing?”

  “Those two rats are dead? Good deal.” McDaniel looked content with the demise of his former teammates. “What about Ronland? They get to him yet?”

  “Who’s they, George?”

  “I dunno. Whoever took out Burger and Wing. Let ’em know I want to buy ’em a beer. Those two got exactly what they had coming.”

  John noticed the handlebar moved every time he did. The black plastic cap on the end looked new, and the tube was discolored. Purple-and-black streaks ran up from the grip, evidence of intense heat. He took a step to the side and pulled his weapon.

  “Step away from the bike, now,” John said.

  McDaniel put up his hands and backed away as he was told.

  “That your bike?”

  “No.”

  John approached the bike and kept his weapon trained on McDaniel. With a free hand, John pried off the plastic cap, and it revealed a 12-gauge shotgun shell hidden in the handlebar. A small button released the shell, sending it tumbling out to the floor. Somewhere up the handlebar, another spring-loaded switch would serve as a trigger. John didn’t want to take his eyes off McDaniel to find out.

  “Turn around and keep your hands behind your head.”

  The biker followed the instructions and was in handcuffs moments later. John walked him to the curb, away from the weaponized motorcycles.

  He pulled McDaniel to the cement curb and ordered him to sit. “Even if you’re not on parole, an ex-felon with a firearm charge is gonna sting a bit.”

  McDaniel looked up, his eyes yellow from an obvious case of hepatitis. “You can’t prove that was mine, or that I even knew it was there.”

  John nodded to the house. A pair of long-haired men wearing T-shirts with cutoff sleeves stood in the garage watching. “Your new friends know about you being an ex-cop?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They trust you?”

  “With their lives. I’ve done my bit to earn their respect.”

  “So if I tell them you just ratted them out—”

  “They won’t buy it. Now, you better let me go,” McDaniel said.

  Three more of McDaniel’s “brothers” stepped into the garage; one of them held a shotgun to his side.

  The sound of a fast-moving vehicle drew John’s attention, and not a second too soon. An older Ford van tore into view, and the driver held a rifle out of the window. The weapon spit out rounds at a high rate, and a quick glance revealed a one-hundred-round drum magazine in the rifle.

  John pulled McDaniel behind his car, and the bikers in the garage dove for cover.

  The driver slowed and continued to fire until the magazine was empty, then he accelerated away. John caught a muzzle flash to his right as one of the Aryan bikers fired a shotgun blast at the van. The buckshot scored the back doors of the fleeing van.

  “Nice neighborhood you have here, McDaniel,” John said.

  Sensing that the gunshots would bring more cops than they cared to handle, the bikers began leaving the house like a swarm of angry bees. Bike after bike roared to life and poured out onto the road. The swarm followed the path of bullet shells left by the Ford van.

  “Looks like your brothers left you behind.”

  George lay motionless next to the car, his wife-beater T-shirt now blossomed red from two gunshot wounds to the chest.

  “George!” John knelt by the man and felt for a pulse. Faint, but the wounded man’s heart still pushed blood through his shocked system. John opened the trunk and grabbed two trauma pads from his first aid kit. He pressed them into the wounds and called 9-1-1.

  McDaniel didn’t respond when paramedics loaded him into the ambulance, and his color faded from gray to stone. John waited for the detectives who worked gang cases to arrive. They would want to take a good look at all the hardware left in the house when the bikers fled. He wouldn’t be able to tell them much about the shooter; the driver wore a black hood to hide his identity. Rival gang shootouts were not an uncommon occurrence out here.

  John looked at all the bullet holes in the house behind him. Most were high on the wall—head height, or above. Stray and random gunfire. Hell, his car didn’t even have a scratch. The only one hit in the melee was McDaniel.

  A hundred rounds fired and ninety-eight of them miss?

  The two gunshot wounds were tightly grouped, within four inches of each other. That wasn’t accidental. McDaniel was the target, and all the rest was distraction and cover.

  The paramedics cut off McDaniel’s shirt to hook him up to a heart monitor. John gathered it into an evidence bag to make sure it didn’t get left behind. Underneath the soiled shirt was a bloodstained envelope. It must have fallen out of McDaniel’s back pocket when the paramedics worked on him.

  The letter was folded in half and addressed to McDaniel at this address. John turned the envelope over in a gloved hand and saw the return address: Charles Sherman AY-2981, California State Prison–Sacramento.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Sherman went to the rear of his cell, sat on his bunk, and took in his drawing of Detective Newberry. Her hair was shorter now. He’d have to change his drawing if he were going to be here much longer.

  He needed to be there when it all came crashing down on Newberry. She had caused him so much pain, but what he wanted to do to her promised to destroy her. It was worth everything he’d gone through, even subjecting himself to these daily mental health treatment sessions. As if they had the power to change him—the doctors and tight-faced counselors didn’t have a clue. Sherman had manipulated his placement into the high-security mental health unit for the extra attention. The very thing most convicts sought to avoid. Now it was time to see if it paid off.

  After the sounds of the cell extraction on the tier above his died out, Sherman pried up the caulking and removed the key he’d secreted in the hidden space. He popped it in his mouth and tucked it along his lower jaw, between his teeth and cheek. He could have left it tucked up in his ass, but the metal detectors would have caught that.

  He stripped off his bed linen, threaded one end through the vent in his cell, and tied the end off against the vent cover. A few loops and Sherman fashioned a noose. He turned off his cell light and waited for the sound that would tell him it was time.

  Five minutes later, the section door opened, and the nurse with the pill cart rolled to the end of the first tier. The routine was numbing but also so predictable. Sherman wrapped the bed sheet noose around his neck and pulled it taut. The front of the pill cart appeared at his window.

  Sherman let go and went limp, his legs splayed out with his full weight on th
e noose. He heard his heartbeat hammer in his temples. Sherman’s vision started to blur. This was happening too fast. A thread of panic set in, and he kicked his feet, but the thin layer of soapy water he had splashed on the floor kept him from purchase.

  “Man down 121!”—a shout from the pill pusher outside the cell door.

  A shrill electronic alarm sounded inside the unit. The responding staff made their way to the unit.

  “Throw me the cut-down kit,” the floor officer yelled.

  A team assembled to enter the cell and cut the bedsheet noose and secure Sherman in handcuffs. Protocol was maintained—the very protocol that Sherman now counted upon. There were scores of fake suicide attempts to lure responding staff into cells only to get their throats slashed.

  A cutting tool came out while a team secured Sherman and lifted him against the pressure of the noose. The razor edge of the cutting tool made quick work of the linen hangman’s noose.

  Sherman coughed and spit as his lungs pulled air in. His face was red, and a bruise had already begun to set in where the noose had cut off the blood flow to his brain.

  Sherman was laid out on a gurney and the same team that cut him down rolled him to the infirmary. A doctor loomed over him and placed a stethoscope on both sides of his neck. He wasn’t regaining a rhythm to his breathing, and the state doctor wasn’t willing to take any risk with a patient dying in custody on his shift. A neck brace went on and Sherman went limp.

  “Let’s get him to Folsom Mercy. I want an ultrasound on his neck and airway.”

  After a rush of administrative approvals, a maximum-security inmate’s transport to a local community hospital was authorized.

  Two correctional officers were assigned to accompany Sherman, one in the ambulance and one in a chase car. Both were armed with 9-millimeter side arms.

  A triage team went into action at the hospital. IV lines were placed, and oxygen was administered. Sherman was breathing, but his airway seemed obstructed. He went into a locked unit set aside for the medical needs of inmates from the prison while an ultrasound was arranged. The federal court took a dim view of inmate deaths, especially suicides, and Sherman knew the protocol, having witnessed other men taking a “self-parole” from prison.