by Chris Culver
Before they could stop me, I opened my door and left. After talking to those two, I felt like I needed a shower, but they were right: someone would hang for this. This was going to turn ugly. As I walked toward my house, I called Randy Prather, my attorney, and he warned me not to talk to anyone else about the shooting. We made an appointment to talk the next day.
After that, I went back inside, put on a suit and tie, and clipped my badge to my belt. Forensic technicians had taken over most of the house, so I joined Hannah on the front steps. The sun wouldn’t rise for a few more hours, but already dark gray had begun to replace black on the horizon. Despite the time, the young couple across the street had put lawn chairs on their front lawn to watch the police work. They had even brought snacks, as if this was some kind of macabre late dinner theater. I waved to them, but really I wanted to cross the street and slap them senseless, to demand to know what had gone so wrong in their lives that they’d get entertainment value out of a young man’s death.
My eyes slipped closed without conscious direction, and I found myself praying. Eventually, someone coughed in front of me.
“Ash. Mrs. Rashid.”
I recognized the voice even without looking at him.
“Hi, officer,” said Hannah, hesitatingly.
“What do you need, Paul?”
He paused and then sighed. “There somewhere we can talk? I’ve got something I need to show you. Mrs. Rashid can stay here.”
I opened my eyes and looked at my wife. She nodded her assent, so I stood up and pointed to the garage. “Unless they’ve taken it over, we can go there.”
Paul followed me to the garage and then whistled when he got inside. “This is a nice place. You can get a lot of projects done here, I bet.”
“It’s just my garage,” I said, sighing. “You heard what happened?”
“Bits and pieces. You really shot an unarmed man?”
I took a couple of minutes and told him my side of things as well as the discussion with the two IA detectives. Paul ran a hand across his face when I finished and then reached into his jacket for a pack of cigarettes. Before lighting up, he held the package out to me.
“You mind?”
Instead of answering, I crossed the room to the recycling bin beside the door and pulled out a Coke can he could use as an ashtray. I put it on the workbench behind him. “Be my guest.”
Paul lit up and took a long drag. We both watched the smoke mingle with the rafters above our heads before speaking.
“First thing,” said Paul. “Thank your wife for the coffee she made us. It was…interesting.”
A lot of people said that about Hannah’s coffee.
“The first time I had it,” I said, “I thought she was trying to kill me.”
Paul looked thoughtful. “I can see why you’d think that.” He looked down at the floor. “Sounds like those IA detectives were trying to give you a way out of this.”
“By lying.”
“A white lie, maybe,” said Paul, nodding. “It wouldn’t hurt anyone. The kid did come with a gun. Who’s to say he wouldn’t have tried to kill you if you gave him the chance?”
“But he didn’t,” I said. “And that’s the last I’ll hear about it.”
“It is going to get ugly, though. You realize that?”
Indiana criminal law gave me a free pass for shooting Dante, but that wouldn’t keep the media away. Beside, even with the law on my side, I had done something morally wrong. I didn’t plan to lie and defame the very kid I shot to death just to make myself look better.
“I’m not changing my story,” I said. “Is that why you wanted to see me?”
“No,” said Paul, shaking his head. “I got a call earlier this evening from Anton Boswell in Vice. He knew Dante from church.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding impatiently.
“He wanted to know if we had an open rape investigation on Michelle.”
I felt my shoulders drop a little. “Do we?”
Paul shook his head. “No. Dante had called Boswell and asked him about it. Dante claimed that a credible source told him you raped his sister, and we were covering for you. Might be why he came over here.”
It felt as if someone had punched me in the gut. “I’d never hurt Michelle. Dante knew that.”
Paul hesitated and then laid his phone on my workbench. “We found a voice mail on Dante’s phone you should hear. We think he might have been trying to play it when you shot him.”
I swallowed hard and crossed my arms. “Roll it.”
He hit a button, and a woman started speaking. I recognized Michelle Washington’s voice, but the cadence of her speech and the pitch of her voice were off, making what she said sound stiff and forced, almost as if she were reading something.
“Dante, it’s Michelle. I’m calling because I’m a little freaked out right now. He asked me not to tell anyone, but Ash and I have been sleeping together for a few weeks now. I couldn’t do it anymore, so I broke it off. For some reason, he thinks I ended it so I could see other guys. I’ve never seen him this mad. He scared me. He wants me to meet so we can talk, and I don’t know what to do. He knows where I live, so I can’t just ignore him. I’m going to meet him by that Boy Scout camp off Fall Creek Road. I hate to ask you this, but if I’m not back by six or seven, could you swing by there for me? I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m really scared.”
She may have said something else, but Paul stopped the recording and looked at me, as if expecting me to say something. Unfortunately, I didn’t know what to say. A relationship with an AA sponsor requires a lot of trust and even a little intimacy, so most people choose a sponsor of their own sex. I chose Michelle, however, because we grew up in similar neighborhoods and because I knew and respected her. That meant we had to have certain ground rules at the very start to remove any whiff of impropriety.
“Michelle and I never met in private. The guy who leads our group can verify that.”
Paul kept his face impassive. “And there was nothing romantic going on between you?”
I shook my head. “No. I’m happily married. I haven’t even been in town for the past couple of days. This is why he came here? He wanted me to hear this?”
Paul shook his head. “He wouldn’t have brought a gun if he only wanted you to hear something. Dante was there when we did the next-of-kin notification, and he was pretty upset. I think he came home, heard the call, and snapped. I think he came to kill you, but he wanted you to know why first.”
I didn’t know Dante well, but Michelle’s temper could run hot. Her brother’s probably did, too, but that didn’t explain everything.
“This doesn’t mention anything about a rape.”
Paul put his phone back in his pocket and cocked his head to the side. “That, I can’t answer. His neighbors told us he met someone on his porch before this went down. My guess is that somebody met him, told him you raped Michelle, and then sent the audio file to back up the story. With all the stress, Dante broke.”
“Somebody hurt Michelle badly before she died,” I said. “They made her say those things.”
“Possibly,” said Paul, nodding. “But gangbangers don’t do things like this.”
“You can’t believe I hurt Michelle,” I said.
Paul put his phone back in his pocket and then sighed. “I don’t, but is there anything you’re not telling me?”
I turned around and put my hands on top of my head. “I had a couple of drinks tonight.”
Paul paused. “I thought you were in AA.”
“I am, or at least I was,” I said, turning to face him. “My sponsor was shot. I slipped.”
“Okay,” he said, looking thoughtful. “How many is a couple and what time did you stop?”
“Five drinks total, and I stopped at midnight,” I said. I paused and then sighed. “But the bartender has a generous pour. It’s one of the reasons I used to go to his bar. It was probably closer to seven drinks.”
Paul put his n
otepad on my workbench and leaned back. He closed his eyes and then sighed. “That’s not good.”
I didn’t have anything to say to that.
“You shot Dante at two, and paramedics drew your blood at a quarter after,” said Paul, crossing his arms. “I don’t know what your BAC will be, but you’re going to have alcohol in your system. Please tell me you’ve never gotten into a fight with Dante.”
“Never,” I said, shaking my head. “He was a good man. We weren’t friends, but I liked him.”
“That’s something, at least,” said Paul. “Any idea why someone would convince Dante to kill you?”
People have tried to kill me before, and for good or ill, I’ve put every single one of them in prison or in the ground. I started pacing in front of the garage door.
“I don’t think this is about me. I’m an armed police officer with a history that says I will shoot accurately without hesitation. Someone gave Dante that message so he’d come over here and die. This was death-by-cop.”
Paul narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. “How well do you really know Dante and Michelle?”
I shrugged. “I know Michelle well, but Dante I’ve spoken to maybe five times over the last decade.”
Paul took a notepad from the inside pocket of his jacket and scribbled a note. “And you have no connection to Dante other than his sister and the Santino Ramirez trial?”
“None,” I said, shaking my head.
“All right, then,” said Paul, closing his notepad. “IA’s going to look into the shooting. People are going to ask questions about your drinking, so be prepared for that. If the story you’re telling holds up, they’ll clear you. We’re going to find out who left Dante the message and see what’s going on. Meantime, you need to stay away from this case for your own good. I’m going to put you in cuffs and take you downtown. It needs to look like we’re taking you in for questioning.”
I put my hands on my hips and opened my eyes wide. “May I ask why you want to put me in cuffs?”
“Because those IA detectives are going to hurt you for not cooperating with them. That audio file’s going to leak and so is the report about your drinking. When the press reports that, the public is going to call for all of our heads. We’ve got to control this thing while we can still shape the narrative.”
“Shape the narrative,” I said, repeating him. “When did you become a politician?”
“When a friend of mine shot somebody in his front hallway. That wasn’t a request.”
Part of me wanted to fight him, but his request made sense. We didn’t need the press saying my friends were covering up a murder.
“We can do one better than just taking me downtown. That audio file’s going to leak no matter what. Give it to Ken Schiller at the Star first. He shoots pretty straight. I don’t think he’d try to screw us.”
Paul considered for a moment, but then nodded. “If you can make that happen, it might not be a bad idea.”
“I think I can,” I said. “I’ll need my cell phone, though. Somebody took it earlier.”
Paul’s demeanor perked up just a little, and then he reached into his pocket and pulled out my phone. He tried to keep a straight face, but a smile still crept to his lips. “I meant to give this back to you earlier. Before I do, though, I’ve got a very serious question. Are you addicted to Islamic pornography? If you are, there are people who can help. The first step is admitting your addiction, though.”
“What are you talking about?”
He put a hand on my shoulder and looked straight in my eyes. “I saw the pictures. The women in burqas. It’s okay, buddy. We’ve all been there. I’m not judging.”
I took the phone from his outstretched hand. The picture of a young, very attractive woman smiled at me from the screen. Had I not just shot someone, I might have laughed.
“That’s a hijab, not a burqa,” I said, glancing up at Paul. “A burqa covers the whole body.”
“I see,” said Paul, nodding. “Since she’s not covered as much, would this be considered hardcore Muslim pornography?”
“The woman is a model. I wanted to buy Hannah a new hijab for Susan Mercer’s New Year’s Eve party, so my sister sent me pictures of hijabs she thought looked nice. I’m sure pornography from the Middle East looks like pornography from anywhere else. You’d recognize it if you saw it.”
Paul stood a little straighter. “I didn’t get invited to Susan Mercer’s party.”
“Probably because she doesn’t like you,” I said. “Can we focus on work?”
“If you’re going to be a spoilsport, sure.”
“Thank you,” I said, already looking through the recently received calls list on my cell phone. I found Ken’s number and called him. He answered almost before my phone finished ringing once, and I put him on speakerphone.
“Ken, it’s Ash Rashid with IMPD,” I said, turning and glancing up at Paul. “I’m here with Detective Sergeant Paul Murphy. I’ve got something for you if you can get it on your website quickly. You interested?”
Ken had the gravelly voice of a man who had spent his life smoking. “That depends on what you’ve got.”
“Michelle Washington’s brother Dante came to my house this morning. I had to shoot him.”
“I know. I’m standing behind the police barricade about a block away from your front door.”
In my stupor, I hadn’t realized the press had already arrived.
“Dante received an audio file last night allegedly recorded by Michelle in which she claimed the two of us had a romantic relationship and that I had set up a meeting with her out on Fall Creek Road.”
“Okay,” he said, sounding uncertain.
“I never had that kind of relationship with her and wasn’t even in town when she died.”
I heard Ken’s feet shuffle and a car door open and close before he spoke again. “You’ve never given me a story before, so why are you chatty now?”
I shifted my phone from one ear to the other. “Because someone’s going to leak it, and other reporters are selective about the facts. I’d rather get everything out there. If you can’t do this, I’ll call somebody who can.”
I waited for maybe five seconds. “If I run this, I need somebody on record to verify it.”
I looked at Paul. He sighed before speaking.
“Use my name. Detective Sergeant Paul Murphy. You can figure out the spelling on your own. I work homicide.”
“All right,” said Ken, after a moment’s pause. “So you’re telling me Dante Washington received an audio file. Do you have any idea who sent it?”
“We’re still working that end of the investigation,” I said. “If we get anything, you’ll be the first to know.”
Ken paused, probably to write things down. “What’s your theory on this?”
I considered lying to him, but Ken would figure things out as soon as he looked our victims up. “Dante and Michelle testified in a murder trial ten years ago. This might be related to their testimony.”
Ken paused again, long enough this time that I started wondering what was thinking. “Did you say Michelle and Dante Washington?”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding.
“This is the same Michelle and Dante Washington who testified against Santino Ramirez ten years ago?”
I grimaced. “That’s them. You recognize them?”
“Yeah, I covered Ramirez’s trial. Just to clarify, but when you say these murders might be related to their testimony, do you mean Ramirez’s gang may be murdering them in retribution?”
“At this time, we only have facts,” I said. “Someone murdered and tortured Michelle. We found her body last night. Also last night, her brother received an audio file in which Michelle claimed to have set up a meeting with me. Dante came to my house and kicked down my door. Believing my life was in danger, I shot him.”
I was giving him a big story with an uncertain outcome, and I think Ken sensed that. He sounded almost giddy. “Can I get this audio file?�
��
I glanced at Paul for confirmation. He nodded. “Sergeant Murphy will email it to you.”
Paul went to work on his phone. Within a minute, Ken confirmed receipt.
“I’ll get this up as soon as I can,” said Ken. “Just FYI, but I just received word that Leonard Wilson wants to speak to the press here.”
Leonard was the elected prosecutor. It’s rare I meet someone I hold in more contempt.
“He’s at my house?” I asked, looking at the floor.
“Well, on your street. He’s gathering reporters around him.”
Beautiful. Just beautiful.
“Thanks for the heads-up. Get your photographer ready because I’m going to be coming out of my garage in a few minutes, and I’m going to be in handcuffs.”
I didn’t wait for Ken to say anything before hanging up my phone and slipping it into my pocket. Paul had already begun removing the handcuffs from his belt. I held out my wrists in front of me. If I were an actual arrestee, he would have put them behind my back, but I wanted them free to make some calls.
“Before we go,” I said, wiggling my wrists to get used to the cuffs, “I need to see what Leonard has to say before he stabs us in the back.”
Chapter 8
Outside my garage, uniformed officers had erected a perimeter around my yard with yellow crime scene tape. Beyond that, four television cameramen filmed everything that went on, including my perp walk. Ken Schiller nodded when I saw him. He wore a blue-and-gray sweater so hideous he must have lost a bet, and he held a cigarette between lips not much thicker than pencil lines. He jotted notes on a legal pad. Leonard Wilson stood near the cameramen. He wore a navy suit and a politician’s thinly veiled insincere smile.
I may break some rules at work, but I’m not crooked. Even at my most recent disciplinary hearing, the review board never questioned my motives. I didn’t question theirs, either. We may disagree about the best way to keep our city safe, but we all want the same thing. Leonard Wilson, though…I do question his motives. From all I’ve seen, he’s a genuinely bad man and he has significant power to enact his will. Unfortunately, he also recognizes me as a threat.
