Cold Medina

by Gary Hardwick

  The other officers watched their argument without concern. Partners going at it was normal. They kept their eyes on the perp and waited for Tony and Jim to complete the cycle.

  “... I say we try to take him,” Jim said. “We surround him, move in slowly, and if he fires, so be it.”

  “You ready to take that bullet?”

  “You know it.”

  “Tony looked at Jim. He was ready, crazy bastard. And he was probably right. The rollers of today were often ready to die or kill at any moment. They didn't give a shit because they knew death was in the contract when they signed up. An aggressive posture was called for.

  “Let me talk with him first,” Tony said. “No reason to have a dead witness unless we absolutely have to.”

  “He's a perp, not a witness,” said Jim.

  Tony didn't answer. He grabbed a bullhorn.

  “This is Inspector Hill, Detroit Police. We already have you for killing your boy there.”

  “I ain't killed nobody!” the perp yelled from behind the cans. “Then throw out your weapon and come out.” “How I know you won't shoot me anyway.”

  “You don't. But we damn sure will if you don't bring your ass out.”

  “I... I got me some demands.”

  “That's a dead body out there.” Tony said. “There's no way we're letting you walk.” The perp was silent. “We could wait him out,” Tony said to Jim.

  “Sure,” said Jim. “He'll pass out from hunger in three or four days.”

  “We can't sit here all night screwing around with this guy,” Tony said. 'And if I call in SWAT, there won't be enough left of him to put in a baggie.”

  “OK, then let me go for him and you lay back,” Jim said.

  “Thanks, but I have another way,” Tony said. “Tell the uniforms to move laterally but to stay out of the line of fire.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “It'll give this guy the feeling that we're moving in.”

  Jim pulled a uniform aside and gave him the order.

  Tony put his Beretta away and lifted the bullhorn. “OK, we're tired of this shit! You got a minute, just sixty seconds to come out.”

  “This is bullshit,” Jim said. “He won't fall for it.”

  “He's scared. He'll go for it. Besides, he's not worth getting a cop shot, even if it's you.” Into the bullhorn, Tony said, “We're coming to get you. If you shoot, my men will kill you. So, you can deal with me or the men with the guns. OK, people move in!”

  Jim signaled the uniforms. They moved in circles around the perp, but did not come any closer. “Forty-five seconds!”

  Tony said into the bullhorn. “'Throw out your weapon.”

  The garbage cans hiding the perp knocked against each other. The uniforms stopped, then continued to circle.

  “Hey! Back the fuck off!” the perp yelled.

  “Too late,” said Tony. “Thirty seconds!”

  “What are you some kinda fuckin' nut, I gotta gun!”

  “We have them too. They use hollow points. Pretty messy. Fifteen!”

  Tony and Jim stepped out from behind the cars. “Ten, nine, eight....”

  “OK, OK,” said the perp. He stood up with the gun dangling on the index finger of his right hand.

  Tony and Jim drew their weapons. The perp was right in front of them, about twenty yards away. They moved in, keeping a bead on the man.

  “Hold fire!” Tony shouted. To the perp he said, “Drop the weapon, now.’

  “I didn't kill him,” the perp said.

  “Drop the fucking gun!” Jim said.

  “I just got here and ... there he was-”

  Tony signaled Jim to stop, then he walked on.

  “Put the gun down son,” Tony said in a softer voice. “It's over. Just drop the weapon.” Tony lowered his gun. To Jim he said, “You got him?”

  “I got him,” Jim said, keeping his gun on the perp.

  Tony walked closer. He kept his eye on the perp, knowing Jim was watching the gun in the perp's hand.

  Tony got to the man and slowly removed the gun from his finger. Two uniforms rushed out and grabbed the perp and quickly handcuffed him. The coroner's aide and his crew hurried to the corpse.

  “You're the luckiest bastard on two feet, you know that?” Jim said.

  “God looks out for babies and fools,” Tony said.

  “Goddamned Inspector walking out without a gun. What's this department coming to?” Jim said.

  The two uniforms brought the perp to Tony and Jim. He was a thin, black kid about seventeen.

  “I didn't do nothin',” he said. “He was like that when I got here. I swear.”

  “He been Mirandized?” asked Tony.

  “Yes sir,” said a uniform.

  “Who are you?” Tony asked the perp.

  “Alonzo ... Fields,” said the kid. His voice was shaking, desperate.

  “What happened here?” Tony asked. He knew that anything Alonzo told him would be thrown out by a judge even though the kid had been given his rights.

  “Like I said, when I got here, he was dead. So, I was just gonna lift some jewelry off him, you know.”

  “See anybody?” asked Jim.

  “Naw, but there had to be somebody 'cause I swear on my mama, I didn't to it.”

  Alonzo was near tears now. Tony could see now that he was not a killer. He'd seen enough hard cases over the years and this wasn't one of them.

  “Who is he?” asked Tony.

  “Shit, you don't know that truck? He's The Grip. Big Money Grip.”

  Tony knew the name. One of Detroit's finest dealers. “You one of his men? You in the Union?”

  “No, I'm just hangin' out, you know. I ain't with them. Besides, everybody knows there ain't no Union.”

  “Right,” Tony said. “These officers are going to ask you some more questions.” He walked away.

  “I didn't do it. You believe me don't you?” said Alonzo. “I was just gonna take his watch, you know.”

  “With a gun? Yeah, we know,” said Jim. “Take his ass in.”

  “But, what about my car, I left it-”

  “That's the least or your worries,” said Tony.

  The uniforms carted Alonzo off as Dr. Ralph Neward, the assistant medical examiner, walked toward Tony and Jim. Neward was a smallish man with thick, black hair.

  Tony and Jim watched Neward approach as they had so many times before. But this time, he looked different. His chubby face was red and his eyes contorted into circles of dread.

  “Inspector Hill,” Neward said. “I think you should see this.”

  Tony, Jim, and Neward walked over to the body. The corpse was on its stomach, spread-eagled and it was a mess. The dead man had been ripped to pieces. Skin hung in flaps, bone could be seen in places, and blood was everywhere, dried and brownish.

  “What is it?” Tony asked.

  “It's his hands, sir,” Neward said.

  “What about them?” Tony asked.

  “They're gone. He doesn't have any.”

  Tony and Jim both knelt closer to the corpse. It was still dark and there was so much blood that it was difficult to see anything. When they were upon the body, they saw that the hands of the dead man had been cut off, severed at the wrists.

  Tony stood. “Jesus,” he said.

  “Why do I get the feeling this is going to be a lousy day?” said Jim.

  “The forensic techs will need to do a lot of work here,” said Tony. “Don't move the body until they're done.”

  “Yes sir,” said Neward.

  “Tell your boss, Dr. Roberts, we'll be calling on him bright and early,” said Tony. The forensic technicians began their delicate task of searching for evidence. Tony and Jim watched with grim faces. On the horizon, the first rays of morning glowed yellow and orange. Tony turned his face toward the light and quietly cursed.

  3

  1300

  The First Precinct police station at 1300 Beaubien had seen better days. It was old and
overdue for refurbishing. Its brick surface wore the dirt and soot of many years. Police cars surrounded it on all four sides, as if protecting it.

  On the fifth floor of the building that everyone in Detroit called Thirteen Hundred. Police Inspector Tony Hill was drinking his fifth cup of coffee. He'd been in his office since capturing Alonzo Fields and securing the crime scene on Belle Isle.

  Tony was the leader of the Special Crimes Unit, an elite group of detectives drawn from the citywide force. They handled all the nastiest cases in the city: mass murder, drug gangs, serial rapists, child molestation, and any other crap that flowed down the pike. The officers affectionately called the SCU the Sewer, because that's where all the shit landed.

  The last two leaders of the SCU had gone on to better things. One was now on the City Council, the other in the state House of Representatives. Tony had no such aspirations, but it was nice to know that he could.

  Only heading the mayor's personal police force, the SS, was more prestigious than the SCU. But then again, he thought, you had to be borderline crazy to be one of those SS guys and he wanted no part of it. A veteran cop named Walter Nicks was the current leader of the SS and he had one foot on psychosis and the other on a rusty nail.

  It was only seven o'clock and the day was already sliding downhill. Tony's wife, Nikki, had gotten onto his ass about sneaking out in the middle of the night again and someone had ripped the city's number one street dealer to shreds.

  Detroit didn't have gangs like other cities, wearing colors and spray-painting tags. Motown's gangs were smart, young businessmen, overachievers, who banded together for a specific purpose.

  The Union was the result of that mentality. A collection of three big drug crews under a truce dating back to the late eighties. The Union split the city into sections and stayed out of each other's way. This made the drug trade more profitable and less dangerous. They were smart, efficient, and ruthless. Finally, black people had come together, but unfortunately it was as a pack of criminals.

  Tony was already thinking that Floyd Turner's death might be a hit by one of the lesser crews. But that made no sense. The Union could wipe them out any time they wanted. Or maybe there had been a break in the truce and this was the start of a war. Whatever the answer, it was not going to be good for the city.

  Tony got up from behind his desk, moving his six-foot frame slowly. He scratched the dark skin along his forearm and tightened his ugly tie.

  He made his way out of his office into the bullpen to do his morning check. Jim was at the jail questioning Alonzo Fields. Normally, Tony would have sent one of his sergeants but the Fields kid had requested a lawyer. Tony wanted every piece of information out of Fields he could legally get, so he sent Jim.

  As Tony entered the bullpen, Brian Lane, a beefy detective, stood up and yelled, “And The Big Nuts Award of the week goes to ... Inspector Tony Hill!”

  The officers burst into applause and whistles.

  Tony waved the ovation down. “As you were,” he said, trying not to laugh. Tony waded into the officers, slapping fives and pounding fists.

  “Lane,” Tony said looking at a black officer. “I heard you got that Van Dyke rapist.” “Caught him with his pants down, sir. It's a slam dunk,” Lane said.

  “Be careful anyway. That don't mean anything these days.”

  “Heard a big Union man went down last night,” said Steve Patrick, a young black detective.

  “Yeah. Floyd Turner aka Big Money Grip.”

  “Good,” said Lisa Meadows, the only woman in the Unit. “One less turd in the sewer.”

  Tony quickly got oral reports on the assorted killings, drug deals, and other crimes. He just needed to make sure things were stable. Grip's murder smelled like big trouble and if he had to be away for a while, he needed to know things were OK.

  Tony was going back to his office when Jim entered. They said hellos then walked in together.

  Jim Cole was bright, wickedly handsome, and possessed an ingratiating personality. He was tough, a little hot-tempered, but a fine cop and partner. His only weakness was his genitals. He'd earned the precinct house nickname Stroke because of his sexual escapades.

  Once, Jim was having affairs with a young girl and her mother at the same time, and both women knew it. Tony had marveled at the ease with which Jim had handled the situation. The affairs lasted for about half a year and when they ended, mother and daughter were not on speaking terms. Everyone in the Sewer delighted in Jim's exploits.

  ''Anything on the Fields kid?”

  “Nada,” Jim said. “But he did lie to us. He was one of The Grip's dealers. Looks like he was trying to rip off his stash. We didn't find any money on the corpse or in his vehicle, but Fields denies taking it. Fields only had a few hundred on him. If he knows anything else, we'll have to find out later. He got a lawyer and wouldn't say much after talking to him.”

  “But Fields didn't kill Grip, did he?”

  “Not probable. The dead guy had been knifed something terrible and our boy Fields didn't have a drop of blood on him.”

  “Makes sense,” Tony said. “I wonder who would he stupid enough to whack a Union roller?”

  “I don't know, but whoever did it sure wanted to make an impression.”

  “I got the most recent info on the Union,” said Tony. “It's hard to come by since no one will admit there is a gang. But our drug people managed to dig up a few things. I just have to remember where I put it.” He started to rummage through his desk.

  “You lost it?” Jim asked.

  “No,” Tony said a little too harshly. “I misplaced it.”

  “Take your time, man, Look, I'm sorry about the Belle Isle thing. I had no right to call you out like that,” Jim said.

  “Forget it,” Tony said. “It's your job to watch my ass. Got it!” Tony held a large manila folder. ''I'll get one of the guys to summarize this for us.”

  “Who are you gonna give it to?”

  “Martin. He's good at shit work.”

  “I wouldn't advise that,” Jim said. “Martin has been making noise about racism again.”

  “Really. Well, he can make more noise while he's reading over these reports.”

  “Tony, you're gonna have to lighten up on him,” said Jim.

  “Martin is an asshole.”

  “True, but some of the men are saying that you don't like white cops.”

  “Who's saying it? The black cops, or the white ones?”

  “You know who it is.”

  “Fuck 'em. This is our department now.”

  “You're an inspector, Tony. Look man, you know this race shit runs deep. It's the history of Detroit. Black and white been fighting over this city for half a century.

  “And we won,” Tony said.

  “Did we? This city is just as fucked up as it was when the white folks ran it.”

  “Well, at least we're in control of our own fucking up.”

  “Tony, you can't just be doggin' white officers,” Jim said.

  “You trying to say I'm a racist?” Tony said. He laughed a little at the idea.

  “All I'm saying is between the brothers you can feel anything you want, but you're in charge here. You have obligations and you can't have an open bias.”

  “That never stopped them from doing their dirt, did it?”

  “Forget it. I should know better than to talk to you about this.” Jim paused, then looking directly at Tony said, “You know, I figured out what your problem is.”

  Tony froze for a second. How could Jim know about The Dream? Hell, he didn't fully know why he was having it.

  “I don't have a problem,” Tony said.

  “You know what I'm talking about,” said Jim. “You've been off your game for the last few months. I should know, I've been covering for your ass.”

  “It's just stress,” Tony said. ''A little time off and I'll get over it. “

  “No,” said Jim. “What you need is to get laid.” '

  'I'll talk to Nikki
about it.” Tony was relieved. For a second, he thought Jim actually knew.

  “You know what I mean,” Jim said.

  “I'm married-happily.”

  ''All the more reason to get a piece on the side. Man does not live by wife alone.”

  “Thank you Reverend Jim, but just because you blew your marriage, don't drag me into your shit,” Tony said.

  “Hey, that woman was bad news. I had to leave her.”

  “You always do this to me,” Tony said. “We start a conversation about work and you turn it into one about women.”

  “Hey man, life is about women,” Jim said.

  “Not today. I want a detailed medical report. I called Dr. Roberts and he agreed to see us this morning.”

  “Can't we just read the damned thing?”

  “No. I got a bad feeling about this. When was the last time you saw someone butchered like that?”

  “Actually, that was a new one for me.”

  “Exactly. I don't want this thing blowing up in our faces. So, we'll keep it low key for now.”

  Tony and Jim walked into the bullpen of the Sewer together. Tony gave brief commands and orders to his people on the way out. He dropped the drug reports on Detective Orris Martin's desk.

  They made their way through the gray halls of 1300, saying hello to all the familiar faces.

  The building always seemed haunted. The lives of thousands of cops and criminals whispered behind the walls.

  Tony always felt the constant burden of working in the building. Duty, death, honor, all weighed on his insides. Whenever he was there, he felt heavier, more dense, as if every cell in his body thickened and took on the history of the place.

  When Tony was a young man, 1300 was spoken about with fear. There were stories of beatings and the deaths of black prisoners killed by white cops. Those brutal images were particularly relevant to Tony and his family.

  David Hill, Tony's older brother was killed by a cop. David was always in trouble. Hard-headed, strong-willed, and careless.

  At fourteen, David and a friend got into a fight with an off-duty police officer. The officer shot them both with his service revolver. David had caught one right between the eyes. The other kid wasn't so lucky. He was hit in the heart and lingered in the hospital for a few days before he went.