This was not what Candy was expecting. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that there is a definition of insanity I quite like. It says that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. That’s what we’re doing if we put cops back in charge of policing themselves. It hasn’t worked before so why should it work now?”
In the sound room Dean covered his eyes and Brenda grinned widely while one of the technicians looked a little stunned.
I was on a roll so I kept talking. “Let’s talk about effective policing. Effective policing is sometimes counter-intuitive to the people involved and that causes a lot of stress, especially for the police themselves. Sometimes what they want to do is not in the best interests of society.”
Candy cut in. “Can you give me an example?”
“Certainly. Imprisonment. Many police officers believe that stiffer penalties result in a reduction in crime.”
“Are you implying it doesn’t?”
“Yes.” I drank some water. “Stiffer penalties do not reduce crime. Check out the countries with the highest imprisonment records: the United States has 715 people per 100,000 behind bars, Russia has 584 people per 100,000 behind bars, South Africa has 402 people per 100,000 behind bars and Canada has 116 people per 100,000 behind bars. So, the United States should be the safest, right?”
“Well, not necessarily …”
“Right. The United States had about 4 murders per 100,000 people, Russia had about 20 murders per 100,000 people, South Africa has 50 murders per 100,000 people and Canada had about 2 murders per 100,000 people. Harsher penalties, more arrests, more people in prison does not mean a safer community. Yet many people are invariably in favour of longer sentences.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“Because it seems like it should work but it doesn’t. It’s predicated on prevention through fear, and criminals are optimists.”
“They are?”
“They are. They never think they will get caught. But on a regular basis the idea of more prisons and more prison time gets passed around all the time. It’s normal, along with ideas that protecting the police means the same as protecting the community—and that is not necessarily so. Listen to the language being used by those who support more police and longer sentences, they talk about police taking out the trash, protecting society, damage to justice and enforcing the law. There are some very strong and negative words being used here. But let’s be honest, the truth is that the system is doing what it is supposed to be doing—reviewing each case one at a time and making impartial decisions.”
Candy looked intrigued. “And why does the system do that?”
“Our society spreads the blame around when we deal with justice. Which is what our society is designed to do.”
“Excuse me?”
“We say judge, jury and executioner. We divide the roles in criminal cases. We blindfold justice to make sure she is impartial. That is central to our idea of justice. We do not allow judges to rule in cases where they know the accused. We do not allow police officers to investigate their brothers and sisters. We do not allow prosecutors to prosecute people who have murdered their children.”
I drank more water and turned to the cameras.
“So why should we give more power to the police? We should spread the power and the responsibility around even more. Justice is not easy; if it were there would be no recidivism. Experts tell us things that are counter indicative, and following the ideas always generates resistance. And most of the resistance comes from the police themselves, which is normal.”
“I’m sorry Monty, I don’t understand.”
“Okay, here’s another example. In England the police are travelling to areas with high vehicle crime and finding vehicles that are in danger of being stolen. Then they put stickers on car windows to inform the owner that their vehicle is at risk. They even have boxes to mark to inform the owner on how the vehicle is in danger. To many this is counter-intuitive—it tells the thieves what and how to steal.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“But it also forces the owner to take action. It puts a police presence on the street. And it attracts the press so stories like this get out and people start to think about the world they’re in.”
Candy thought about it. “That’s interesting. Is that what really happens?”
“It is. But police resistance to the idea is widespread despite the fact that it is working. Theft is dropping in the areas where the stickers are being delivered.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“Okay, now let me give you an example of what I’m talking about right here in River City.” Candy didn’t laugh; I guess she wasn’t a big fan of musicals and had never seen The Music Man. “Right now the police union is up in arms over a proposed plan for the service to start cutting the amount of time plainclothes officers spend in investigative units.”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“Units like vice, organized crime and so on. In the new rules detective sergeants could get rotated out after four years, compared to the current five. And constables could get rotated out after one year instead of three.”
“Why is the union complaining?”
“Because they feel that inexperience of officers in the premium units could hamper conviction rates. This is possible. But by changing the rotation rates the service is going to put more police officers with more experience back on the streets—which is where they do the most good.”
“That seems to make sense. But you say the police union doesn’t feel that way?”
“Nope. But they’re offering a possible result by describing the cases falling through, one that may or may not happen. Yet the plan will offer a concrete result—one we know will happen. The more police on the street the less crime you have. Period. I don’t mean police in cars or storefront offices or helicopters or submarines. I mean police on the street, walking around, talking to people, introducing themselves …”
“Hold on. You believe police on the street solves crimes?”
“No. It prevents them.” I took a drink of water and then took Candy’s glass and started in on that. She waited until I put the glass down. “So there are two viewpoints here. One that this will lower the crime rate and the other that it will increase the crime rate.”
“Yes. And the citizens need to hear both sides of the story. But they only hear one voice.”
“And you’ll provide a new voice?”
“Yes. I’ll provide a different voice. I will be a change. And it’s time for a change, isn’t it?”
#46
When the cameras were off Candy shook my hand and said, “That was the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. You have just alienated half of the city.”
“You think so?”
Brenda and Dean came up, both looking stunned, and Dean cut in, “Half at least. Maybe more. Jesus, Monty, what the hell were you thinking?”
I shrugged. “I was thinking of sending a message.”
“What message? That you’re nuts?”
Brenda said, slowly, “No. Not that. Actually I think Monty told the truth. Not that that’s a good idea.”
I nodded. “And fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”
Candy hid a smile and Dean and Brenda wandered away. The last I heard they were both muttering something about tequila shooters.
I thanked Candy and the technicians and washed my face in the bathroom.
Outside I took my jacket off and hung it over my shoulder. My stomach growled and I realized I was starving so I looked around the parking lot for a hot dog vendor or something but there was nothing. While I was trying to decide what to do I heard a low cough behind me and a voice say, “Mr. Haaviko?”
I turned and saw a small, slight man in his late forties or early fifties about six feet away. He was wearing black wool pants and a long trench coat with a black felt bowler hat on his head. His right hand was in the po
cket of his coat, an umbrella was hooked over his wrist and his left hand was open at his side. His face was closely shaved and his eyes were pale brown behind thick-lensed granny glasses. He looked vaguely familiar.
“Yes?”
The right side of his coat swung open and I saw his right hand and for a minute I saw double and felt confused and then I realized he had stuffed his empty sleeve with something to give it a shape and then tucked the empty sleeve into his pocket.
In his real right hand was a huge pistol held at waist level.
My hands became fists and I feinted left and started to move towards him. But he had already pulled the trigger and the gun went boom and something very hard hit me in the chest and knocked me backwards onto my ass
For a second I couldn’t breathe and I was sure I was dying.
It wasn’t so bad actually. The dying I mean.
Although I very much missed Claire and Fred.
Then the man was kneeling on my stomach and slamming his gun into the side of my face. Not hard but over and over again.
I tried to get my hands up to protect myself but I couldn’t, my arms just refused to move. As he hit me I could swear he was singing low, as though to himself, something about a girl’s knickers and how you could see them if you wanted to pay.
I woke up puking into a canvas bag over my head in a moving vehicle. I couldn’t remember getting knocked out. Which is normal, you never remember getting knocked out.
My head ached and my nose and mouth were full of the stench of vomit. Not to mention the fact that I was dizzy, nauseous and my legs and crotch were damp. Which meant I had pissed myself.
A cultured voice pierced my pain. “Mr. Haaviko? I assume you’re awake?”
I tried to say yes but wasn’t sure what actually came out. However, the man seemed to understand. “That’s good.”
The car or whatever turned a corner and the voice went on, “That’s very good. Now. If you behave everything will be fine.”
The car turned another corner and accelerated and a radio came on, a police band radio full of panic and confusion. “If you do not behave I will cut the tendons behind your ankles and knees. Then things will get really bad. Do you understand?”
The police radio made sense; sometimes bad guys used them to keep track of cops.
“Yeshh.” I could not feel my hands or my arms and I seemed to be unable to move my feet as well, oh well.
“Excellent. Your understanding and acceptance of this whole situation is very edifying.”
He shut up and I got to listen to the radio and it wasn’t good. My concentration was bad and I knew I was concussed but I could still make out some key words and numbers.
“Status 1—status 3.” That meant cops were available and had arrived. There were lots of those. Something big must be going on.
The language codes came back to me very slowly indeed but they came back. I had memorized hundreds of them over the years and they were hard-wired in. By reflex I had memorized the codes before I came to the city.
A very calm, professional voice said ,“Listen please. We have code 2705. We have code 9902. We have code 9906.” That meant offensive weapon and violence and a mental condition.
The words didn’t make sense to me and then they fitted in.
A different voice came on. “We’ve got D4G and she’s definitely DOA.” That meant multiple gunshot wounds and one dead lady.
“10-33.” Officer needs help. My brain was starting to work, which was nice.
“10-75. 10-75. 10-75. Looking for the latest 10-75. Folks, keep your eyes open.” 10-75 was a police hater, a classic. Oh God, I started to throw up again when the car hit something and bounced.
“Code 3.” A hot response, an emergency response. I must have passed out again because there was a blank space, then a voice speaking in plain English.
“We have one officer down and one missing. We are looking for Officer Morgan. We believe he has been kidnapped. He is a white male, twnty-eight, six foot four inches high, 240 pounds. The situation is extremely serious. His partner is dead—shot and stabbed multiple times. We believe there are multiple assailants. Extreme caution is required.”
My head started to clear again and the police radio was turned off and a regular station came on. “And this just in, a police officer was ambushed and murdered this morning. Her partner was kidnapped at the same time. Police are looking for the officer who is described as a young Caucasian male. Anyone with any information is requested to contact the police immediately. However, the perpetrators are armed and extremely dangerous and are not to be approached under any circumstances.”
The radio turned off and the cultured voice spoke again. “We will be home soon. If you behave good things will happen. There may even be cake. We should have no troubles with the police; they’re very busy and should be for a long time. They get so stirred up when one of their own goes missing, don’t they?”
The car went down a decline, quite far down in fact and then it levelled out and the car stopped.
“And here we are! Home again, home again, happy is the sailor home from the sea!”
#47
The engine turned off and a door opened. Then it closed and then another door opened and something caught my legs and then I was moving.
And whoever was doing it was grunting and panting like it was hard work.
Then I was falling and slamming into concrete and I was out again. When I became conscious again I was on something that rattled and rolled.
“… and you, sir, are quite ridiculously fat. I don’t know what Clarice saw in you! However, it is nothing we cannot deal with.”
I heard rattling and then an electric engine started and we were going up. Strange smells managed to cut through the vomit in the bag on my head. Smells of chemicals and something musty I’d never smelled before.
“And here we are. Your home away from home so to speak. For as long as you choose to spend here.”
Something touched my hands and then they were in front of me and then above me but I could still barely feel them. There was the sound of a smaller engine and I was moving upright, pulled by something implacable, and the pain from my chest was incredible and for a second I couldn’t feel my head hurt.
Then the bag was off my head and I could sort of see except for the blood and vomit caked onto my face. The man in front of me looked curious and unremarkable and slightly, vaguely familiar.
If I had seen him I had immediately forgotten him.
His nose wrinkled in a strangely delicate motion. “Phew. You stink, sir.”
He fumbled at his feet and came up with a plastic squeeze bottle and a rag. In his other hand he held a short knife, about three inches long and very broad, made out of what looked to be black glass, all carefully chipped to sharpness along the edges. He held the knife to my throat and started to clean my face with the rag.
“In case you’re wondering, you were shot with a teakwood round from the shotgun barrel of my pistol. A .63 inch diameter eight-inch length of good quality teak. Quite expensive and imported from Annan, or whatever they call it now. It’s kind of like getting hit with a small car, I imagine.”
The black glass knife, the casual kidnapping, the level of violence dealt to the police as a distraction, the insanity in the actions of the man in front of me.
The Shy Man.
It had to be.
The man reached up and mopped my face with cold water. “It’s based on a lovely idea the British Army used against rioting anarchist yellow communist niggers in Hong Kong in the late 60’s. 1960’s, that is. In the 1860’s they would have used real lead, which would have stopped a lot of problems dead.”
He twisted my face to the side to check his handiwork. “Of course, in Hong Kong they fired the teak rounds into the street and bounced them up into their targets.”
He patted my cheek once and twice softly and then a third time hard. “But you’re a big tough guy and I didn’t have time for that.”
<
br /> After he had cleaned me for awhile he took his jacket off and put it somewhere behind him. I still wasn’t focussing very well but I could see a holster on a belt around his waist. And in the holster was a huge walnut-handled pistol.
“Are you looking at my gun?”
He said it almost coquettishly.
“Yes. It’s a nice gun.”
“You like it? It’s a LeMat revolver, circa 1856. Black powder and brass cap design.”
The Shy Man grinned sweetly like he was talking about his new car. My brain was working a little. The black powder meant it was an antique and therefore fell between any kind of gun control rules and regulations. It also meant that the Shy Man could make his own ammunition; hell, he could even make his own black powder if he wanted. It wasn’t hard to do—just charcoal, sulphur and saltpetre.
He held the gun up where I could see it, a big, heavy,
forward-pointing design with an octagonal barrel about a foot long and a short, fat barrel under that. The hammer was huge and the butt was slightly rounded and came with a place to attach a lanyard to make it hard to lose the damn thing.
“It holds nine shots plus the shotgun and I can cast my own lead balls from child’s soldiers that I buy at antique swaps. The bigger barrel underneath is a shotgun. It was designed by a French-descended doctor in New Orleans during the American Civil War; despite that it’s quite a good gun. This particular one was built in Birmingham, England and was supposed to be shipped to the Dixies but it never happened. A very elegant device, not at all like those crude Remingtons and Colts or those ridiculously déclassé modern guns.”
“It’s very nice.”
“If you’re good I’ll blow your brains out with it. It will be quite an honour. Okay?”
I could only nod weakly. Then the knife came up again and he started to cut off my clothes. With smooth, slick motions he cut my clothes into ribbons and let the ribbons fall to the ground. He wasn’t that careful and lots of blood flowed as well.
Then the Shy Man left and I closed my eyes and tried to focus through the pain.
A Criminal to Remember (A Monty Haaviko Thriller) Page 21
