Tin Man

by Dale Brown

  bring them down."

  Jon swallowed hard. "You can't have it," he told

  Patrick, shaking his head.

  Patrick nodded, hurt in his eyes but steely determination

  on his face. "I understand, Jon-"

  "Let me finish, Muck," Masters interjected. "You

  can't have any of it unless I can help you."

  "What?"'

  "I want to help you," Masters repeated. "I always

  feel left out when the fighting starts, by Washington

  or the Pentagon or whoever's in charge. I don't want

  to be left out this time. If we fight, we fight together

  . You tell me what you need and I'll get it for

  you-but I want to be there with you when the

  shooting starts. A piece of the action. That's all I

  want.//

  Patrick hesitated. What he had in mind was outrageous

  enough for him to question whether he

  could take it on, much less involve Jon Masters in

  it. Jon had no idea how dangerous it could be-hell,

  Patrick had no idea how dangerous it could be.

  But the call to battle was still sounding in his

  ears; he could still hear the twin bagpipes at a triple

  cop funeral. Patrick had no idea what was calling

  Jon Masters or what danger awaited them both, but

  nothing was going to stop him now.

  "Agreed," Patrick said, holding out his hand.

  "We work together. I'm not even going to tell. you

  how dangerous this will be. But whatever happens,

  we do it together."

  Instead of shaking hands, Jon embraced his new

  brother. "Very, very cool. When do we start?"

  "We start immediately," Patrick said. "It's time

  we collect some intel on the enemy."

  SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS DIVISION

  HEADQUARTERS,

  BERCUT DRIVE, SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  FRIDAY, 26 DECEMBER 1997, 1832 PT

  The sign on the outside of the cluster of one-story

  warehouselike buildings said City of Sacramento

  Public Works, Department of Highways, but Patrick

  knew that there were other offices located there. At

  six-thirty that evening, there was only one other car

  in the parking area outside the building, and it was

  farther down on the north side. The occupied space

  had a sign that read Reserved-No Parking.

  Patrick got out of his car just as a man was leaving

  the building. "Captain Chandler?" he called out

  from several paces away. The man watched Patrick

  approach him but must have decided he was no

  threat-his right hand stayed casually tucked in his

  pants pocket as he walked toward his car. But when

  Patrick got closer, he could see under the glare of a

  nearby streetlight that Chandler had pulled his suit

  jacket back, allowing free access to the pistol on his

  belt. He reached the passenger side of his car as Patrick

  came up, with the car between them. But he

  simply unlocked his passenger-side door and threw

  his briefcase on the right front seat, casual but cautious

  .

  Things were clearly still very tense in Sacramento

  . Every cop in town acted as if he had a big

  red bull's-eye painted on his forehead.

  Captain Tom Chandler was wearing a very nice

  brown double-breasted suit and tasseled loafers-a

  clean-cut, professional-looking guy, more highpowered

  executive than street cop. "What can I do

  you for, sir?" Then he recognized Patrick. "You're

  McLanahan, aren't you? Paul's brother? I met you at

  the Sarge's Place the night of the shooting, and at

  the hospital when you got in the chief's face."

  "That's right," Patrick said. "I want to talk to

  you.

  "Concerning?"

  "The attack on my brother. Who was responsible

  for it. I want some information on the investigation,

  and I want it now."

  "You're Amanding information?" Who the hell

  did this guy think he was? Chandler tried to put a

  brake on his rising anger. "I'm afraid there's nothing

  I can give you, Mr. McLanahan."

  "But you're the commander in charge of the Special

  Investigations Division," Patrick said. "I heard

  SID would be in charge of the investigation."

  Chandler looked worried-clearly he didn't like

  Patrick's knowing he was the man in charge of SID.

  The Special Investigations Division of the Sacramento

  , Police Department was the most prized, the

  most high-profile, and the most secretive in the entire

  department, second only to the Patrol Division

  in importance. SID encompassed three permanent

  offices-Intelligence, Narcotics, and Vicealong

  with several task forces that were assigned it

  as funding and necessity dictated, such as Asset

  Forfeiture, Interdiction, Counterinsurgency, Antiterrorism

  , and Gangs. Although Chandler officially

  reported to the deputy chief in charge of the Investigations

  Division, he frequently met directly with

  the chief of police, the city manager, the city council

  , and the mayor, giving him extraordinary power

  and access. Being the commander of SID was generally

  regarded as an essential ste ping-stone to the

  p

  chief's office.

  Then Chandler figured it out: the Sarge's Place.

  That's where McLanahan must have picked it up.

  He decided to be affable. "Ah yes, the Sarge's

  Place," he said. "I used to go there when I was a

  sergeant. We used to bullshit about ongoing investigations

  all the time over a few brews. I'll bet that

  place is full of cops ready to give you all kinds of

  information about the shootings." He had guessed

  right. A couple of hours ago at the Shamrock, a

  dozen cops had come in after first swing's shift

  change, congratulated Patrick on chewing out the

  chief on local TV, and volunteered information on

  the Sacramento Live! shootings. "Unfortunately, I

  can't offer you any information, and I caution YOU

  on relying on rumors and guesses you might hear at

  the bar."

  "Yeah. Everyone's 'cautioning' me but no one's

  telling me anything," Patrick said. "My brother is

  in critical condition in the hospital after being shot

  with a damned MP-5 along with three other cops,

  and three guys are dead. But none of the families

  have been told a thing. Is this the way the city is

  going to handle this situation? How would it look

  for me to go to the TV stations and tell them the

  city isn't briefing the families on the status of the

  investigation, that you're leaving us completely in

  the dark?"

  Chandler slammed the car door, walked around

  to the other side, and, got right in Patrick's face. "I

  respond well to threats, Mr. McLanahan, but I guarantee

  you it won't be a response in your favor. In

  fact, I get downright disagreeable. Tell me, sir, is

  that what you want right now?"

  Chandler saw McLanahan tighten his jaw and

  square his body toward him. Was he going to get

  into a fight with this guy? His mind was turn
ing

  over scenarios in rapid-fire succession when, to

  his surprise, McLanahan just . . . crumpled. His

  shoulders sagged, his arms went -limp, his head

  drooped, and his knees looked rubbery. Was this

  some kind of sucker-punch ruse?, An astonished

  Chandler, ready to defend himself, heard the guy

  sobbing! Here was this guy, short-probably no

  more than five eight-maybe two hundred pounds,

  but solidly built, like a wrestler or rugby playerand

  shit, he was actually crying! Paul McLanahan

  had quickly gotten a reputation of being a tiger who

  could handle any situation with calm and controlhe

  certainly'proved himself at the Sacramento Live!

  shootout-but obviously his guts didn't run in the

  family.

  "Jesus---c'mon, Mr. McLanahan, it's all right,"

  Chandler said soothingly, but not moving any

  closer. This might still be a sucker punch, although

  the guy really looked like he was losing it big-time.

  "I'm -sorry, I'm sorry!" McLanahan said hoarsely

  through his muffled sobs. "Nothing like this has

  ever happened before. After my father's death, I was

  so afraid that Paul would be next. Our mother's had

  to be sedated, she was so upset. Paul could lose his

  arm. Oh God, I don't know what to do! I don't know

  what I'm going to tell our mother He was

  babbling, his conflict and fears pouring out all at

  . once. Chandler thought the guy was going to collapse

  right on the hood of his car. For crying out

  loud, mister, get a grip!

  Well, he couldn't very well leave him sobbing

  like a baby in the parking lot. "Come with me, Mr.

  McLanahan," Chandler said. He led him to the side

  door, which had a sign on it that said No Admittance-Door

  Blocked-Use Main Entrance and an

  arrow pointing toward the Highway Department

  door. Chandler unlocked the door, then stood in the

  doorway and blocked it until he could shut off the

  burglar alarm, using the keypad. Inside was a reception

  area furnished with a couple of desks, several

  file cabinets, and what looked like a communica-

  tions center setup; there were two banks of radios,

  computer terminals, and several recharger stations

  for handheld radios.

  McLanahan followed Chandler past the reception

  area and down a hallway. They passed an empty

  conference room with a sign on the open door reading

  Classified Briefing In Progress-No Admittance,

  continued past some more doors and a break room/

  exercise room, and finally came to a door marked

  Captain. Chandler punched a code into a CypherLock

  keypad, unlocked the door, asked McLanahan

  inside, and offered him a seat. Patrick rested his

  elbows on his knees and hung his head while Chandler

  crossed behind his desk and sat down.

  "I'm sorry to be keeping you like this ...

  "Forget it," Chandler said. "Can I get you something

  ? A soda? Iced tea?" From the odor he detected,

  McLanahan had already had a few pops before he

  came over here-he'd obviously needed something

  to ratchet up his courage enough to mouth off at a

  cop. What was it with these burnouts? Past glories

  gone, living vicariously through their smarter, more

  successful siblings. Good example of white trash.

  "You cops don't keep anything stronger in the

  desk?" McLanahan asked, trying to sound jokey but

  coming across as hopeful.

  "I'm afraid a bottle of rotgut in the desk drawer

  went out with Philip Marlowe and Kojak," Chandler

  replied, his disgust with Officer McLanahan's

  brother growing by the minute.

  "A soda would be fine then," McLanahan said.

  Chandler went out to the break room. When he

  came back a half minute later, McLanahan had an

  elbow on the desk, one hand hiding his eyes and his

  other hand wrapped around his midsection as if he

  was going to be ill.

  Chandler returned to his seat behind the desk.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. McLanahan, but there's very little I

  can tell you about the investigation concerning the

  shootout," he said. He prayed McLanahan wouldn't

  get sick in his office or start crying again. "I wish

  there were."

  "Have you made any arrests yet?"

  "No, not yet," Chandler replied. "But we have

  some strong leads. The helicopter the gang used to

  make theii getaway from the Yolo Causeway was

  seen at Placerville Airport shortly after the incident

  , so we're concentrating our search in the foothills

  . This is highly confidential information, Mr.

  McLanahan. Please don't share it with anyone, not

  even your mother."

  "All right," McLanahan said. His voice sounded

  as if it was going to break again. "I'm afraid we

  won't have the money to care for Paul. The doctors

  say he could lose his left arm, that he might not

  ever be able to talk again . . ."

  "If it's any comfort to you and your family, Paul

  will receive full medical benefits," Chandler said.

  "If he can't return to work, he'll receive full disability

  benefits. That's his entire base salary, tax-free,

  for the rest of his life."

  "Disability?" McLanahan gasped. Chandler saw

  the guy's face grow pale, then green. "You mean,

  they'll classify him as disabled?"

  "I didn't say that, Mr. McLanahan

  McLanahan abruptly got to his feet. "I . . .

  think I'm going to be sick," he gasped.

  Oh, for Christ's sake, Chandler cursed to himself.

  This guy is a total wussie. "Out the door, to your

  left, make a right, three doors on the left, men's

  room." McLanahan nodded, clutched his midsection

  as if he had a cramp, then rushed out of the

  office. He was gone for several minutes. Chandler

  finished a cigarette, then got up to find out if the

  guy was all right. He ran headlong into him coming

  back to the office. "Are you all right, Mr. McLanaban?"

  I'm so sorry ... jeez, I'm so embarrassed

  ," McLanahan said. "This whole horrible

  tragedy has got me all tied up in knots."

  "Perhaps you'd be better off if you cut back on

  the booze a little," Chandler told him sternly.

  "Your family could use your support, and you're in

  no condition to give it to them like this. Go home.

  We'll keep you posted on the progress of the investigation

  ."

  "Can I visit you again? Can I get some regular

  updates? Anything?"

  Oh ease, Chandler thought-the last thing he

  Pi

  needed was this guy hanging around the SID offices.

  Although the location of SID headquarters was

  hardly super-secret-classified information-the radio

  station about a block away used to make joke

  announcements when the Narcotics officers were

  mounting up and getting ready to go on a searchwarrant

  operation-no one who worked here

  wanted civilians hanging around. Especially booziehounds

  like this guy
.

  "Look, Mr. McLanahan," Chandler said patiently

  , "you're the brother of a member of this department

  . I'd hate to turn you away, but I will if you

  insist on stopping by here often and asking a lot of

  questions that no one except the chief can answer."

  "But why?" McLanahan whined.

  "Because if any unofficial, inaccurate information

  got out about those killers, it could create a

  panic in this city," Chandler explained. "If you can

  first, and promise not to take advantage of the privilege

  , you can come down and I'll give you any information

  I can, which I can tell you won't be much

  due to the sensitive nature of this case. Do you understand?

  "Yes," McLanahan said in a low voice.

  "You might actually get all the information you

  need from the press," Chandler said.

  "But it would really help if I-"

  "I think your time would be better spent with

  Paul and your family," Chandler said sternly, hoping

  McLanahan would wuss out again. But it looked

  as though he was standing fast on his request, so

  Chandler added, "But if it'll make you and your

  mother feel better, give me a call before you come

  down, and we'll meet and talk. Fair enough?"

  "Yes," McLanahan said. He extended a shaky

  hand; Chandler found it cold and clammy. "Thank

  you. I'll get out of your hair now. And I promise I

  won't bother you unless it's absolutely necessary."

  "Fine. Good night." Chandler couldn't wait to

  hustle this guy out the door. He watched him until

  he climbed into his car and drove off. He probably

  shouldn't have let the guy drive, and he prayed he

  didn't get into an accident.

  P

  aul McLanahan lived in a roomy three-bedroom

  apartment over the Shamrock Pub on the waterfront

  in Old Sacramento, the one in which Patrick

  and Wendy had lived earlier that year, before they

  moved to San Diego. Patrick had decided to move

  his family into the apartment until Paul was out of

  the hospital. He had already converted the second

  bedroom into young Bradley's nursery, complete

  with crib, changing table, and a chest of drawers

  filled with baby supplies and clothes, and he had

  fixed up the master bedroom for Wendy and himself

  . He wanted to duplicate their Coronado apartment

  as best he could so she would feel as much at