Benefit of the Doubt: A Novel

by Neal Griffin

  “Okay, Jake. Go down fifteen yards, then cut right, and I’ll throw you the damn ball.”

  Ben looked at Alex and smiled. She thought she saw a spark in his eye that took her back to younger days, less complicated times. She watched as her husband reared back and threw a perfect spiral that Jake caught in stride. Within a few minutes any ill wind that had been stirring melted away and was forgotten.

  SIXTEEN

  Ben sat in a stiff-backed chair outside the office of the Newberg PD chief, determined to gut it out. It had been thirty minutes since he had asked to see Chief Jorgensen and, if need be, he’d wait all afternoon. His new place in the department pecking order was right around the level of whale shit, but he told himself that just meant he could sit right there and put out a serious stench.

  It had been right in this room that Lars Norgaard had been recognized as Newberg’s Officer of the Year almost twenty years ago. Ben remembered standing beside Alex during the ceremony. It was their sophomore year at Newberg High. They were crazy in love and already dreaming of a future with each other. Lars had introduced Ben to the mayor and chief of police, bragging that someday Ben would join the ranks of Newberg PD. Well, Ben thought, the old man was right. Just took a few years longer than expected.

  “This is just ridiculous.” Bernice was on her feet in a huff and headed for the chief’s closed office door.

  “Hang on, Bernie. I can handle this,” Ben said with a wave that stopped her at her desk. “I’ll announce myself.”

  “I must say, Benjamin. You need to stand up for yourself.”

  She’s right, Ben thought. You’ve got an out-of-control detective and a chief holed away in his office. Get on top of it, Sawyer.

  He stood and gave a light knock on the chief’s door, then pushed it open.

  “Excuse me, Chief, I’ve been out here for a while. I just need a couple of minutes.”

  Thirty seconds and Jorgensen didn’t bother to look up. Ben rested his shoulder against the office doorjamb, projecting an air of I can wait all day. When it became clear that Ben wouldn’t leave, Jorgensen exhaled in exasperation and spoke.

  “What do you want, Sawyer?”

  Ben walked into the office, still uninvited, and took a seat in front of the chief’s massive desk. “I want to revisit the idea of a transfer for Detective McKenzie. I think we’d be better off with some new blood in Narcotics.”

  Jorgensen reached forward and opened the glass-topped humidor on the corner of his desk. He pulled out a fat one out and snapped the lid shut, making it clear that he wasn’t in the mood to share. The big man took a V-cutter from his vest pocket and, with a quick flick of his wrist, expertly removed the end of the cigar. A silver lighter came from another pocket and he lit up. After several puffs, he had the cigar stoked to a full smoke. He took it from his mouth and spit a flake of tobacco off his tongue.

  “We’ve been over this, Sawyer. McKenzie has the contacts, he has the experience. He is the department expert. I don’t know what you and Lars had cooked up, but under my administration McKenzie will be the narc for NPD. Now if that’s all you wanted, we’re done. Get out.”

  “I’m surprised you want to involve yourself in the day-to-day operations, Chief. I thought that’s what I was brought on to do.”

  “I had nothing to do with bringing you on, Sawyer. I think it’s been pretty much established how you got here.”

  Ben ignored the jab and returned to the subject of McKenzie.

  “I know McKenzie’s type, Chief. He talks a good game, he may even put together a major case once in a while. But he’s cutting corners, and from what I can tell he might be even be cookin’ the books a bit. He needs to be given an assignment where he can be more closely supervised.”

  “That’s a powerful accusation,” Jorgensen said. “Particularly coming from you. You really think you’re in a position to accuse another cop of misbehaving?”

  “Chief, if you’ve got something to say, then fire away. Let’s get it out in the open.”

  Jorgensen got up and walked around his desk, and his large frame towered over Ben. “I’ve got a lot to say, Sawyer. I’ve got a sergeant in my department who was shitcanned for abusive force and then has the balls to waltz in here and attack the character of a veteran detective. The only reason you’re here is that your father-in-law felt sorry for your dumb ass. Believe me, Lars and I had that argument more than once. I lost.”

  Jorgensen paused, but when Ben offered no comeback, he went on. “If I had my way, you’d be gone already, but it’s out of my hands. You might not be the chief’s boy anymore, but you’re still a union-protected cop. But know this. You’re damn right I’ll be ass-deep in day-to-day ops, and if you don’t like it, you can walk. And if you can’t work with McKenzie in Narcotics, then you can go back to graveyard patrol. Is all that clear to you, Sergeant?”

  Ben reached into his inside jacket pocket. He pulled out a trifolded piece of paper and laid it on the corner of Jorgensen’s desk.

  “This is my official recommendation that McKenzie be transferred out of his current assignment. I’ve provided ample written documentation as to why. You’re free to ignore it, but there may come a time you regret that decision.”

  Without ever breaking eye contact, Jorgensen picked up the paper, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the nearby trash can. Ben smiled.

  “I kept a copy, Chief. I’ll note the time and date of delivery.”

  At the door, Ben stopped and looked back at the chief of police.

  “By the way. McKenzie didn’t show up today and he’s not answering his department cell. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is, would you?”

  “How would I know? You expect me to keep tabs on him?”

  Ben sauntered toward the door, talking over his shoulder as he left. “I heard there was an opening for Chief’s Boy. Word has it McKenzie got the job.”

  SEVENTEEN

  McKenzie sat in the jailhouse hallway and tapped his open hand against the slender flask that hung heavy inside his coat pocket. He resisted the temptation to pull it out for a quick fix of bourbon, a little something to steady his nerves. It wasn’t fear. Hell, no. More like anticipation. The energy of the assignment. If anything, he needed to quell the rush he was feeling from the opportunity Jorgensen had laid out.

  The two-hundred-sixty-mile drive to the Chippewa County Jail had given McKenzie plenty of time to think things over. A few months back he had been taxing petty dope dealers for chump change. Then old man Norgaard went down and Jorgensen stepped in. All restrictions had been lifted. McKenzie could do the math. Pretty soon he’d be closing in on six figures a month. And there’s no doubt, he told himself, Jorgensen’s got interests way beyond Newberg. Big interests. Profitable interests. If McKenzie could navigate this shit storm, whatever it entailed, and bring Jorgensen out unscathed on the other end, the chief might start to see him as partner material.

  One thing was clear: Something about this Harlan Lee worried the new chief. Left him exposed. That knowledge could give McKenzie an advantage. Not now, but someday. The task at hand was to get as much out of Lipinski as possible. Find out what had Jorgensen concerned about Harlan Lee. Then make sure no one else got a damn thing out of Henry Lipinski.

  “Yo, Doyle.” The deputy poked his head out of an open doorway. “Down here, man.”

  McKenzie rose from the bench and looked up and down the long corridor. His boot heels echoed on the hard floor as he strode along. He shook the deputy’s extended hand and spoke in a low tone.

  “We good, Billy? This shit has got to happen today.” McKenzie put the thick wad of hundred-dollar bills into the deputy’s outstretched hand. “There’s half now. The other half after the job is done.”

  The deputy looked at the money. McKenzie picked up on the man’s hesitation.

  “Believe me, Billy,” Doyle said, “this is gonna be good for both of us. I’m talking long-term good, brother.”

  The money disappeared into a pants p
ocket and the deputy in the tan and green looked down the hallway one last time before shutting the door to the anteroom where he and McKenzie stood.

  “Listen, Doyle. I don’t give two shits about some ex-cop who’s got a thing for kiddie porn, but this is going to raise a lot of eyebrows. They got this guy hooked up on a dozen federal charges. The FBI is coming in on Monday and probably transferring him to federal lockup in Saint Paul. Not to mention he’s got one prick of a lawyer. You sure you can handle the fallout on this?”

  Doyle tapped the man, who appeared to be about ten years his junior, lightly on the chest with an open hand.

  “We’ll be all right, you’ll see. I just need a few minutes with him. Then it’s on you.”

  McKenzie paused for effect and was pleased to see the man swallow hard. McKenzie knew he had his attention.

  “I told you when you came on that we’d be getting into some high-stakes poker. Don’t go folding on me now, you hear?”

  “We got forty-five minutes before the next shift shows up,” the deputy said. “If you want to be sure this gets done right, you can have five of it. The lieutenant could stroll through here anytime, so get at it.”

  The officer opened another door and motioned McKenzie through. In the next room, Henry Lipinski sat at a table, dressed in orange, his hands cuffed to the front. A guard hovered nearby.

  McKenzie hadn’t seen Lipinski in a while. When he’d first hired on at Newberg, Lipinski had been in his second term as Florence County sheriff. Now he was just a frumpy old man, white hair going in a hundred directions and three days of gray stubble on his bloated chin. His lips were too red and his skin too pale. Guilty or not, McKenzie thought, the son of a bitch sure looks the part of a child molester.

  Lipinski’s eyes fell on McKenzie, and he half stood in shock. The guard pushed on his shoulder, keeping him in the chair.

  “Hey, Henry,” McKenzie said, enjoying the moment of surprise and superiority. “It’s been a lot of years.”

  “Doyle McKenzie? What the hell are you doing here? You got something to do with this bullshit?” The old man’s voice rose. “You running a con on my ass? Because if you are, you better know I can still reach out and make bad things happen. Very bad things, Doyle.”

  McKenzie ignored the threat and look toward the guard. “Give us a few minutes in private, will ya, deputy?”

  When the man hesitated, McKenzie went on. “Don’t worry. Henry and I go way back. We’ll be fine. Ain’t that right, Henry?”

  Lipinski remained silent. McKenzie winked at the guard. “We’ll be fine. Really.”

  The guard left the room, and when they were alone, McKenzie turned his attention to Lipinski.

  “Damn, Henry.” McKenzie kept his voice low. “You need to calm down. I’m here to help. Walter Jorgensen sends his regards.”

  At the mention of the chief’s name, Lipinski’s attitude abruptly changed.

  “Jorgensen? Walter sent you? Look, whatever he thinks, I’m telling you, I’m out of the game. I sell junk-ass cars to shit-kicker farmers. I got nothing going on that would concern Walter Jorgensen.”

  McKenzie sat in the chair on his side of the table, the disheveled heap before him.

  “Henry, Walter wants to help. He sent me to try to get to the bottom of this. Hell, man. He knows you ain’t no pedophile.”

  Lipinski’s chin quivered and his eyes began to swim.

  “You gotta believe me, Doyle, I got no clue how any of that shit got on my computer. Jesus. They say they got pictures of kids doing all kinds of nasty stuff; they got records of files going all over the country. Hell, man. I can’t hardly send a damn e-mail. I got an entire geek squad that handles all that shit.”

  McKenzie looked at his watch. Time was running out. He didn’t need Lipinski carrying on about his innocence.

  “Listen, Henry, Walter wanted me to tell you something. An old associate of yours, Harlan Lee, was released a few weeks back. He got out and fell right off the planet. No one’s seen hide nor hair of him.”

  Lipinski’s face went from pale to ghost white. McKenzie thought the man was going to throw up.

  After several seconds, he spoke, the words coming slow. “Jesus. Lee is out? Why didn’t I get a call, for Christ sake? Seems to me that one of you active-duty sons of bitches oughta have been on top of this.”

  McKenzie lit a cigarette and offered one to Lipinski, who took it eagerly with a shaking hand. McKenzie pulled on the flask but kept it to himself even when Lipinski’s mouth seemed to water at the sight. The old man settled for a deep drag off a non-filtered smoke, while McKenzie answered the hanging question.

  “You didn’t get a call, Henry, because, what did you just say? You’re ‘out of the game’? You walked off and no one minded the store,” McKenzie said. “Now he’s out.”

  Lipinski’s voice took on a tone of desperation. “It’s him, Doyle. This is Lee.”

  “That’s what Walter sent me to find out,” McKenzie lied. He wanted to see what he could get out of Lipinski that might be of use to him.

  “All I know is that hayseed little bastard pled guilty. He got twenty-five to life. Shit, they could’ve kept him another ten years.” Lipinski said. “I swear, the pussy liberals are ruining this state.”

  “You have any contact with him after he got locked up?” McKenzie asked.

  “Not with him, but I kept his old man under my thumb. Old Jed never made another dime after that day that I know of. Lived like a goddamn pauper in that old shack of his until he died, ten or twelve years ago. That was the whole idea. Take him out of the game.”

  “So you’re telling me…” McKenzie stopped and corrected himself. “Or more important, you’re telling Walter Jorgensen you’re straight-up innocent of all this kiddie-porn shit? You’re saying someone put the hex on your ass?”

  “Hell, yeah. I told you. I got no interest in any of that perverted shit, financial or otherwise. I’m a car salesman. That’s it. This shit has got Harlan Lee written all over it.”

  “Tell me this, Henry.” McKenzie spoke slowly. “How much did Lee figure out about the Newberg connections? I mean, you handled the case and all that shit up in Florence. How much came out at trial?”

  “There wasn’t a trial. Just the preliminary hearing, and it went right by the numbers. Not even a ripple in the water. That pencil-neck district attorney … uh … Petite, that was it. With the gun arrest coming out of Newberg, the case was rock solid and he didn’t bat an eye. Just like we thought. Walter put that straitlaced Boy Scout on it. You know? What was his name?”

  McKenzie remembered the arrest report. “Norgaard.”

  “Yeah. That was it. Petite put Norgaard on the stand at the prelim, and he stuck it to Harlan. Kid had no choice but to plead. After that we all moved on.”

  McKenzie didn’t care about Petite and Norgaard.

  “So what about Jorgensen? Is he gonna be on Harlan’s hit list?”

  “Shit, Doyle. Haven’t you learned anything? Jorgy knew better than to put his name on any shit like this.” Lipinski’s voice took on a tone of stubborn admiration. “Jorgy always was good at keeping his hands clean.”

  McKenzie saw no reason to give Henry any more background. Shit, the old sheriff might have a coronary right on the spot if he found out Petite was locked up three counties to the north.

  Lipinski suddenly grabbed McKenzie by the hand. His cuffed wrists scraped across the wooden table. The lit cigarette spilled ash.

  “Doyle, this is Lee. It’s gotta be. You guys need to get me outta here. We can hunt his ass down. I still got plenty of muscle on the street. Hell, tell Walter if he’ll get me clear of this shit, I’ll take care of Lee myself. I know the boy. Eventually he’s going back to the homestead. Nobody knows that forest like I do.”

  McKenzie had what he needed, and Lipinski’s desperation told him it was time to play the hole card. High-stakes poker. Time to step up.

  “I got no issues with that, Henry. Really, I don’t.” The hesitation i
n his voice came through just as intended. “But it’s really not up to me. You know that.”

  Lipinski’s face lit up with hope, his fish lips going strong.

  “Listen, Doyle. I got over a million in inventory on my lots right now. One phone call and I can have a hundred grand. You want cash? Gold? You tell me. It’s done. I just gotta know you got my back on this. That you’ll get to Walter and tell him I’m good. Help figure a way to work me out of this shit, eh, Doyle?”

  “Make a phone call, Henry?” McKenzie took a quick look over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone. He pulled his cell phone from his jacket. “That’s all you need to do?”

  Lipinski tossed the smoke on the cement floor and snatched McKenzie’s phone with both hands. The cuffs made him clumsy, but he pushed the buttons with shaking fingers. The conversation took less than two minutes and sounded to McKenzie like a load of money was definitely getting moved around. When Lipinski got off the phone, he was direct and to the point.

  “There’ll be a hundred large, cash, in room eight at the Chippewa Falls Motor Inn in an hour. A black case in the back of the closet. The key will be under the mat. Don’t take too long getting there. We good? You’ll talk to Walter for me?”

  “Yeah, Henry. I’ll be sure to give Chief Jorgensen a full report.”

  McKenzie stood and gave a sharp rap on the locked door. A moment later the door opened and the two guards came in, looking grim. McKenzie nodded his head at the deputy from the earlier hallway conversation.

  “These fellas are going to take you back to your cell now, Henry.”

  Lipinski looked at the guards leering back at him. He seemed to clue in on what had been finality in McKenzie’s voice.

  “Son of a bitch. Come on, McKenzie,” Lipinski pleaded. “I ain’t going to talk to nobody. Hell, what would I say that wouldn’t make me sound like a crazy-ass cop trying to beat a porn rap?”