Tin Man

by Dale Brown

  security forces on duty. A private elevator, guarded

  on the first floor by an armed security officer and

  controlled by the chief of security from the second

  floor, took the steel cash bins upstairs to the cash i

  room. Other security officers monitored cameras

  mounted throughout the complex, keeping watch

  over the area around the private elevator while the

  cash bins were in motion. Watchmen armed only

  with radios and flashlights patrolled inside and outside

  until all the regular employees had left the

  building and the cash was secure. The lone off-duty

  police officer was stationed with the chief of the

  private security company on the second floor during

  the receipts transfer; the radio he carried was a

  standard-issue police radio, linked to Central Dis-

  patch. The private security officers and watchmen

  were connected to each other via radio, as well as to

  the chief of security'on the second floor.

  The elevator could only take three cash bins and

  their escorts at a time, so five boxes were left waiting

  on the first floor as the first group of three went

  upstairs; and three boxes had yet to come out of

  their respective, clubs. The first three boxes had already

  made it to the second floor when the main

  lights dimmed, then flickered out. The batterypowered

  emergency lights immediately snapped on.

  "Power failure procedures, power failure procedures

  ," the chief security officer announced over

  the emergency public address system. One guard

  blew a whistle, and the cleanup crews on the first

  floor instantly stopped what they were doing and

  headed to the front door, escorted by an armed security

  guard. He had the easy job. The other guards

  groaned, because the alarm meant that the elevator

  was shut down-and that meant they would have to

  lug the heavy cash bins up the stairs to be secured

  in the cash room until the main power was restored.

  "First floor, all secure?" the chief of security

  radioed.

  "Secure," came the reply from one of the guards,

  signaling that the cleanup crews had been escorted

  outside and the doors were closed, locked and

  checked. The chief of security opened the stairwell

  door on the second floor, which locked behind him,

  and walked downstairs. The door to the first floor

  was locked on the other side, so that occupants of

  the second floor could use the stairwell as a fire

  escape, but no one on the first floor could walk UPI

  stairs unless it was opened by security. The chief

  security officer knocked on the door three times,

  received two knocks in response, then gave one

  more knock before pushing it open. Carlson, one of

  the newer security officers, was on the other side of

  the door. "Okay, boys, the sooner we get -these

  boxes upstairs, the sooner we . . ."

  A man in a dark outfit, a military-style helmet,

  and a dark face mask appeared out of nowhere. The

  chief of security had just enough time to register his

  shock before the intruder raised a gun with a thick

  suppressor fitted to the muzzle to his forehead.

  There was a bright flash of light, then nothing.

  Security One-Seven."

  The off-duty Sacramento Police Department

  officer at the desk on the second floor of the complex

  retrieved his radio from the desk and keyed the

  mike: "Security One-Seven, go."

  "Are you 908 yet?"

  "Negative," the officer replied. It was common

  for off-duty officers to forget to report in to Dispatch

  when they completed an off-duty assignment, and

  since it was thirty minutes past his scheduled off

  time, Dispatch was checking up on him. "They

  have a power failure here. It'll be another thirty

  minutes."

  "Check. You got a call from your sitter. No problems

  , just a status check. Let us know when you're

  908."

  "Roger."

  "KMA 907 clear."

  The exasperated officer tossed the radio on the

  desk with a thud. His life was heading down the

  shitter pretty fast these days. As if the holidays

  weren't bad enough, his old lady had decided she

  didn't want to be married to a cop anymore-or be a

  mom, or be a housewife-so she took off for L.A.

  with her new poke, leaving him with their fiveyear-old

  daughter and a mountain of bills. He had

  already burned out one baby-sitter with all the overtime

  and off-duty jobs he had signed up for, and he

  guessed he was going to burn out another one before

  his folks could come from Montana to help him

  out. Before she left, his old lady had cleaned out the

  checking account too, so it looked like the only

  presents his little girl got this year would be charity

  stuffed toys normally reserved for the city's homeless

  kids, or presents from his folks. Merry fucking

  Christmas.

  There were three knocks at the locked stairwell

  door. The cop circled the security desk and knocked

  twice in response. There were two knocks in response

  , the correct reply. He pushed open the

  door . . . and was dead before he hit the ground.

  SACRAMENTO COUNTY MAIN JAIL,

  651 1 STREET, SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  THE SAME TIME

  n all the years Paul McLanahan had lived in Sacramento

  , he never even knew exactly where the

  new county jail was downtown. Now, on his first

  night on the job, he had been inside it twice. It was

  said that the new jail looked like a luxury hotel and

  the Hyatt Regency downtown looked like a jail, but

  to Paul the place just looked bleak, sterile, and miserable

  .

  He and LaFortier drove into the underground

  parking garage of the jail under a large steel roll-up

  door. After securing their weapons in the trunk of

  their car, they escorted their prisoner to the thick

  steel-and-glass door of the jail, which was guarded

  by a sheriffis deputy sitting behind bulletproof glass.

  Because this prisoner was suspected of carrying

  drugs, they donned latex gloves, escorted him to a

  secure bathroom, and conducted a strip search-including

  the unappealing process of ordering the pnsoner

  to drop his pants, bend over, spread his cheeks,

  and cough several times so they could look up his

  anus for any sign of hidden drugs. One look at this

  guy's ass made Paul want to take a steaming hot

  shower, and he considered double-gloving if the guy

  decided to fight. But the ten-block chase they did to

  catch him-he had started running as soon as he

  saw LaFortier and McLanahan slow down as they

  passed him on the street-had obviously taken the

  fight out of him.

  "That law practice is looking better and better all

  the time, isn't it, rook?" LaFortier asked Paul with a

  grin. Paul went on shaking out clothes and sneaker

  inserts.

  For
Craig LaFortier, booking a prisoner was a

  chance to meet up with buddies and swap stories,

  which was what he did while he helped Paul fill out

  the reports. There were at least three other city police

  officers in the booking room, along with eight

  Sacramento County Sheriff's deputies, four California

  Highway Patrol officers, and a smattering of

  officers from other agencies that Paul couldn't identify

  right off. The holding cells were full, so prisoners

  were handcuffed to benches around the

  perimeter of the booking room while the arresting

  officers asked them questions, filled out paperwork,

  and shot the shit. Since this was Paul's second trip

  to the jail that night, he fell under the rookie officer's

  basic on-the-job training schedule: first time,

  observe; second time, do it; third time, be prepared

  to teach it to somebody else. The learning curve out

  here, he decided, was as steep as Mount Everest.

  Paul had managed to do much of the paperwork

  at the scene of the arrest and in the car on the way

  over to the jail, so he finished it a few minutes later,

  with the prisoner handcuffed to a nearby bench.

  LaFortier checked it over. "Looks pretty good," he

  said. "But only four hindles of low-grade meth, less

  than a hundred dollars' worth-with the overcrowding

  they've got here, he'll be released in an hour."

  "But he's got priors, Cargo," McLanahan said,

  waving the suspect's computer printout rap sheet.

  "He's been convicted before for possession with intent

  to sell

  "But he wasn't caught with enough to get him on

  a new intent charge this time," LaFortier said.

  "Four bindles, no payo sheets, no wad of cash, not

  found in a high-crime area-although he was pursued

  into an area where his probation says he's not

  t

  allowed to go. Of course, that'll be our fault, no his.

  He'll get five thousand bail on a felony possession

  charge, his girlfriend or wife will put up the five

  hundred bond, and he'll be free. I'll testify as an

  expert

  witness that his intent was to sell, but if he's

  got a good lawyer, theyll plead it down to a misdemeanor

  possession long before his court date and

  he'll skate with a slap on the wrist, maybe a month

  or two in jail for the probation violation

  "Almost doesn't seem worth it," Paul said.

  "Getting -a little war-weary already, rook?"

  LaFortier asked, amused. "A few hours on the street

  and you're already feeling frustrated? Welcome to

  the world. Don't worry about the prosecutionworry

  about the arrest and the evidence. Cops blow

  more cases from sloppy field work than DA's blow

  in court--or at least that's whatthey like to tell us. t

  Let's get this guy booked and get back on the

  street." Paperwork in hand, LaFortier and McLanaban

  escorted their prisoner through the booking

  process. The place was packed, so it was a slow

  business.

  First, a nurse did a quick medical examination.

  Old hypodermic needle track marks were found on

  the guy's arms, so he had to submit to a blood test

  for HIV antibodies. After another twenty-minute

  wait ' they escorted him to the booking window,

  where they presented the arrest and evidence reports

  to the booking sergeant. The prisoner was

  booked, strip-searched once again by sheriffis deputies

  , and placed in a special isolation holding cell to

  await pictures, prints, and the results of his AIDS

  test to determine whether he'd be placed in a cell

  with other prisoners or segregated in a medical isolation

  cell. With that, LaFortier and McLanahan

  headed back out to the garage.

  "We need to cut that booking time down to less

  than an hour, rook, and that includes driving time,"

  LaFortier said. His radio squawked. LaFortier listened

  , heard a familiar voice say something about a

  power failure at the Sacramento Live! entertainment

  complex, and turned his radio volume knob

  down so he could talk to his partner. "I'm taking

  time with you because you need to learn this stuff

  and do it right and develop good habits and all that

  shit. But we belong on the street, not in the jail. So

  we'll be hustling from here on out to get our booking

  times down." He noticed a faraway expression

  on McLanahan. "You okay, rook?"

  "The jail gets me down a little, I guess," McLanahan

  said. "Hauling them in like bags of garbage,

  strip searches, paperwork, putting them in the systern

  like rats in a cage . . . it seems so dehumanizing

  "Never seen the jail before, have you?" Paul

  shook his head. "That should be required for every

  applicant. It gets everybody'down, rook. The only

  alternative to processing them and putting them in

  the system is putting a bullet in their head when we

  catch them, and we don't want that, do we, rook?"

  "No."

  The big FrO saw that Paul's somber expression

  didn't change. "Why'd you join the force, McLanahan

  ?" LaFortier asked. "You're a damned attorney,

  for chrissakes. Passed the California bar and everything

  . We got lots of guys on the force going to Lincoln

  Law School nights, and lots of guys who have

  even graduated, but you're the only cop I know

  who's actually passed the bar exam-and on the

  first try too. You could be an assistant DA, make

  more money, wear a decent suit, work in a ni ' ce office

  or do that telecommuting thing, and never have

  to look up a pezp's diseased bunghole. Is it because

  of your old man? Is it a family thing? Because if it is,

  you won't make it one more friggin' night on the

  streets

  "No, it's not," McLanahan said resolutely.

  "Then why? The prestige? The uniform? The famous

  badge you get to wear? The gun? Certainly

  not the money. It has to be because of the old man,

  some sort of responsibility you feel to put another

  generation of McLanahans on the force because

  your older brother's not a cop

  "I did it because I want to help, Craig

  "That sounds like academy brainwash propaganda

  , rook."

  "It's not propaganda, sir," McLanahan said

  firmly. "This is my city, my home

  "It's that guy's home too, rook," LaFortier interjected

  . "It's all those guys' homes in that jail, even

  the illegals and the transients. They all have rights,

  you know. They have a right to do whatever they

  want . . .

  "They don't have the right to break the law in

  my home," McLanahan said angrily. "We follow the

  law in my home. My family follows the law. My

  neighbors follow the law. We all depend on the law

  to help us live in peace. It offends me, it pisses me

  off, when someone breaks the law in my city!

  "All right, all right, be cool, rook." LaFortier held

  up his hands in mock surrender. "You're preac
hing

  to the choir here. In my book, there's only one reason

  for being a cop-it gives you the authority, the

  responsibility, to protect your city and your neighbors

  from criminals. You knew that. So I know

  there's hope for you. All you need to do is remember

  what you just told me. Forget about the diseased

  A-holes and the rats in a cage and collecting the

  garbage. You're here, now, tonight, to protect your

  city. Don't lose sight of that. Got it, rook?"

  "Roger that," Paul said, his energy resurging. The

  jail was a necessary part of the job, Paul decided, but

  it wasn't the job. Being out on the street, helping

  those who needed help and nailing the predators

  was his job. lie went around to the passenger side of

  the car, got in, and strapped in.

  "You ready to go, rook?" LaFortier asked.

  "Yes, sir," Paul said, his enthusiasm genuine.

  "Ready to hit the streets? Ready to nail some

  more bad guys? Ready to enforce the laws of this

  fair metropolis?"

  Paul registered the rising sarcasm in LaFortier's

  voice and realized the big FTO was still standing

  outside the squad car. Then it hit him. Sheepishly,

  he unstrapped, got out, and walked around to the

  trunk. LaFortier tossed him the keys, and McLanaban

  retrieved their weapons.

  "Next time, rook, it'll cost you dinner,"

  LaFortier said, strapping on his sidearm. "The first

  time you forget your gun when you're on your own,

  sure as shit you'll be involved in a bad situation.

  Don't forget again. Now we're ready."

  They drove out of the parking garage, then waited

  on the ramp for the steel roll-up door to close behind

  them. "We'll grab a coffee-at Starbucks, not

  the shit they serve at the jail or at headquartersthen

  take a swing past Sacramento Live! before

  heading back to the south area," LaFortier said to

  his partner as'they pulled out onto the street.

  "Sacramento Live!?

  "A buddy of mine is doing an off-duty gig there,

  and he told Dispatch something about a power failure

  . We'll just pop in on him for a minute or two.

  "Did he ask for any assistance?" McLanahan

  asked. "I didn't hear the call."

  "No, he didn't ask for assistance, rook,"

  LaFortier said. "But I'll tell you right now, and you