by Colin Conway
Clint knocked on what seemed like the one hundredth door of the day. Even so, he kept the weariness at bay that ate at the edge of his consciousness. He didn’t have time to be tired. Not yet.
A middle-aged white man opened the door. His eyes narrowed as soon as he saw Clint. He crossed his arms across his chest, letting them rest on the shelf of his protruding belly.
“What do you want, boy?”
Clint ignored the flare of anger that the man’s tone evoked in him. Disregarding the “boy” was a little harder, especially since he knew what the man really meant with the decidedly un-subtle code word.
Instead, he flashed his badge. “SPD, sir,” he said in an even, professional voice.
The man was unimpressed, though his antagonism seemed to soften slightly, replaced by caution. “I din’t call the cops.”
“I know,” Clint replied, putting away his badge and taking out his steno notepad.
“You know what time it is?” the man asked.
Clint glanced at his watch. “Eight-fifty-two. I’m conducting some follow-up investigation on the shooting that occurred near here last night.”
“The one with that black cop?”
“The officer involved shooting, yes.”
“That was two blocks away.”
“It was. Were you home last night, sir?”
The man gave Clint a suspicious look. “Why? Am I some kind of suspect or something?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Did you see anything out of the ordinary in the neighborhood last night?”
“Oh.” The man thought about it, then shrugged. “Can’t think of nothing. Neighborhood’s gone to hell, though.” He eyed Clint, adding, “Lots of the wrong sort of people moving in.”
“What sort would that be?”
“Your type, mostly.”
Clint nodded slowly, taking a few seconds to push down the desire to smash the ignorant piece of white trash in the face. He could handle that people were racist, whether implicitly or overtly. Hell, the way the government and the media promoted hostility, people didn’t even know how racist they were inside. Clint had dealt with this and other similar obstacles his whole life, his whole career, and had learned to cope with it. Though it never failed to make him angry, he learned to contain the anger, channel it. When he got it thrown in his face by a superiority-spouting imbecile while he was trying to do righteous police work on behalf of the very same, it rankled him.
The man watched him during those few seconds, but all he let the guy see was a flat stare. When he felt himself in full control, he pulled a photo of Todd Trotter from his inside jacket pocket and held it up for the man. “You ever see this guy before?”
“No. Who is he?”
Clint replaced the photo and pulled a business card from the side pocket. He held it out to the man. “If you recall anything else that might help, please give me a call.”
The man stared at the proffered card but made no move to take it. Then he leaned out of the doorway, turned his head to the side and spat a messy glob onto the concrete porch near Clint’s feet. Then he looked back at Clint, dark amusement and a hint of challenge in his expression. “I ain’t got nothing to say to the po-lice, and less to say to some nigger.”
Then he smiled.
Clint saw it all in a flash. Two quick moves, maybe three if he wanted to hurt the man something extra. Nothing extreme. He’d live, but things might not work so right anymore, and he’d always know when it was going to rain. Every time that happened, he’d think of Clint.
On the tail of that came the rest of the story. The complaint, the discipline, the lawsuit. These days, probably criminal charges. And Clint knew there were plenty of people out there who would revel in the chance to hammer him. He’d learned that lesson long ago, from the arrest at Circle K. That guy was swinging at Clint with hammer fists, which was a lot more than this guy was doing.
In the end, Clint settled for a glare. “You should be careful, talking like that. You might get arrested for hate speech.”
The man shook his head adamantly. “First Amendment. Freedom of speech.”
“Doesn’t apply to hate speech.”
“I’m in my own home.”
Clint nodded, glancing down. “Who spits on their own floor?”
He turned and walked away while the man struggled for an answer. If he came up with anything, Clint didn’t know. He’d stopped listening and moved on to the next house.
An elderly black female answered the next door. Clint relaxed slightly, though he could never completely relax. Vigilance had its price, and he knew potential danger lurked everywhere.
The woman had heard about the shooting. She been home the previous night and hadn’t seen anything suspicious.
“The neighborhood is going downhill, though,” she confided in him.
“Wrong sort moving in?” Clint asked, glancing to her next-door neighbor’s house.
She shrugged. “It’s the younger ones, if you ask me. They rent their homes.” She said rent as if the word were a mild profanity. “They don’t buy. When you don’t own your own home, well you just don’t care for it quite the same way, do you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Is that officer all right?” she asked. “The one that they shot at?”
“He is. Thanks for asking.”
She shook her head, clucking her tongue. “How you all do that job, I’ll never know. It’s gotta be hard.”
“It can be.” He showed her the photo of Trotter. “Do you recognize him?”
She peered closely through her glasses but eventually shook head. “Should I be watching for him?”
“No, ma’am, but if you see anything suspicious, please give me a call.” He handed her a card.
She took it. “I will, and God bless you, sir.”
Clint thanked her and moved to the next house.
It was that way for him all afternoon and evening. Some people were helpful, some were hostile. Most were neutral. Clint wasn’t exactly keeping track, but he had the sense that there was a mild trend based upon race. Nothing he didn’t experience everywhere, and most of it subtle. Porch Spitter was the extreme.
This was the shoe leather part of the job. Sometimes it paid off. Other times, like today, it yielded nothing. However, it had to be done, and he was pretty sure Harris and her meathead partner were too self-important to do it. They’d be running down Trotter’s known associates and checking out the house from which the shots were fired. Both were reasonable avenues of investigation, ones he would have taken if he were the lead. A thorough background on Todd Trotter was in order, too. If he pursued any of these primary leads, it would be seen as stepping on the toes of Harris and the county investigation. Canvassing the neighborhood, though? He could do that and remain relatively invisible to them. If he happened onto something, they might be pissed that he was acting independently, but that would be overshadowed by his discovery. Even if he didn’t, if they ever got down their priority list to the point where a wider canvass of the neighborhood was in order, the fact that he’d already done it might be welcome news. Canvassing was tedious, unenviable work. Harris and McMeathead would be tired by the time they resorted to expanding the canvass. Clint figured that even if Harris carped about it, she’d be secretly happy it was already done.
He glanced at his watch and saw it was after nine. Most detectives didn’t like to knock on doors after eight for routine matters. Everyone in this town seemed to think ten o’clock was damn near criminal. Clint considered, then decided to finish the last two houses and call it a night. In the morning, he could get briefed by Harris. Maybe there’d be some preliminary forensics back. Afterwards, he’d quietly run his own background on Trotter.
At the first house, he got no answer, so he tucked his card in the door near the knob. The second house resulted in a pleasant enough conversation with an elderly white couple, but he learned nothing helpful.
Clint str
ode purposefully back to his unmarked detective’s car. He still drove one of the last of the department’s Crown Victoria models. Ford had discontinued the line, which forced departments across the nation to transition to the newer Ford Interceptor, a car that Clint had to admit had sexier lines and handled better. Since patrol put so many miles on their vehicles, and hard miles at that, most of the division had cycled through the remaining Crown Victorias. Meanwhile, most of the investigative division, along with the admin, had transitioned to the Chevy Impala. Clint still drove his trusty light gray Crown Vic. He liked the space in the interior, the rear wheel drive, and he especially liked the power of the V8. You never knew when you’d need that kind of get up and go.
When the admin refused his request for an Interceptor, citing cost and lack of need, his response was to refuse to turn in his Crown Vic. The mileage was over the threshold for rotation, so he had to stand guard over the car every time he took it to the garage to make sure they didn’t attempt to seize it and cycle it out.
In the end, he was glad they’d turned him down. The new cars came with too much additional baggage, including GPS trackers. He didn’t mind when the mechanics complained about the extra maintenance his car required due to mileage. They could yap all they wanted as long as they changed the oil and kept the thing running. He was going to drive the Crown Vic until it dropped. He hated the idea of the brass tracking his location in real time.
Good luck retro-fitting a GPS device into this beast, he thought.
He drove north, avoiding the streets that were under construction. Much of that took place in the evening hours and he didn’t feel like being held up. Now that he was finished, the weight of the day’s work settled into him. He forced himself to stay alert as he drove, ignoring the constant instances of minor traffic infractions that occurred around him.
The townhouse four-plex afforded him the luxury of a garage, and he parked his police car inside it. The apartment he’d lived in before provided only covered parking, leaving his department car out in the open. Not only did it announce his presence, but it was an easy target for vandals. A garage solved that problem.
He knew greater privacy would be much easier to achieve if he moved out of the city, maybe get ten acres or so and fence it. Clint was a city man, though. This non-descript townhouse on a quiet block on the north side was as close as he was going to get to the woods.
The thin piece of nearly invisible fishing line he used as a door marker was still in place. No one had used this door since he’d left that morning. He went inside, disengaging the security system on the pad next to the door. Then he drew his pistol and made his rounds, checking every room in the townhouse by habit. Everything was secure.
Clint grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down on the couch. He thought about turning on the TV, but he didn’t want to watch what passed for intelligent programming these days. It was all reality TV, which was either completely staged or shameful life-whoring. There was no dignity.
He definitely didn’t want to see the coverage of the Garrett shooting. Idiots with uninformed opinions would only frustrate him, whether because of their ignorance of the facts, police process, or flat out biases, or all three. Instead, he stared at the black screen, sipping his Miller High Life and thinking about Ty Garrett.
The case seemed like it could turn into a colossal mess. The black versus white piece was difficult enough, especially on the tail of what looked like a bad white-on-black police shooting in Philadelphia just days ago. When the elements of Trotter being hit in the back and the missing gun were factored, it only got worse. Throw in the media frenzy and the self-concerned politicians, and the end result could be a good cop getting railroaded.
Clint had no particular love for Ty Garrett. The man seemed decent enough, even if he was a little bit of a sellout. And he was the right color, twice over. Blue, and black. As far as Clint was concerned, that was reason enough to do right by him, even if he suspected that if things got too hot, no one else would. They’d sacrifice Garrett if it suited their needs, leaving Clint alone to find the truth.
He was used to being alone.
Monday
Wrong is wrong, no matter who does it or says it.
—Malcolm X, human rights activist
Chapter 17
Ty Garrett stood alone in his backyard, sipping a glass of orange juice and thinking about his morning.
He’d seen Angie and the kids off shortly before 7 a.m. Jake and Molly were still sleepy, and Angie wasn’t happy about it when he loaded them into their Nissan Murano. However, he wanted them on the road and away from Spokane as quickly as possible.
Before they left, Garrett gave Angie the only gun he had in the house to take on the trip. She hated guns and normally wouldn’t have one with her, but she agreed to take the revolver. “Things don’t feel normal,” he said. “Take it just in case.”
He remained in the driveway as she backed the Nissan out, the transmission whining lightly in the early morning quiet. When Angie reached the street, she met his gaze. He raised a hand to her and she nodded in reply. Then she put the car in gear and drove away. Ty stared after them until she got to the corner and turned right. His chest ached at their departure, but he knew it was the best choice. They’d be safe. A little more so since Angie had the gun.
The department had seized his Glock following the shooting, so he was now without a weapon. He’d never been one of those paranoid types who thought everyone was out to get him, but not having either gun in the house suddenly felt odd.
Now that Angie was gone, Garrett finally admitted to himself seeing his address posted on Facebook had scared him. Not so much for him, but for his family. Ty Garrett wasn’t used to being scared and he hated himself for being weak. More than that, he hated those who had made him feel vulnerable. The problem was he couldn’t point to one person who did it. And the reality was it didn’t matter. Anyone can find anyone. He knew that. It took a computer, a credit card, and less than ten minutes to find essentially whatever someone wanted to know about anyone. Garrett knew this but seeing his address on the screen along with a series of vitriolic statements was unsettling. The idiot who posted his address on Facebook did him a favor. He put Garrett on notice.
Maybe Wardell Clint was right. Everyone is out to get us.
Garrett frowned. Who was us, then? The police? Or was this about race?
He walked back into his house, his anger at a boiling point.
“Trotter,” he muttered. If he would have just stayed in his car, none of this would have happened. Garrett shook his head. What about the ambush? Who the hell thought it was a good idea to come after me?
No one from the department talked to him about the case. He was getting frozen out.
Garrett balled his fists and closed his eyes.
It was his seventy-two that was causing this. Three days of mandatory administrative leave was coiling him up inside. “The waiting period is for your own good,” Dale Thomas had said. “It gives you time to recover before you tell your story.”
Garrett was starting to believe it was something different. He’d read the news and watched the TV coverage. He wasn’t stupid. The seventy-two was so the department and the city could get their story together, so they could decide which way to move. They were going to make the decision whether to back him or crucify him.
It didn’t matter whether or not he did the right thing, only how it looked.
Garrett opened his eyes and unclenched his fists, his hands shaking with rage.
He knew what he needed to do.
2Pac and Dre’s “California Love” pumped through his earbuds. He tried to turn off his thoughts and calm his mind, but no relief was coming.
His feet slapped the asphalt to the rhythm of his breathing. One breath in for every two strides, then one longer breath out for every three strides. He’d learned the breathing trick in cross-country back in high school. It continued to pay dividends anytime he
hit the road.
He’d been running for thirty minutes through the various neighborhoods on the Five Mile Prairie. He had no idea how far he would run. He just wanted to sweat until the anger stopped. Unfortunately, it was still there. Touching at the edges of his mind. Whenever he felt a sense of relief creeping in, the anger rushed back in to overwhelm him.
Garrett had committed to running until the fury was gone.
As he ran, he’d occasionally wave at someone leaving for work. No one knew him on the Prairie and they didn’t care. They just smiled back and waved. A few said something that he couldn’t hear but it was done with a smile.
He liked this part of town. Never once had he gotten crossways with a neighbor. He and Angie could go for a walk and talk with random strangers about nothing in particular. People were nice.
A small Chihuahua stood at the edge of a yard, barking at him. The dog’s yap was silent due to Busta Rhymes’ “Break Ya Neck” blasting his ears. The dog’s owner, a mid-thirties woman in shorts and tank top, shrugged with a smile.
When he had turned to watch the dog, Garrett realized a pick-up was behind him. It was a seventies era Chevy beater. He’d seen a similar truck behind him when he started his run, but it had passed him and drove off. Garrett remembered two men in that truck and an Idaho license plate. It struck him as odd for his neighborhood, but he let it pass. He looked over his shoulder as he ran, and the truck continued to follow him at a crawl.
Garrett’s pulse quickened, and he struggled to keep his pace and breathing. He continued running straight until he could turn left and head up another street. The pick-up slowly continued on in the different direction.
He relaxed, but the rage returned. Paranoia was setting in, Garrett realized, and he didn’t like it. That wasn’t who he was. He was better than that. He wasn’t Wardell Clint and didn’t want to be him. He made up his mind to contact Union President Dale Thomas and get some answers about the investigation. He was also going to schedule the interview with the county investigators.
