And Every Man Has to Die rcc-4

by Frank Zafiro

It was Yuri’s turn to smile. He looked at Val and raised his eyebrows. “We go?”

  Val nodded.

  It was done.

  2216 hours

  Chisolm stood at the rear of the warehouse, staring down at the car tarp on the ground.

  Son of a bitch. They were gone.

  He clenched his jaw and walked back through the warehouse. As he came through the front door, several patrol cars screeched to a halt in the parking lot. Chisolm held up four fingers, indicating that the situation was Code Four, under control.

  Except it really wasn’t. Two of the shooters had gotten away.

  Chisolm glanced down at the large man with the shotgun. The chest wound had continued to bleed, creating a large dark pool around his left side. Chisolm moved to the car and looked inside.

  He saw another suspect lying on the back seat with a large revolver in his right hand.

  Chisolm raised the shotgun. “Don’t move!” he yelled.

  There was no reaction. Chisolm kept the barrel of the shotgun trained on the figure. Kahn and Hiero ran toward him with weapons drawn.

  “I think he’s DOA,” Chisolm said. “But I’m not sure.”

  Hiero crept up to the opposite side of the car and peeked in through the rear window. Then he lowered his pistol. “Head shot,” he explained. “This one’s dead.”

  “Nice job, Tom,” Kahn said. The admiration in his voice was sincere, but Chisolm shook his head.

  “Two of them got away,” he said. “It’s all shit.”

  Part IV

  Poetry escapes my heart today.

  The words elusive, hidden, refuse to stay

  Long enough to take the pain away

  Or push and mold it in the recesses of my heart,

  Like clay.

  — Rebecca Battaglia

  ELEVEN

  Saturday, July 19th

  0027 hours

  Detective Ray Browning stood in the doorway of the hotel room, staring at the smeared blood against the wall. He didn’t use his detective eyes to examine the pattern or direction of the smear, though his mind clicked through those facts automatically: Victim fell against the wall sideways, slid down. Was likely turned to the right, back against the wall, prior to transport.

  Mostly he just stared and thought to himself how that was Battaglia’s blood.

  When was the last police officer death he’d investigated? Karl Winter, back in ’94? That had been something of an ambush, too. The driver of the vehicle later gave an account that mirrored what he and Detective Winokur, now retired, had determined from the examination at the scene. Here, though, he had the eyewitness testimony of the wounded FBI man, Agent Leeb. Too bad he was in the john at the time.

  The tell-tale holes of a large caliber handgun in the door tied in perfectly with what Leeb had told him. To the right and down, he saw the scuff of a bootprint near the doorknob. His gaze drifted over to the doorjamb. The wood near the bolt receptacle was shattered. Browning ran his fingers over the splinters.

  This was a carefully planned operation. Just like the gang shooting.

  He stepped into the room and scanned it carefully. Small chalk marks showed where Battaglia’s body had been. That had been Officer Westboard’s doing. The quick-thinking patrolman did the same thing for the Russian lying in a heap in the corner, who’d been so obviously dead that the medics had left him in place.

  Browning noted the large holes in the bathroom door, corresponding with the shotgun Leeb had reported. Several pellets of double-aught buck had torn into the agent’s right shoulder and knocked him back into the bathtub. Browning could see the torn metal on the outside edge of the tub. Falling into the tub had probably saved him.

  The table against the wall had three chairs pulled up to it. Battaglia’s sunglasses sat on one side next to a pair of cards. Another pair were tucked neatly under a coffee cup in front of the chair opposite him. A small stack of dollar bills lay next to five upturned cards in the center. Browning wondered who had won the hand.

  It didn’t matter. They both lost tonight.

  “Detective?”

  Browning looked up. A female rookie he didn’t know stood in the doorway holding the sergeant’s cellular phone.

  “Yes?”

  The rookie extended the phone. Her hands were clean but her sleeve and cuff were soaked in blood. “It’s for you.”

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  The rookie gave him a hollow, apologetic shrug. “Sergeant Shen just told me to give it to you.”

  Browning strode to the door and took the phone. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, but tears glistened in her eyes. “Is Batts going to make it?” she asked him, her voice tremulous.

  She’d obviously missed the radio traffic that Officer Battaglia had died before he reached the hospital. “What’s your name, Officer?”

  “B.J.” she whispered. “Carson.”

  He pointed to her sleeve. “How’d that happen?”

  Carson looked down at the bloodied uniform sleeve. “I got here and he was shot. I tried to stop the bleeding, but…” She shook her head, then looked back up at Browning. “Is he okay?”

  Browning paused. She was pretty shaken up. He was going to need longer to break the news than he had right now with someone, probably Crawford, waiting on the phone. Plus he’d need to interview her for the case.

  “I need you to keep everyone outside of the inner perimeter,” he directed. “I’ll come talk to you in a few minutes, okay?”

  The rookie seemed grateful for the task. She nodded and hurried back to the edge of the crime scene tape.

  Browning put the phone to his ear. “Detective Browning.”

  “This is Lieutenant Crawford,” came the gruff voice from the other end of the line. “I’m on my way up.”

  Browning didn’t answer.

  “Browning? You there?”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant.”

  “I said I’m on my way up.”

  “I heard you.”

  “Well, goddammit, what do you have?”

  Browning took a breath before answering. “Lieutenant, I’ve been here five minutes. All I can tell you is that I have a dead Russian and a murdered cop.”

  “That’s it?”

  “And that this was well planned and executed.”

  Crawford cursed into the phone. “Do you need me up there?”

  “No. I’ve got crime scene coming up to start processing. I’ll send Finch and Elias up to the hospital to do a more thorough interview with the FBI agent who was wounded after they finish canvassing for witnesses here at the hotel. Unless you want to make a statement to the media…”

  “No,” Crawford said. “Not yet. I have a feeling the chief is going to want to handle this one.”

  “That decision is above my pay grade.”

  Crawford grunted. “I’ll head over to see Tower at the secondary scene. Call me if you need anything.”

  “Will do,” Browning said, and hung up.

  He glanced back to the scene, staring again at the bloody smear on the wall, which told him everything even though he didn’t want to see any of it. Then he turned away and went to talk to the shaken rookie.

  0031 hours

  As far as Detective John Tower was concerned, things had gone from horrible to not so bad to just about great and back again.

  When he received the call-out, along with the news that an officer had been killed, that was the horrible part. His stomach was tight as he threw on his jeans, T-shirt, gun, and badge as Stephanie slept soundly on the bed behind him. He remembered when Karl Winter had been shot. He’d still been in Sex Crimes when that happened, so he hadn’t taken part in the investigation. But the loss of a popular officer less than a year from retirement had been… well, it had been horrible.

  It stayed horrible for the entire drive to the Hillyard warehouse, where Crawford had sent him instead of the primary scene at the Quality Inn. It was probably a bit of a jab from the Crawfish, but the real
ity was that the lieutenant needed his most veteran investigator at the primary scene. That was Browning, no question. The fact that Crawford seemed to have it in for Tower probably didn’t have anything to do with his decision. Probably.

  Crawford still seemed to blame Tower for every failed investigation that ever happened in the Major Crimes Unit. Just last year he’d worked on the Rainy Day Rapist case. Thanks to Renee, he’d managed to solve that case, even though it seemed to be going nowhere for the longest time. But all Crawford remembered was that the suspect attacked Officer Katie MacLeod before Tower managed to figure out his identity.

  That was par for the course with him and Crawford. He wondered if it would ever change. He doubted it. Most likely it would just get worse.

  By the time Tower arrived on scene at the warehouse, Chisolm had set up a solid outer and inner perimeter. He walked Tower through the scene, pointing out anything he thought was important. Tower followed along, sipping burnt coffee in a Styrofoam cup from the 7-Eleven and admiring how calm Chisolm seemed to be.

  When the patrolman pointed out the dead suspect lying on the ground with a shotgun an arm’s length away, Tower smiled grimly. It didn’t get much easier than that to prove a case of justifiable homicide. And that was something better than horrible.

  The dead body still clutching a.44 Magnum inside the white Mercedes definitely sealed the deal. Things at this crime scene were most assuredly not so bad.

  Then FBI Agent Maurice Payne had shown up. That’s when things springboarded to just about great.

  First, the patrol officer on the outer perimeter had refused him entry. After he flashed his federal credentials and berated the poor rookie, Payne ducked under the tape and stalked toward the inner perimeter. Tower sipped his coffee and watched him approach. Even in the dull light from the streetlamps he could see that Payne’s face was red and his features contorted with anger. He started shouting before he even reached the crime scene tape strung up between the power pole and a patrol car.

  “What the hell happened?” he screamed.

  Tower thought he was yelling at him. The tickle of annoyance at seeing Payne burst into full-fledged anger. Before he could reply, though, he realized that Payne was looking at Chisolm.

  “Answer me!” Payne yelled. “What did you do to screw up a federal investigation?”

  Tower looked over at Chisolm, whose face was stoic.

  Uh-oh, Tower thought. This guy’s in trouble.

  “Stay out of the crime scene,” Chisolm growled at Payne. “This is a city police scene.”

  Payne was apoplectic. “A city scene? Officer, this is a federal case. And once I figure out what you did wrong here, I’ll have your badge. In fact, I’ll have you up on federal charges!”

  Chisolm snorted. “For what?”

  “You wait and see!” Payne shouted. He raised the crime scene tape.

  “If you come inside this scene,” Chisolm said quietly, “they will have to bury you here.”

  Payne stopped.

  Tower raised the Styrofoam cup to his lips to disguise a grin.

  Payne looked around for witnesses, but only Chisolm and Tower were within earshot. His expression grew frantic, then a sort of childish, helpless anger took over.

  “Fine!” he snapped at Chisolm. “But you can add threatening a federal agent to the list of whatever charges you’ll be facing!”

  “Go away, little boy,” Chisolm said.

  Payne looked back and forth between them. Then, much to Tower’s surprise and extreme delight, Payne actually stamped a foot on the ground before turning and marching away. He stared after the agent in disbelief.

  Chisolm shook his head. “He’ll never get it.”

  Tower looked at Chisolm with new admiration. “Tom, you more or less just told a federal agent to go fuck himself.”

  Chisolm grinned. “Second time this week, actually.”

  And that, Tower decided, was just about great.

  A moment later he saw Lieutenant Crawford’s unmarked car pull up, and that was the end of that.

  “Here comes horrible,” he muttered into his coffee cup.

  0112 hours

  Captain Michael Reott rode in silence. Chaplain Timothy Marshall sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. Once he’d received the initial briefing from Reott, he’d remained quiet and thoughtful. Every so often he flipped open his bible and marked a passage with a bookmark.

  As they turned onto Battaglia’s street, he asked Reott, “Her name’s Rebecca, you said?”

  Reott nodded.

  “And the two children are Margaret and Anthony?”

  “Right.”

  “Nicknames?”

  Reott cleared his throat. “Uh, I don’t know.” He realized how little he knew about Anthony Battaglia, though the officer had worked under his command since he’d taken over the patrol division five years ago. He felt ashamed, though he knew it was impossible to know the intimate details of the 150 men and women he commanded.

  Or is it?his inner voice asked. Reott ignored the question. Now was not the time to answer it.

  He pulled into the driveway, verified the address, and got out of the car. Chaplain Marshall did the same. As they went up the walkway, the chaplain asked, “Do you know what denomination the Battaglias are?”

  Reott shook his head. For all he knew, Anthony Battaglia was a Buddhist.

  “No problem,” Chaplain Marshall said.

  Reott reached the door. He wasn’t surprised to find the porch light on. Rebecca Battaglia was a graveyard cop’s wife. You always keep the light on until he comes home, the tradition went.

  Reott ignored the metal knocker and rapped with his knuckles. There was no answer. He opted for the doorbell. A light upstairs went on after a moment, then a trail of lights throughout the house headed toward them.

  Rebecca Battaglia opened the front door wearing a wine-colored satin nightgown. A white terrycloth robe hung untied in front of her. Her hair was disheveled and a line from a pillow seam ran down her left cheek. Reott spied a crucifix dangling low on her chest before she closed the robe about her, her expression questioning. At least that would help the chaplain do his part, if it meant that she was religious.

  “Mrs. Battaglia?” he asked. “May we please come in?”

  Then he saw the question leave Rebecca Battaglia’s eyes.

  “No,” she whispered. “Oh, please God, no.”

  After that, Reott didn’t speak another word. He let the chaplain handle the rest.

  0314 hours

  Valeriy Romanov sat in the living room of Sergey’s home. Marina’s weeping had tapered off in the last ten minutes, though there was still an occasional hitching sob. She lay with her head in his lap, her arms wrapped around his waist.

  Across from him, Pavel sat in his father’s chair, his face white and unbelieving.

  “I will kill all of them,” he whispered for the tenth time. “Every fucking cop in this city.”

  Val would have expected Marina to correct the boy’s language and sentiment, but she was too wrapped up in her own grief. So he took it upon himself, though he didn’t imagine his sister would approve of his answer.

  “All in time,” he told Pavel. “Better to kill a thousand one day at a time than try to kill a thousand in a single day.”

  His nephew glared at him rebelliously. Val returned a hard, flat stare of his own. After a few moments, the younger man squirmed and looked away.

  Val knew it would not always be so. He would have to win the boy’s loyalty or break down his resistance. If he couldn’t do either one, then that left only one other option.

  As if on cue, Marina let out a low wail. The sound of her voice vibrated against his legs and stomach.

  “What will we do?” she asked. “Where will we go?”

  Val stroked her hair. “Everything will be fine,” he said. “We will go nowhere. I will take care of you.”

  “How?” Pavel asked.

  “I am your family,”
Val said. “I will take care of my sister and you.”

  Pavel shook his head. “No, I mean how will you do it? After tonight, the police-”

  “The police will lower the hammer,” Val agreed. “They will do what they think is harsh to destroy us. But we will not be destroyed. We will remain when they are finished. Smaller, but stronger.”

  “But my father had plans for this city,” Pavel said. “He told me about them. About controlling all of River City, and then even Portland or Seattle. Perhaps in a few years, we would move inland, to Idaho and Montana. He spoke of an empire-”

  “Your father’s plans were ambitious,” Val said quietly. “But his plans must die with him.”

  Pavel’s eyes flared. He pressed his lips together but said nothing.

  “We will survive with what we have here,” Val said. “There is plenty to make us comfortable, if not rich.”

  “It is a beggar’s empire,” Pavel said, his voice hard but shaky.

  “Wealth is best measured by love,” Val said, quoting an old proverb, “not gold.”

  Pavel did not reply. He swallowed and looked down at his hands.

  Marina squeezed Val tightly at the waist. “You are such a good man, my Valera.”

  Her words touched him in a way no other person could. Now that she was widowed, Marina was his. It would only be a short matter of time before he would move into this house with her and Pavel. She would be his woman, his companion. He would take care of her, love her, cherish her, and she would do the same for him. He would keep Natalia or some other suka on the side for certain needs, but in all other ways he would be loyal to his sister. His Marina.

  Val smiled.

  TWELVE

  1123 hours

  Renee sat in her office, reading through the first reports on the Battaglia homicide. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a Seattle Mariners T-shirt with the number eleven and her favorite ballplayer’s name on the back. Behind her, the coffeemaker gurgled and hissed.