by B. A. Morton
The officer smirked and exchanged a glance with his partner, “Threatening a police officer. Keep ‘em coming, Connell, and we’ll just feed out the rope.”
Connell caught the look and sensed something beneath it, but wasn’t sure. “You guys should be reading me my rights,” he said with a sneer. “Just keepin’ you straight in case you’ve forgotten how the law works.” He was rewarded with a blow to the top of his head as he was maneuvered into the car. He shook away the stars and caught Marty’s eye. “You want to get hold of Gerry for me, buddy?”
“Sure thing, Tommy,” Marty stammered, stunned at the speed with which Connell’s fortunes had turned, and more than a little concerned at the trouble his buddy could create if he let his mouth run away with him. “Tommy,” he called as the squad car pulled slowly away, “do yourself a favor. Don’t say anything till Gerry gets there.”
* * *
He should have been concerned when, on reaching the precinct headquarters, he was hurried straight through the booking hall without so much as a finger-printing, and marched straight on up to the department where the guys had changed out of uniforms long ago and the room stank of strong coffee, Scotch and male perspiration. The guys in this department couldn’t give a rat’s ass whether he’d skipped a red light.
He was delivered with a shove and a further grinding punch to his lower back into the hands of a guy who he recognized. He’d worked with him an age ago, when he’d been on Vice. Back then he’d been an ordinary guy, just a cop, trying to do the right thing. There’d been a lot of water under the bridge since then, and one look at Rob Wilson’s face told him all of that water had left an impression, a bad impression.
Wilson was a big guy, bigger than Connell remembered. He had a linebacker’s build and appeared to be solid muscle. He was the kind of man who didn’t have to do a great deal more than just stand there to gain respect. If his police career fell flat he could have worked the doors of the roughest club in town without breaking a sweat. He reached out, grasping Connell by the upper arm, and pulled him effortlessly upright when his knees threatened to buckle under the weight of the blow.
“Hey, Robbo, long time no see. You been working out?”
Wilson ignored him and turned to the uniformed officers. “Okay, I’ve got him, guys,” he growled. His voice, low and expressionless, seemed to resonate from his cavernous chest. He was a hard man to second guess, always had been. The officers nodded and exchanged a look that got Connell wondering if maybe he needed to be worrying more than he was. They retrieved their cuffs with a good deal more twisting and tugging before leaving without a backward glance.
“Hey, Rob, am I glad to see you.” Connell tried again with a measure of relief, rubbing the circulation back into his wrists and quelling the growing feeling that something was very wrong indeed and that, as usual, he was going to be the last to discover what it was.
Wilson didn’t reply immediately and they stood for a moment in awkward silence. Connell raised his head and swept his gaze around the busy squad room. As his eyes met those of the shirt-sleeved detectives scattered about the room, conversation stopped, phones were hung up or held poised in mid-air, and suddenly Connell found himself very much the center of attention.
When the awkwardness became too uncomfortable, he was compelled to speak again. “Hey, buddy, you going to tell me what’s going on? You owe me that at least.”
Wilson shook his head slowly. “All in good time, Tommy, all in good time.”
Following Wilson through the busy room, he was acutely aware of tangible hostility from the occupants. He felt it leap like electricity from one to the other and he couldn’t begin to understand why. He didn’t like it, wasn’t used to it, not from the good guys. The feeling sank under its own somber weight and churned deep in his gut. Maybe they all thought he was Gerry’s boy too and maybe they all had something to hide. He doubted an entire squad could be on the take but something had them all looking at him as if he was a leper.
He paused while Wilson stopped to talk with an older guy, heads together, eyes flicking back and forth between themselves and him. Turning away from their scrutiny, he shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to look relaxed and unconcerned. Despite his attempts at nonchalance, his stomach continued to give him grief and so many bells rang in his skull that he shook his head to dispel them.
Scanning the room he found his attention drawn to an incident board that practically covered one wall. Crime scene photos, interspersed with notes. He counted twenty-two images: eleven corpses shockingly and brutally digitized, and eleven pictures of earnest-looking policemen in dress uniform in better days, policemen who sadly would not be going home at the end of their shift. Connell had seen many brutal sights while on the force, but the sight of so many, gutted and laid out for all to see, managed to shock him and he took a step back.
He hadn’t really followed the news coverage of the hunt for the serial killer. He tried not to tune into bad news these days; there was too much of it around. He was still trying to shield Lizzie and Joe from anything that might bring the bad memories back. He knew the cops were no nearer to catching the killer, though. Gerry had told him as much and looking at all the board confirmed that. A map in the center of it showed the location of each murder highlighted in red. The guy was running circles round them, literally.
“You quite finished?” growled Wilson and Connell’s attention swung back to the two men who now stood waiting for him. They wore identical grim expressions, giving nothing away. Connell remembered Rob Wilson as an okay guy. He hoped he still was and they could get to the bottom of whatever misunderstanding had them both looking at him like he was something nasty they’d stepped in.
They sat across from him, a metal table screwed to the floor between them, a blinking light letting him know that whatever was said would be recorded. He’d been here before, many times, on the other side of the table, but he’d never sat on either side without due protocol being followed. No one had read him his Miranda rights. He wasn’t under arrest and yet it appeared that they very much wanted him to believe he was. More fool them if they imagined they had a chance in hell of intimidating him.
They remained silent, staring, trying to unnerve him. Wilson casually reclined back in his seat as if he had all the time in the world, his shirt stretched taut across his wide chest, perspiration marks leeching from his underarms, the only indication that maybe he wasn’t as cool as he was making out. The older guy, obviously his boss, sat forward studying him, idly tapping a cheap pen on the table top.
Connell let him stare and ignored the tapping. He knew the rules of this game and the first rule - don’t speak first. In fact, if he’d paid any attention at all to Marty’s words of advice, he shouldn’t be speaking at all.
Eventually the old guy, named Hamilton if the ID clipped to his shirt pocket was anything to go by, grew tired of the game and slammed a thick manila folder onto the table top. Connell resisted the urge to flinch at the sudden noise. He saw his name on the top of the folder and raised his eyes questioningly.
“Do you know why you’re here, Connell?” asked Hamilton as he opened the file and pretended to scan the contents. Connell knew he wasn’t reading. If he was any detective at all, he would have read the file back to front before he’d come into the room. Hamilton raised his gaze when Connell didn’t answer. Connell shrugged; he’d no idea why he was there, but the men across from him obviously did.
Hamilton sighed. “For the tape, Connell, do you know why you’re here?”
“Forget the tape. I don’t know what game you’re playing guys, but I’m calling foul ball. No Miranda, no phone call, no interview.” He cocked his head defiantly and tried a little attitude to see if that would loosen their tongues.
Hamilton frowned. “A simple question, Connell, do you know why you’re here? We can do this your way or my way. One of those will be to your advantage. You choose.”
Point taken. He wasn’t a fool. There was no sense in
pissing off the guy who held the keys to the cell, literally. “No, I guess not,” he answered shortly. “You going to tell me anytime soon?”
“You were unable to provide ID when asked to do so by uniformed officers. Why was that?”
“You’re joking, right?” Even Connell didn’t believe that one. “You dragged me down here for that?”
“Why were you unable to provide ID?” repeated Hamilton.
Connell cocked his head and looked at Wilson’s blank face. He really wanted to just get up and leave but swallowed his frustration instead and replied. “I left my wallet at home.”
“And where is home these days?”
“Why? You want me to run home and get it?”
“Did I say that?”
Connell bit back a smartass retort with some measure of control. Why spin it out, why prolong the conversation any more than he needed to? “Upstate. I own some land, keep some horses.”
“A farm?”
“You could say.”
“A farm upstate, and an apartment in the city ... very nice,” said Hamilton coolly.
Connell shrugged. Okay, so maybe this was something to do with what Marty had alluded to, that some folk still weren’t sure which side of the line he was on. Maybe they thought he was fiddling his taxes. “Hey, what can I say, I have an eye for property.”
“And what is it that you actually do for a living, Connell, since the termination of your police career?”
So that was the way they were going to play it. He kind of expected it from Hamilton who only knew about him from what he’d read or been told, but he expected more from Wilson. They’d worked together. Wilson knew him.
“Since it was terminated, by me, I’ve been raising stock and doing some work for Gerry Gesting. You got a problem with that?” He controlled his voice, keeping it calm, but inside his mind was tripping over itself, trying to second-guess what was coming next.
“Do you know a man called Henry Musgrave?” asked Hamilton.
Connell shot him a glance and couldn’t hide his surprise or interest. “Sure I do,” he gestured to the file with a nod of his head, “as you’d know if you’d read my file. He’s a cop who traded sides and paid the penalty.”
“And what do you think the appropriate penalty is for a cop who trades sides?”
Is that what they thought he’d done - traded sides? Is that how they thought he paid his bills? He swallowed the acrid taste that bubbled into the back of his throat. “Hey, that’s for a judge to decide, not me.” Musgrave was doing time, he knew that much, and he didn’t expect he’d be having much fun, sharing a cell alongside all those felons he’d helped lock up.
Hamilton blinked lazily, watching him in silence for a moment and continued. “Harvey Sutherland, you remember him?”
Connell narrowed his eyes. He had to concentrate, but sure, he remembered him. He just didn’t know where Hamilton was going with his questioning. “Yeah, I worked with him when I was in uniform.” He’d been a cheap bully, from what he could recall, not unlike the officer who’d picked him up earlier. Not a nice guy.
“Why did you hand in your badge, Connell?”
Whoa, but he was good. Shifting the emphasis so that Connell really didn’t know what he was being questioned about. The thing was, though, Connell knew exactly what he was doing, even if he hadn’t yet worked out why.
“I decided to raise horses instead.”
“So it had nothing to do with your issues with authority?”
Connell shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Or your aversion to some cops?”
“Only bad cops and I think everyone should have an aversion to them. You get what I’m saying here, Hamilton? You’re either against them or you’re with them. There’s no middle ground where corruption is concerned.”
Hamilton nodded. “So what you’re saying is you feel strongly that corrupt police officers deserve everything they get.”
“Pretty much.” That’s why he was working for Gerry; it wasn’t just the money.
“What do you know of a detective named Leon Scott?”
Connell smiled and touched a hand to the bruising on his temple. “Oh sure, I know Scotty. Now there’s a poster boy for a corrupt policeman if ever there was one. You want to go drag someone in off the street and kick the shit out of them, then you couldn’t go wrong starting with him or his partner.”
“So you think he deserves a good ass-kicking?”
Connell caught the cautionary bell in his head before he stepped fully into that gaping hole. “No, but that’s what they gave me.”
“And why would they want to do that?”
“I have no idea. Because they’re crazy, because I’m investigating the crap they’re currently swimming in? Ask them.” He shook his head “Of course you won’t ask them, will you, because, you think you’re all whiter than white. That’s why Gerry has to get guys like me to sniff about in all the shit you create.”
Hamilton ignored Connell’s attempt to bait. “Why are you investigating Gibbons and Scott?”
“Because they’re up to something, and Gerry Gesting asked me to. He’s on his way down here. Why don’t you ask him, if you’re so interested?”
Hamilton smiled. “I’m more interested in you at the moment, Connell.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. In particular, I’m interested in why your wallet, which you say was left at home on the farm, was found last night at the scene of a crime.”
“What scene, what crime? So I dropped my wallet, big deal.” He owed Spidey an apology.
“And I’m interested in why your car was also spotted at the same location.”
“Maybe if you tell me where that is, and what it is you’re actually talking about, we could make some progress.”
“Okay, Connell.” Hamilton sat back in his chair and Rob Wilson opened a file of his own and sat forward.
“At eleven-fifteen last night, a member of the public was caught taking a piss.”
“Big deal, so I’m here for urinating in the street?”
Wilson gave him a warning look and continued. “In attempting to find an unobtrusive place to relieve himself, he happened upon the body of a male Caucasian in the alley adjacent to the public library. Subsequent inquiries have resulted in the identification of the deceased as that of Detective Leon Scott. Time of death has been estimated at approximately eight-thirty the same evening. A thorough search of the alley revealed your wallet. A subsequent witness testimony put your car in that alley on two separate occasions on the same day.”
Wilson paused for a breath. Connell stayed silent.
“Although we have yet to receive the official pathology report, we know that Detective Scott was killed by a single knife wound to the heart. Post mortem, the same knife was used to slice open his abdomen and evacuate his intestines from the body cavity. The same method was used on all the victims outside on the board you saw. All of those victims were policemen. All were suspected at some point in their careers of corrupt or illegal activities. All, you would agree, have paid the ultimate penalty for their misdeeds. At least three of those victims, by your own admission, were known personally to you, Connell.” Hamilton sat forward again. “So, Connell, perhaps you’d like to tell us what you were doing parked up in that alley ...”
Chapter Ten
Connell cocked his head questioningly at Wilson and got nothing but a blank stare in return. Gerry had better start putting out an effort to clear this up soon or this whole thing was going to spiral out of control.
“Cat got your tongue, Connell?”
Swinging his gaze back to Hamilton, Connell narrowed his eyes and considered his position. His gut and bowels were doing major gymnastics, his heart rate was spiking dramatically and there was a virtual chorus of ringing alarm bells going off in his head. He needed to take control and keep it. Any impending coronary would just have to wait.
He took a long breath, slowed himself down and tried to put things into perspect
ive.
So they’d found his wallet, big deal. They hadn’t charged him with anything, didn’t have a leg to stand on evidence-wise, if truth be told. But God, they had plenty of circumstantial, and if they were hell bent on finding someone to take the blame, he had absolutely no doubt they could make it fit, even if they had to squeeze real hard to do it.
No wonder the guys outside had cold-shouldered him, hardly surprising Wilson was giving him the evil eye. The fact was, though, someone was going around gutting bad cops, and if he was being honest, he kind of approved.
“I told you, I’m working for Gerry Gesting,” he eventually replied. “He asked me to check out Gibbons and Scott. That’s what I was doing, investigating. Gerry can back me up.”
“And what did you suspect them of?”
Suddenly Connell didn’t want to go giving everything up. He wasn’t sure which information was important enough to hold back as insurance, just in case, or which was even more crucial to hold onto, to protect his case. His case? Why was he even bothered about the case when his own hide was on the line? But he was bothered and it gnawed at him silently. Something else was going on here. “This and that,” he offered guardedly.
“You’ll have to do better than that. Where’s your report?”
Connell shrugged. He’d never been big on reports. A few things jotted in his notebook, a little more on the back of an envelope ... he could hardly class it as a dossier. “My report is for Gerry. You want to see it, speak to him.”
Hamilton steepled his hands on the desk top and changed tack. “Why were you meeting with Frankie Vasin this morning?”
Connell forced a smile. “He wants to buy my apartment. He’s a property developer. That’s what he does.”
“Amongst other things,” added Hamilton.
“You’d have to ask Frankie about that,” Connell replied, “or ask Gibbons, he might be able to tell you about the other things.”
