by Colin Conway
What bothered Clint about civilians was that they didn’t understand police work. They saw cop shows on TV and in the movies and thought that made them an expert. It didn’t. Every time a cop got into a physical altercation, the clock was ticking. The longer the fight took, the more exponential the danger to the officer became. And every fight was a potential gunfight, because a cop brought a gun to every one.
Therefore, he went at suspects hard. It was the only way. And it was why he was still alive. It was also part of the reason why he didn’t get along with the brass and never would. He didn’t care. It made him who he was, and it made him a better investigator. It was what allowed him to put himself into the shoes of Officer Ty Garrett, even though the reality was that skin color was one of the few things they actually had in common. Garrett was a favorite son, a poster child, a Dudley Do-Right, and admittedly a decent cop. Nothing special, as far as Clint could see, but definitely above average.
He imagined Garrett making the traffic stop. His stress level would probably be mildly elevated because Trotter didn’t stop right away. Clint would have to pull the recording of the radio traffic and listen to see if he was right, but it was a reasonable assumption. When he got a copy of the dash camera footage, he could confirm it.
Clint continued rolling the image of possible events in his mind’s eye. Trotter gets out of the car and starts yelling. More stress for Garrett, albeit not a lot. Cops deal with assholes like Trotter all the time. Then the shots ring out. They strike the patrol car, and shatter glass. At that point, Garrett would have experienced an extreme adrenaline dump, and was probably disoriented. The shots came from the house, which he couldn’t have expected. He takes cover and draws his gun.
Then what?
Clint saw it like a movie in his head. Trotter reaching for something. Maybe a wallet? Something that looked to the SWAT-trained Garrett like a weapon, causing him to fire at least two rounds at Trotter. They’d found the one bullet wound on Trotter’s back and another round buried in the dash of the Chrysler. Garret could have fired more, but Clint doubted it. A double tap was the most likely tactical response, and if Trotter dropped after that, Garrett would have turned his attention to the house.
The house. A whole other mess to try to unsnarl.
He decided to stick with the gun for now. Having examined the possibility that Garrett saw something he interpreted as a gun and fired in self-defense, there was only one other option to consider.
There was no gun, and Garrett knew it.
Clint had greater difficulty imagining these scenarios. Was Garrett the kind of man who would murder a stranger? He didn’t think so. What if he knew Trotter and had some kind of a dispute with him? Clint would have to review Trotter’s arrests to see if Garrett figured into any of them, but again, he doubted it. He toyed with the idea of blackmail or other corruption, but the thoughts gained little traction. He’d run down the possibilities, just like the others, but from what he’d seen of Officer Tyler Garrett, he was a police chief’s dream. A college educated, good-looking family man who did solid police work. Add to that the value he brought in marketing the department to potential recruits and to the minority community, and Garrett went from gold to platinum. Things like the upcoming lifesaving award were icing on the cake.
All right, Clint thought. Got the possibilities of the gun covered. Now he needed the evidence to prove or disprove each of them.
Of course, the missing gun wasn’t the only problem. There weren’t any shell casings near the car, either. The gun could have been a revolver. That would explain the lack of any expended brass.
A gunshot residue test on Trotter’s hands would help solve this mystery, too.
After that, they had to tackle the shooter in the house. He had a feeling that was the fulcrum on which the case would turn.
“Hey, Wardell.”
Clint glanced up to see Chief Robert Baumgartner standing nearby.
“Chief,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. “Can I help you?”
“I was just stopping by.”
Clint stared at him. Just stopping by? The chief never stopped by. The man never even used the bathroom in the hallway outside the detective’s wing. He had his own washroom in his corner office on Mahogany Row. Something was up. He suddenly wondered if Talbott’s lunch invitation had been part of a larger plan, to get him away from his desk so the chief could sneak a look his notes.
“How’re things going?” Baumgartner asked.
“They’re going fine,” Clint replied. Don’t tell him anything, he reminded himself. Not yet. Not until I know and must put it in a report. Until then, it’s mine.
“You need anything?”
Clint shook his head. “Nope.”
Less is more.
“The county detectives doing their job?”
Don’t reveal anything to the enemy.
“They sure think so,” he said.
Baumgartner laughed like they were pals. Like he hadn’t been part of the upper admin when they suspended him for breaking that guy’s arm outside the Circle K. He wondered how Baumgartner justified that to himself, given how heavy-handed he’d been back when he was a patrol officer. Hell, as Clint heard it, Baumgartner didn’t stop cracking skulls until after he made lieutenant.
The brass is the enemy.
The chief seemed to notice Clint wasn’t laughing, so his own chuckles tapered off. “Well, I know they’re lead, and you’re only there to shadow, but keep me in the loop, okay? I don’t want to find out about anything from the media first.”
“I understand.”
“Neither does the mayor.”
City Hall is the enemy.
Clint nodded. “You got it.”
Baumgartner studied him for a few seconds, then gave him a reassuring smile. “All right, then. Carry on, Detective.”
Clint watched him go, moving with surprising agility for a man that big. Something was going on, he could feel it. He didn’t know what. Not yet.
Before he could return to his notes, the light ding that accompanied his incoming emails sounded. Clint had long ago marked most of the city users as spam, cutting his emails down to those that were strictly business. He checked this one and saw it was from the county IT evidence tech. It was addressed to Harris and McNutt, while he was cc’d.
The subject line read Dashcam Vids. He opened it. There was a brief, testy message from the IT tech named Toby that read, Yes, this is all there is. Below that were two hyperlinks labeled “Zielinski” and “Garrett.”
Clint clicked on the first link, labeled “Zielinski.” His computer auto-selected the video media player and began playing the clip. He watched as the final few seconds of the previous call were included for context, then there was an abrupt break, and a scene switch. He noted the time and date, pausing the video while he checked the printout of the Computer Aided Dispatch (CAD) log for the call. The time was off by twelve seconds, but Clint thought it likely that Zielinski probably didn’t start the camera until after he was underway.
He watched the dash camera view of the roadway in front of Zielinski’s car as the officer headed to back Garrett. He heard the dispatcher calling for Charlie-three-sixteen with no reply, though the radio traffic was difficult to hear over Zielinski’s siren.
Clint had read that the newest dash cameras provided even more information for the recording, including GPS coordinates and vehicle speed. SPD had long ago purchased the system in use now, and it was definitely low tech, no frills.
Even though he had no way to know the speed, Clint figured Zielinski had to be driving as fast as he felt safe doing. The video looked deceptively slow, as if the officer were out for a Sunday cruise. Clint knew that was the illusion of the camera. If he ran a time-distance formula on what he was looking at, he’d find out Zielinski was going at least fifty, probably over sixty.
When Zielinski dropped his siren, the audio improved drastically. The patrol car slammed to a
stop just to the right rear of Garrett’s. Clint could see the shattered windows and holes in the side. Zielinski exited the car and left the field of view. A few seconds later, the radio in the patrol car screeched with feedback. Then Zielinski updated dispatch on the situation. Suspect down. No Garrett.
Clint watched as Zielinski reentered the dash camera’s field of vision, making his way up to the suspect vehicle. He knelt near Trotter’s dead body.
Clint frowned. From the angle of Zielinski’s car, he could barely see the bottoms of Trotter’s shoes. He couldn’t tell if Zielinski took anything, gun or otherwise. Couldn’t scratch that theory yet, Clint decided, but Garrett’s angle should be more definitive.
Zielinski rose to his feet and cleared the vehicle, then appeared uncertain before seeing something off screen. He called out, “Ty! Are you okay?”
Garrett either didn’t reply, or Clint was unable to hear what he said. If he needed to, he could take it to the techs for audio enhancement.
Zielinski advised dispatch that Garrett was all right. By that time, Garrett came into view. He and Zielinski engaged in conversation that became difficult to hear, as they spoke in normal tones. It appeared to Clint that Garrett was telling Zielinski what happened, though.
Definitely going to need audio enhancement on this one, he thought.
Garrett spat, then patted Zielinski’s shoulder and then looked down at the driver’s body. He said something, and Zielinski nodded. Clint could hear the sirens of approaching police cars.
The two officers spoke for another few seconds, then Zielinski shined his flashlight toward the body on the ground. He asked Garrett something. Garrett pointed to the gun on his hip. They exchanged a few more words, then Garrett nodded and hurried back to his patrol car. He was at the extreme edge of the camera’s field of vision when he reached inside the patrol car and grabbed something. He stood, then ducked back into the car for a moment. Then he trotted back toward Zielinski. The two officers searched the ground near the car with their flashlights, obviously searching for either a gun or shell casings. Clint leaned forward again, watching carefully for anything suspicious. He saw nothing.
As the sirens drew closer, Clint noticed Zielinski give Garrett a hard look and say something. Garrett’s reply seemed adamant.
More officers arrived, and organized chaos ensued. Ty was escorted away by two other patrol cops. Yellow crime scene tape went up.
Clint hit the fast forward button on the media player, then double fast forward. He watched the investigation in super speed, seeing nothing worthy of slowing for a closer look. He knew he’d have to watch it again at regular speed, but the meat of the recording ended once the third and fourth patrol car arrived.
He exited the video and clicked on the link to Garrett’s dash camera. Once again, he saw the final few seconds of the previous incident for context, in which Garrett was walking back to the car on an unrelated traffic stop just a few minutes previous. Then came the break and a new scene. Clint was watching the time and date stamp and was immediately confused by what he saw. The time was already well after what CAD indicated as when Garrett initiated his traffic stop.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
Then he noticed the perspective of the dash camera. It was directed at the rear of the White Chrysler. Officer Ray Zielinski stood near the dead body of Todd Trotter, and Garrett trotted toward them.
Clint watched in amazement as the two began searching the ground for the missing gun or any shell casings. He hit the pause button.
Where’s the rest of the video?
He went back to his email and re-read Toby’s text. Yes, this is all there is. The tech had obviously anticipated that there would be a question about the starting point of Garrett’s video. What Clint had interpreted as snotty IT attitude had just been factual information.
He returned to the video, pushing play. He watched as the two men searched the ground wordlessly. Then Zielinski gave Garrett a hard look and spoke. The audio wasn’t great, but Clint could make it out.
“Tell me this was a good shoot,” Zielinski said.
Garrett didn’t hesitate and looked Zielinski straight in the eye. “It was a good shoot.”
Clint stopped the video and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t bother watching any further, at least not now. There’d be plenty of time to pore over it later, watching for clues that probably weren’t there. Right now, he had another question to ponder. He thought about emailing it to Harris, but he didn’t trust the email system. Too much access by brass and city hall. Plus, if the question didn’t occur to her on her own, then she wasn’t worth the tin in her badge.
Instead, Clint looked down at Garrett’s official department photo on the left sleeve of his case file. “Why didn’t you start the camera?” he asked Garrett’s smiling face.
Chapter 12
The door opened and a beautiful, dark-skinned woman in a multi-colored summer dress studied him with suspicious eyes. “Yes?”
“You must be Angie. I’m Dale Thomas.”
She ran her eyes up and down his length before asking, “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“I’m the president of the police union,” he smiled. “I wanted to see how your husband was doing.”
“Hold on for a minute,” she said and gently closed the door.
Thomas turned and surveyed the neighborhood. Ty Garrett lived on the Five Mile Prairie, in an area of recent development. New homes with manicured lawns lined the block. Thomas realized there wasn’t a car older than ten years on the street. Garrett was probably pushing his economic limits in this neighborhood.
The door opened again, and Thomas spun around expecting to see Angie. Ty Garrett stood there with a stern look. “Dale. Thanks for coming by.”
They shook hands before Garrett waved him inside.
Thomas followed Garrett, stepping down two steps in to the living room where Angie Garrett sat with two small children. A large, heavyset man sat on the edge of the couch. He was in khakis and a club shirt to hide his girth. His black skin shined with the sheen of sweat.
Garrett said, “Dale, this is my pastor, Al Norris.”
Thomas nodded. “Nice to meet you, Father.”
Norris kindly smiled and said, “Close enough.”
Thomas shoved his hands into his pants. He’d worn his newest suit, a deal he’d gotten off the rack at Men’s Wearhouse. He’d taken his tie off before he arrived. It was folded and tucked into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He knew he looked sharp but felt slightly over dressed next to Ty who was in red shorts and a gray Eastern Washington tank top.
“Want something to drink?”
“I appreciate it, but no. Just came by to see how you were holding up.”
“I’m all right.”
“What they’re doing to him in the media is an absolute travesty,” Norris said, shaking his head. He looked up to the television hanging on the wall. It was off, but he knew by Norris’s comment they had been watching the coverage. It had turned nasty now that the news of Todd Trotter being shot in the back had been revealed by the media. The rumor of a missing gun made it even worse.
“You should quit watching it,” Thomas suggested.
“It’s hard to stop when it’s you they’re talking about,” Angie said, the kids squirming on her lap.
“It’s fake news,” Thomas said, smiling at her. “The channels make up whatever they need to drive ratings. Sensationalism sells.”
“It’s his life,” Norris said, his voice booming in the house.
Thomas nodded, turning his attention to the pastor. “I get it. I’ve seen this before. Well, nothing to this extreme, but media attention that’s gone out of whack. It will get worse before it gets better.”
Angie stood with the kids. “I’m going to take them into the other room.”
Garrett nodded at his wife and gave her an “I’m sorry” look.
Thomas stepped back to let Angie pas
s by. With her gone, Thomas took her place on the couch and looked intently at Garrett. “Has anyone from the administration come to see you?”
“No.”
“That’s good. If they do, don’t talk with them. Send them away and call me immediately.”
“Why would they stop by? I’m on my seventy-two.”
“They know they can’t interview you about the incident for three days. No one will even try that. That’s hallowed ground. However, there’s nothing saying they won’t come by and check on you. That’s their way of getting their foot in the door to start talking. Lawful deception, if you will.”
“Sounds like inviting a vampire in to your home,” Norris said, shaking his head.
Thomas pointed at the pastor. “That’s exactly what it is. They’ll want to get in here under the guise of your welfare. Remember, it’s not your welfare they care about. It’s their own.”
Garrett crinkled his nose. “Really?”
“My job is to protect you, Ty, and part of that is telling you the hard truth. To help manage your expectations, so to speak. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I guess.”
“Then here it is—your shooting doesn’t look good.”
Garrett quickly stood and threw his hands in the air. “I don’t care what it looks like. I know what I did was right! I’m tired of hearing what I did was wrong.”
“Are you here to help or rile him up?” Norris whispered.
Thomas lifted his hands in defense. “You need to know what the rest of the world thinks, Ty. That includes city hall and your own department. Right now, forces are aligning. Some of those forces are going to protect you and some are going to try to bury you.”
“What forces? Who’s out to bury me?” Garrett asked with his chin thrust out. Thomas liked that. The man was ready to take on challengers.
“You’ve watched the news,” Thomas said, pointing at the blank TV screen. “You tell me. Are they on your side or not?”
