Benefit of the Doubt: A Novel

by Neal Griffin

  “You and your lousy temper. Trying to be the badass cop. What did you think would happen when you did that?” Jake stood up and looked down at his father. “All that stuff you told me. Cops are the good guys. Cops help people. All that … bullshit. You ruined everything. We had to run away from California. Now Mom’s in jail.” Jake flopped back on the couch so he was lying down again, and his voice went quiet. “All this is because of you.”

  Ben started to speak, then stopped. He groped for a response. The words cut deep. Words from his own son. He was ready to lash out, then he thought back to his fight with Alex.

  “Ben, do you hear yourself? You sound like a damn child.”

  Deep down Ben could feel the first inkling of anger, but it got no farther. He sat quiet, realizing for the first time that Jake had his own perspective on how they came to this point. His mom was in jail because Ben lost it on a hot summer day in Oakland. It was all a chain reaction as far as Jake was concerned, and it started with Ben. It was hard to argue with the simple logic.

  “You’re right, Jake. I messed up. Big time. I can’t undo it.”

  Jake’s voice was quiet. “Why, Dad? Why did you … almost kill that guy? You were a cop.”

  Taken aback by the comment, Ben looked up. “I’m still a cop, Jake.”

  Jake mumbled, “Barely.”

  Another body blow. The insults just kept coming, and all from a boy who wasn’t even a teenager yet. Ben and Jake had never talked about that day. Never once. Maybe the time had come. “I’d just had enough. At that moment, I couldn’t take it anymore. A guy who thought he could kill a cop. Looking at me like he wanted to kill me. Like he hated me just for being who I was. I snapped. I blew it. Can you understand that, Jake?”

  Father and son sat in silence, but then Ben spoke up. “I’m sorry, pal. I let you down. I messed up your life pretty bad. Mom’s too. But I want to make it right. I want to fix it.”

  “Yeah, sure. Like I said, Mom’s in jail, if you forgot. Now it’s worse than ever. Even you went and got arrested.”

  “I was trying to get her out. To get her home to you.”

  “Well, she ain’t out. And she’s not getting out. I can read the paper, you know.”

  Ben rested his head against the couch, trying to empty his mind, but it was impossible. His wife was in jail, headed for prison. His son blamed him for all their trouble. His father-in-law was starting to lose it for good. Staring ahead, Ben tried to block it all out by focusing on the dozen or more boxes stacked neatly on shelves against the nearby wall. Most of it was junk still stored after their forced return from California. The rest was from when Alex packed up her father’s belongings and moved him into Newberg Convalescent. Three of the boxes caught his eye, and he smiled in spite of himself.

  “I’ll be damned…”

  “What?” Jake asked.

  Ben felt the pull of nostalgia. It was a waste of time, but he could use a nice walk down memory lane. Maybe Jake could too. He stood and pulled one of the boxes marked OFFICER LARS NORGAARD from the shelf. The heavy box dropped with a thud onto the cement floor. “You think cops are all bad, Jake? That cops in Newberg are what? Posers? Isn’t that what you guys say?”

  Jake smirked. “No, Dad. Nobody has said that in like a million years.”

  Ben blew it off. “Say what you want about Newberg PD, but I’ll tell you this. Your grandpa was a hell of a cop.”

  Ben pulled back the cardboard top of the box at his feet, knowing what he would find. Inside was a series of identical logbooks, the spines facing upward and stamped with the year in gold-embossed numbers. Twelve books stored in perfect chronological order, each one an inch thick. He picked up a volume at random and opened it, thinking it wasn’t that long ago the world existed without laptops, cell phones, and iPads. Inside, he saw page after page of neat, handwritten entries. Dated and timed.

  Jake stole a look, trying his best not to seem the least bit curious. His youth got the better of him. “What are those? They look like ancient scrolls or something.”

  It was Ben’s turn to be the smart-ass. “Yeah, Jake. Right. Grandpa’s ancient scrolls.”

  Both Jake and Ben laughed, and just for a few seconds it felt almost normal. It all came back. Ben remembered the days when he did his best to find any reason to hang around the Norgaard clan. “I haven’t seen these things in years. I used to watch your grandpa when he got home from patrol. He’d sit and write down everything he did that day. Tickets, reports, arrests. Anything he did, he wrote it down. I’d sit with him and get some pretty good stories out of it.” Ben looked at his son. “You know, I used to tell you stories too. When I would come home from work back in Oakland. You used to really like that stuff.”

  “Yeah, I remember. You had some good ones.”

  Ben pulled out the book from Lars’s rookie year. The pages were stiff under his fingers and he turned them with care. Going back over thirty years, he found himself reading the entries not as a cop but more like a son. He was young again. Alex too. Time’s gone by, he thought. Years and years of family history in his hands.

  No. Ben leaned forward. Not family history. Lars’s history. All of it. Right here. Ben sat and thought for a moment. He reached down and pulled out a more recent book, fanning through the pages like a deck of cards.

  Lars had been trying to tell him something the other day, something about Harley. Could it be a name? Did it involve Alex somehow? Anybody’s guess, he thought. Only Lars could know, but what if? What if the name was somewhere in one of these books?

  “Jake, I think maybe we can help Mom.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Ben gestured to the box at his feet. “Grandpa might have written something in one of these books that will help us bring Mom home.”

  “Where? Which one?” Ben could tell that Jake wanted the answer immediately. He wanted his mother home tonight.

  “I don’t know yet. We’d have to look through all of them. Every book. We have to look for a particular name, but it could be here.”

  “Dad, there are like a hundred books.” Jake sat up and used his foot to pull back the box top and looked inside. “It’ll take forever.”

  “No. There should be about thirty of them and it doesn’t matter how long it takes. We can do this, Jake. This could help Mom.” Ben looked at his son. “Seriously. What do you say?”

  Jake, still reluctant, leaned down and pulled a book from the middle of the box. His voice lacked conviction, but he opened the journal in his lap. “What’re we looking for?”

  “Grandpa has been trying to tell me something. I’m pretty sure it has to do with Mom. A name. Harley. H-A-R-L-E-Y. It’s in here somewhere, Jake. I’m sure of it.”

  Jake gave Ben a sideways glance. “And if we find it, you’re telling me Mom can come home?”

  Ben took a book of his own. “It’ll be a start. Let’s find it and go from there. But one way or another, Jake, Mom is coming home.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Ben woke, confused by his surroundings. He saw his son sleeping on the cot in the corner and stacks of logbooks at his feet. He remembered. He looked at his watch; he’d dozed off for twenty or thirty minutes.

  Jake’s face was relaxed in sleep, but Ben remembered his expression when he said, “You ruined our lives.”

  The words still stung. The truth has a way of doing that.

  You and your lousy temper. What did you think would happen?

  Ben slapped his own face as he forced himself awake. Quit feeling sorry for yourself. He reached for the next book—from seventeen years ago. Jesus, he thought. We’ve spent hours on this and we’re barely halfway through the collection. Stupid idea. Hopeless.

  Ben opened the book and began a rapid scan. To be safe, he finger-traced each page twice. No doubt about it, Lars had been diligent in his record keeping. The man must have noted every traffic stop. Ben had figured out that arrests were designated by stars. One star for a misdemeanor, two for a felony. Ben looked clos
est at the two-star notations. He didn’t ignore the misdemeanors, but he figured that whatever it was they were looking for had to be something fairly serious.

  Or maybe this bullshit is just a complete waste of time.

  His finger glided down page after page after page. He forced himself to be patient, combating Just get through this shit with Slow down, goddamn it, and look at each entry.

  Page after page. The names slipped by.

  Hang on.

  He’d already reached the bottom and turned the page before his mind caught up with his finger. He turned back and there it was again. A name with a one-star notation.

  Traffic Stop/Car Search. Lee, Harlan. Arrested. Possession of Stolen Property.

  Lee, Harlan. Harlan Lee. Harley. Harlan Lee.

  Could it be? It made a kind of sense. Harley could be Har-lee, which could be Harlan Lee. A traffic stop over seventeen years ago that led to an arrest.

  But come on, Ben thought. Possession of stolen property? You’re going to come back after seventeen years to even the score for a misdemeanor arrest?

  It didn’t fit, but Ben couldn’t deny the feeling that had come over him when he’d seen the name. A sixth sense kicked in as he looked at the words written with black ink in neat block letters: Harlan Lee. Seventeen years ago according to Lars’s notes. The date and time of arrest were listed and, most important, Lars had written down the Newberg PD case number. The record of an incident from that long ago would be stored in the warehouse across the street from the PD. The warehouse for which he still had a key.

  FORTY-NINE

  Alex walked into the guards’ break room and melted into Ben’s extended arms. She rested her head on his chest and breathed in the scent of him. It felt good to be held by him, and she listened to the steady beat of his heart. She tried to just appreciate the moment, but the constant fear and uncertainty was too strong. Ben’s arrest in Danville had left her rattled. She knew Ben was out there taking chances, trying to find a way to get her out of this mess, but she also knew that when her husband got riled up, he had a reckless side. Anything could happen. Up to this point, Ben had managed to stay on top of things, but what would she do if one day he didn’t come back? If something happened to him? Or what if he just gave up? Stopped trying? Alex knew the truth. Ben was the only thing standing between her and a life in prison. He guided her to the couch and sat holding her hands in his lap. Was it excitement or anxiety that had him practically quivering?

  “Darnell told me McKenzie was here yesterday. Said he stayed a while. Did you talk to him?”

  “No. Of course not,” she answered, perturbed and even disappointed by the question. “But come on, Ben. I’ve been locked in here for almost two weeks. I haven’t seen Jake or my dad. A good friend has been murdered and everyone thinks I did it. The last thing I need right now is for you to come in here and start talking about that … that … asshole McKenzie.”

  “Alex, it’s important.” Ben’s voice was patient and loving. He squeezed her hands. “You’re represented by counsel. Darnell knows that. He knows no one, no cop, at least, is supposed to be talking to you.”

  Alex took a deep breath and told herself to calm down. The ordeal was starting to overwhelm her. She had overreacted and tried to recover. “That’s nice of you both, but there’s nothing to worry about. He tried to get me to talk. Still working that self-defense crap. I sent him on his way.”

  “Are you sure?” Ben asked. “Believe it or not, he can be cagey.”

  “I told him you and Dad are working the case, that you had some leads.”

  Ben looked pained. “Did you tell McKenzie what your dad said? Did you mention the name Harley?”

  A sinking feeling came over Alex, and she lowered her voice and bowed her head, unwilling to meet Ben’s eyes. “I might have.”

  “It’s not Harley we’re looking for, Alex. It’s Harlan, Harlan Lee.”

  “Who is Harlan Lee?” Alex asked.

  “You remember your dad’s old logbooks? The ones in the basement? Jake and I went through them. Seventeen years ago your dad arrested a guy named Harlan Lee for possession of stolen property.”

  Alex, a cop’s daughter and wife for her entire life, laughed. “Come on, Ben. A guy reaches out after seventeen years to settle a beef over getting hooked for stolen property? You do sixty days in county for that.”

  “But here’s the thing, Alex,” he said, speaking urgently. “I went to the warehouse to pull the report your dad would have filed for the arrest. It’s gone.”

  Alex sat upright, pulling her hands out of Ben’s grasp. “McKenzie?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. But all the other reports from that time period are right where they should be. Just that one seems to have disappeared.”

  “Oh, Ben,” Alex said now, realizing she had blown their best lead. “I’m sorry. How could I have … I was stupid.” She buried her face in her hands.

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” Ben said, putting an arm around her comfortingly. “Like I said, there’s a cagey side to him.”

  “I should have seen it,” Alex said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll deal with McKenzie. He ain’t that smart.” He drew a five-by-eight file card out of his pocket.

  “What’s this?” Alex asked, taking it and looking at the faded writing on one side.

  “After I couldn’t find the report, I started digging around for something else. I found thousands of these old booking cards. We had the same sort of thing out in Oakland, back before we started putting everything on computers. Officers filled out a card like this every time they arrested someone. I knew a case as old as this one must have a booking card, so I dug through a bunch of boxes. Took a while but, here it is.”

  Alex read the card as Ben explained it to her. She felt a sense of nostalgia as she looked at her father’s neat handwriting from almost twenty years ago. She pictured him, a tough no-nonsense cop, booking a prisoner, filling out this very card.

  “That shows your dad booked Harlan Lee into this jail seventeen years ago on a charge of possession of stolen property. Three days later this Lee guy was transferred to Florence County.” Ben leaned in and pointed to the bottom of the card. “See right here? The sheriff, a man by the name of Henry Lipinski, signed for custody. Harlan never came back to Newberg.”

  Ben looked at his wife. “The transfer charge was for murder.”

  “Murder?” Alex was shocked. “Who did he kill and what did Dad have to do with it?”

  “I don’t know yet, but there’s more.” Ben paused and Alex waited, wondering what could possibly come next. “I ran an Internet search on Henry Lipinski.”

  “And?”

  “He was arrested last month for distribution of child pornography. It was all over the newspapers up in Chippewa Falls. His case was going to be transferred to federal court.”

  Alex, still scanning the card, looked up. “Was going to be?”

  “He’s dead. Hanged himself in jail.”

  Alex took it all in, trying to get her head around it. She thought it through out loud.

  “My dad arrested Harlan Lee and I’m in jail. And the other cop involved in Lee’s arrest is dead?”

  Ben’s expression was grim. “Yeah. That’s what I’m telling you.”

  Alex sat back on the couch, trying to take it all in.

  “We’re headed in the right direction,” Ben said. “But now we’ve got to be very careful. This is serious, serious shit.”

  “Ben, you said it was suicide, right? This guy Lipinski. He killed himself?” Alex was scared.

  “No, I didn’t say that.” His voice was grim. “That’s what the news reports said.”

  Alex stared at the card. The signature of a man named Lipinski. A dead man named Lipinski. She felt her heart begin to race. Her thoughts went wild with possibilities until Ben’s voice brought her back.

  “Don’t worry. You’re in protective custody. Darnell and plenty of the rest of the security team are
on our side. You’ll be okay.”

  Alex tried to sound confident. “If McKenzie comes back, I’ll keep my mouth shut,” she said firmly, promising herself that she would not be scared anymore.

  “He won’t be back. Darnell will see to that. And I’m going to make sure McKenzie doesn’t bother your dad either.”

  “But how do we find out about this Harlan Lee? That must be the answer, Ben, but what do we really know?” Alex leaned in “We need more, Ben. I’m going to court in three days. This is good, but it isn’t enough to get me out from under a murder charge.”

  “I’ll confront McKenzie,” Ben said. “Force his hand. He can’t just ignore all of this. If need be, I’ll get Plate Boyd involved. We’ve got to compare your case to whatever they had on this Lipinski guy. Then there’s the case in Danville. I don’t know what the connection is, but before they shut down my interview, the suspect said something about growing up in Florence.”

  Alex tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. “Will they listen? Will they do anything?”

  “If Plate and McKenzie won’t listen, I’ll go to the DA. We’re on to something. We could make them delay the trial. We could get a shot at a bail reduction. That way we can get you home while everything is sorted out.”

  Alex hugged him. “Oh, God, Ben. I can’t even imagine what it would feel like to walk out of here. Can you really make that happen?”

  “I’m going to make it happen. Just stay safe. Watch yourself and sit tight, you hear me?”

  “Don’t worry about me. You be careful. Don’t take any more chances.”

  Ben squeezed her even more tightly and kissed her on the mouth. Before he left, he said, “I’ll be back, Alex. And then you and I are walking out of here together. I promise.”

  FIFTY

  McKenzie tossed the six-pack of beer on the counter and called out to the turbaned clerk who had his back turned.

  “Yo, Slumdog, give me a box of Red 100s to go with the beer.”

  The man turned and stared at the detective before stepping forward and reaching over his head to pull a pack of smokes from the cigarette rack. He tossed the pack onto the counter, never taking his seething eyes off McKenzie.