by Colin Conway
So was the M.E.’s, for that matter. Unfortunately, all of the other facts that the M.E. recorded did nothing whatsoever to help her case. Like Harris, it seemed like the M.E. was sometimes caught in the same vortex of completing tasks versus making progress.
McNutt had made no progress finding Trotter’s associates, she quickly discovered. When she’d cleared the autopsy, she’d thought about sneaking in a quick lunch with her friend, Amy. She had little contact with her friends outside of law enforcement, much less any opportunity to date. There was a danger to surrounding yourself with nothing but cops. Intellectually, Harris knew this, and emotionally, she didn’t want it. Time demands boxed her into that behavior, and when she had some free time lately, she discovered that there were fewer and fewer people without a badge that she could call. Or wanted to.
It didn’t matter anyway, because McNutt checked in with her before she could even dial up Amy to suggest lunch. He was eager to interview the Seavers, or so he said. Then he suggested lunch and saying yes seemed the easiest route. She was hungry, after all. She briefly considered the fact that she could go eat a sub sandwich less than an hour after watching a human body being dissected on a stainless steel bed but wasn’t sure she really wanted to examine that thought any further.
McNutt bought her lunch. When she protested, he waved her off. “You get the next one,” he said, which, of course, ensured there’d be a next one. Or gave him a chance to rack up a few “next ones” and then suggest a single dinner date to wipe the slate clean. Probably to celebrate success on some case, she imagined.
Harris knew she’d say no to that, but she wondered how many more years it would take before the easiest thing to do would be to just say to hell with it and go to bed with McNutt or someone like him. To hell with respect and being seen as a professional. How did screwing another cop change that? It didn’t for the men on the job. Maybe it wouldn’t for her.
She doubted it, though. Double standards died hard. That wasn’t really the point, anyway. The point was, how long before she didn’t care anymore?
This is why I need friends who aren’t cops, she thought to herself.
The Seaver interview was a dead end, just as the self-righteous Ward Clint had predicted. The couple was barely thirty, and the house where the shooter had been was their starter home. They bought it five years ago, renovated, and once both of them finished college and started climbing the corporate ladder, they quickly upgraded to a nicer home in a nicer neighborhood. Neither one had a criminal record, and only the husband had so much as a speeding ticket.
They were now back to running down Trotter’s known associates, something McNutt seemed capable of doing only if she held his hand while he did it.
Harris glanced over at him. His muscled forearm flexed and twitched as he tapped the top of the steering wheel rapidly in time with The Scorpions. He was so sure of himself, and she both admired and pitied his confidence.
McNutt caught her looking and flashed her a rakish grin. “There’s no one like you!” he sang, badly out of tune.
“Who sings this?” she asked.
“The Scorpions.”
“How about we keep it that way?”
His smile faltered slightly, but he took it in stride. Harris was pretty sure his brain had already processed the jibe as flirting. Hell, maybe it was. She pointed to Central Avenue as they approached. “Here’s our turn.”
McNutt swung the Caprice to the right and slowed for the residential street. As they approached the address, Harris flipped open her case file, peering down at a mug shot of a wiry Hispanic man.
“Ernesto Ocampo,” she read aloud. “Two arrests for possession with intent to deliver, one for assault. No felony convictions, though he pled out to the assault as a misdemeanor. Do you have any idea what happened on the drug charges? There’s no resolution in here.”
“Both dropped,” McNutt replied. “I called the narco prosecutor. She said there was enough probable cause to charge but no way could she prove it in court beyond a reasonable doubt. Whatever that means.”
“Well, he and Trotter were never linked on any criminal case, but SPD patrol filed a field interview that had the two of them parked in the same empty parking lot at two in the morning, smoking cigarettes and talking.”
“What a crime spree.”
Harris shrugged. She admired the patrol officer investigating what amounted to mildly suspicious circumstances, and then taking the time to record the event. It would have been just as easy for him to let the whole thing go once he figured out he had nothing criminal. Or even easier to have just driven right on by without stopping at all.
“We are truly scraping the bottom of the barrel now, as far as leads go,” McNutt said. “I can’t wait to interview Garrett and put this thing to bed.”
Harris didn’t reply. With no leads on who the shooter was, she didn’t think they’d be putting this case to bed, even after interviewing Zielinski and Garrett. Or at least, if they did, it wouldn’t be a restful sleep.
As they approached Ocampo’s rental house, she spotted a pristine purple car. The square frame sat low and the impeccable body shone. It stood out in a neighborhood full of mostly working-class cars and beaters.
“Waste of a work of art,” McNutt said. “1962 Chevy Impala, built in Detroit, destroyed by Mexico.”
Harris ignored his comment, jotting down the plate and calling it in. The dispatcher returned almost immediately, confirming the car was registered to Ocampo.
“At least he’s home,” McNutt said. “That’s something.”
It was another check mark on the list, Harris agreed. Whether or not it was progress, they’d have to wait and see.
At the door, McNutt gave a solid rap. It wasn’t quite as thunderous as a graveyard knock, but it was something more than a polite one. Harris preferred to come in a little softer at first. It was easier to ramp up than to ease down, but she didn’t think McNutt entirely agreed with that philosophy.
The door swung open. A heavyset Hispanic man appeared in the entryway, scowling. Harris could see he made them as cops immediately.
“The fuck you want?” he said, his words heavily accented.
Harris showed him her badge, though she knew it was unnecessary. “Detectives Harris and McNutt.”
“McNutt?” He grinned maliciously. “Which one of you is McNutt?”
“I am,” McNutt said. “You got a problem with that?”
“No, man. It’s fucking hilarious either way, ese.”
“I ain’t your ese,” McNutt growled.
“No shit, pendejo.”
“We’re looking for Ernesto Ocampo,” Harris interjected, breaking up the pissing match before it went too far. “We just want to talk to him. Have him come to the door.”
The man spread his hands. “He’s not home, chica.”
Harris pointed toward his car.
The man followed her finger, then shrugged. “His girlfriend picked him up, like two hours ago. I think they were going to Yakima, to see his sister. She’s sick or something.”
“They took her car, not his?”
He nodded. “Better gas mileage, you know? Those semis, they throw up rocks and shit. ’Nesto doesn’t want his baby getting chipped.”
“So, he leaves it on the street in this neighborhood?” McNutt asked sarcastically.
The man scowled, the first genuine reaction Harris had seen since he opened the door. “I watch over it. No one on this block would touch it, anyway.”
“When will he be back?” Harris asked.
“Coupla days. She’s not dying or nothing.”
“What’s your name?”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t need to know my name.”
“Fine,” Harris conceded. “How about you let us come inside and take a quick look around to confirm Ernesto isn’t here, and we’ll be on our way.”
“I
told you, he went to Yakima.”
“I know. I just need to confirm he isn’t here.”
“You calling me a liar?”
“Not at all. My boss is kind of a hard ass. If I tell him you said Ernesto wasn’t here but we didn’t check to confirm, he’s going give me a hard time.”
The man looked her up and down. Then he said, “Well, maybe you ought to change jobs or something. Get a new boss who treats you right. Because I don’t let no police in my house without a warrant, entiendes?”
He closed the door.
They walked away, McNutt muttering insults. Harris waited until they were back at the sidewalk, then asked him, “You think he’s there?”
“Probably. They all lie.”
Harris hoped “they” meant criminals. “Could be, but the story made sense, too.”
McNutt shrugged. “It’s the bottom of the barrel, anyway. Let’s check back in two days. By then, we’ll have our interview with Garrett. We can even ask him if he ever heard of this jack wagon.”
Harris agreed. “All right. Let’s try the other guy.”
They had more luck with Peter Yates, finding him at the second address they tried, which was the age-old standby for male criminals—his mother’s house. Mom didn’t even bother lying for him. She just swung open the door, pointed through the kitchen to another door that they quickly discovered led to the basement.
Yates was a skinny white man with long hair and a scraggly beard. He sat on a futon and was playing a video game on a small TV when they entered. From the cursing, Harris imagined it wasn’t going well for him.
“Peter Yates?” she asked, causing him to jump. When he saw her badge, he paused the game and set aside his controller. His expression became sullen.
“What do you want to hassle me about now?”
“We just want to talk.”
“About what?”
“You knew Todd Trotter, right?”
Yates snorted. “That douche bag? Yeah, I knew him. You guys killed him, and he still owes me forty dollars.”
“Why’d he owe you money?”
“He lost a bet. Why do you care?”
“We’re investigating his death. We’re trying to fill in some missing pieces about him.”
“Isn’t that convenient?” Yates said. “First you shoot him in the back for no reason, and now you get to investigate it yourself? Gee, I wonder how that will turn out?”
“We’re with the Sheriff’s Office, not SPD.”
“Like that makes a difference. A cop’s a cop.”
Harris moved closer to him, ignoring the stench of body odor and other smells she’d prefer not to classify. “Look, Pete, it’s our job to find out what happened in this shooting. If it was a bad shoot, we need to figure that out. You might know something that can help us.”
“I don’t help cops.”
“You’d be helping Todd.”
“The news is saying that he didn’t have no gun and that moolie cop shot him in the back, anyway. If a white cop did that to a black guy, there’d be riots already.”
Harris cringed at the epithet but hid her reaction as best she could. She kept her voice neutral. “I don’t know about any of that. I do know that we are trying to get to the bottom of this. The real bottom.”
Yates eyed them suspiciously. “Are you saying that they might actually nail that cop for this?”
“We want the truth. Even if it is painful.”
Yates nodded slowly, as if processing her words. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “Ask your questions.”
“How did you know Todd?”
“We run in some of the same circles, that’s all.”
“He dealt drugs.” Harris looked at him impassively.
Yates squirmed slightly in his seat. “Yeah, so? I like to party, and news flash, some parties have drugs. Sometimes I’d see Todd at parties. He had good shit.”
“Parties where?”
“Wherever, man. Parties, they just…happen.”
“Here?”
Yates shook his head. “No, my ma would never allow it, but there’s always something doing somewhere, if you know people.”
“You ever party with Ernesto?”
Yates shook his head. Harris didn’t see any sign of deception in his reaction when she spoke the name.
“You know Ernesto? Drives a purple Impala?”
A flicker of recognition showed in his eyes. “Yeah, man, I seen that car running up and down Division Street some nights. Maybe parked in the lot at the auto parts store with all the other cool drives.”
“You don’t know Ernesto?”
“No. Bitchin’ car, though.”
“How about Ty Garrett?” McNutt interjected. “You know him?”
Yates narrowed his eyes. “I know the name. Wait, isn’t that the cop on TV? The one who killed Todd?”
“It is.”
“Why would I know him, other than to get hassled by him?”
“We’re just asking.”
“Man, you got some stupid ass questions going on here.”
“How about this?” Harris asked. “When was the last time you saw Todd Trotter?”
Yates thought about it. “A week and a half ago. Maybe two.”
“Where?”
“Some house on the west side. Backyard barbecue party.”
“Whose house?”
“I didn’t know the guy. I don’t even remember how I ended up there. I think my boy Todd told me about it.”
“Now he’s your boy?” McNutt asked. “Two minutes ago, he was a douche bag.”
“Man, you need to step back.” Yates shook his head in disbelief. “He can be both, a’ight?”
“Did he talk with anyone else at this party?” Harris asked.
“Lots of people. So, what?”
She glanced at McNutt, who gave her a nearly imperceptible head shake. This was going nowhere. She decided to take a shot.
“Do you own a gun, Peter? A .45?”
Yates looked at them both, and then broke out laughing. “A .45? Yeah, I own two.” He pointed at the video game. A first-person view showed a pair of hands in the foreground, each hand clutching a 1911 Colt .45. “They lay out zombies like a motherfucker.”
Back in the car, Harris checked another task off her list.
Beside her, McNutt shook his head in disgust. “The guy’s thirty-two years old and living in his mother’s basement. I’m sure he’s sucking up food stamps and welfare while he’s at it.”
Harris wasn’t in the mood to rehash a frequent discussion amongst cops. Instead, she steered things back to the case.
“We got nothing from forensics that helps,” she summarized. “Autopsy is what we’d expect. The homeowners are clean as a whistle. Did any of Trotter’s associates ping on your radar?”
“They all did. They’re dirt bags.”
“You know what I mean.”
McNutt shrugged. “No, not really. Most of them had something dirty going on, you could tell, but I didn’t get the feeling any were involved in our shoot.”
Neither did Harris. She couldn’t recall any tells that showed through in her interviews or mistakes in any statements that made her suspicious. It was looking more and more like the shooter wasn’t one of Trotter’s associates. Or at least one they’d interviewed.
“What do we have? A follow up interview with Ocampo in a couple of days, Zielinski’s interview and then Ty Garrett’s interview. What else?”
“We could go back and re-canvass. Expand the boundaries. But that’s pretty much it. Unless you want to check in with the Honey Badger for advice.”
Harris scowled. She would have to give Clint an update but preferred to limit it to that. “Let’s head back to the station. I want to set up a time to interview Zielinski and to start prepping my questions for Garrett’s interview. Would you call Dale Thomas, the union president for SPD? Tell him I want to interview Garrett as
soon as possible once his seventy-two is up.”
“You bet.”
Cassidy stared out the passenger window as the homes of northern Spokane flitted by, wondering if she was actually going to get to the bottom of this incident, or if the whole thing was bottomless.
Wednesday
Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead.
—Benjamin Franklin, a United States Founding Father
Chapter 32
Ty Garrett stood in front of the out-processing deputy, Rob Utley, who handed him a brown paper bag that had been sealed and taped. When he’d been in-processed, Garrett had to remove all of his personal items and put them into that bag.
Utley’s bald head shone under the fluorescent lights. He was a fat man whose girth and poor attitude had led him to a position with the least amount of activity and minimal contact with normal citizenry.
The deputy read from the list on his clipboard, “Khaki shorts, blue T-shirt, white shoes, socks…”
Utley droned on while Garrett opened the bag and removed his clothing. Inside the bag was another envelope with his smaller contents: wallet, watch, and house keys. The wallet contained fifty-three dollars in cash, a couple credit cards, and his driver’s license. He’d left his phone at home on purpose when he was arrested.
Utley eyed Garrett with suspicion and a slightly curled lip as he verified the contents of the paper bag.
“Got something to say?” Garrett asked.
“Not to you.” Utley sneered and dropped the clipboard on the counter. “Sign there for your stuff. When you’re done, there’s a restroom over there where you can change. Leave the jail issued clothing on the shelf.”
Garrett looked to where Utley was pointing then nodded. There was no sense in arguing with the fat man, so he signed his name, took his clothing and left.
When he stepped outside the jail, Garrett faced the Public Safety Building, which had felt like his second home for a decade and where his brothers and sisters were still working. He knew some of them might see him if they were sitting near the windows of the detectives’ office. He considered walking out of the compound the back way, but that would walk him along the windows of Mahogany Row where the chief’s and captains’ offices were.
