by Layne, Lyssa
The priest continued, “Lord we pray...”
Brad stared straight ahead. How many Bud Lights had he and Marty shared, betting on who’d win the football season. Marty going with the 49ers all the way, while Brad rooted for the Rams. And now Marty wouldn’t even see the first preseason game. Brad swallowed a lump the same size as one of the clods of dirt by his feet, wishing things were different.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, we commend the body and soul of a dearly departed husband, father, son, brother, and friend, Marty Rodriquez.” The priest added his final words, “Go with God.” He crossed himself and beckoned the family forward.
The twenty-one gun salute rendered Brad immobile.
The children’s bodies flinched with each explosive shot. The echo of the charges punching home they would never see their daddy again.
And there wasn’t a damn thing in the world he could do to change that fact. Before the third volley they turned their head and dug into his legs—he squatted down and hugged them close.
Then almost as if to emphasize the intensity of the moment, morbid fingers of fog drifted in to create, a misty, surreal, backdrop. The haze slithered through the old cypress trees giving an eerie presence that hovered over the silent slabs of stone marking each grave. The fog muted the mournful sound of Taps as the coffin was slowly lowered into the cold, damp ground.
Brad stood rigid waiting for the wavy tendrils of fog to grab his leg and draw him into the grave where he belonged, not Marty.
Rosie trembled, eyes red and puffy, as she dropped a handful of earth onto the lowered coffin. Brad and the kids followed suit, as well as each member of the Rodriguez family. All followed in line, eyes downcast, dropping a shower of moist dirt, before heading toward the limousine parked at the curb.
As they approached the car, the media rushed them.
“Detective Maxwell why did you shoot detective Rodriguez?” said one reporter.
Another shoved a mic in Rosie’s face. “Mrs. Rodriquez is it true that Lieutenant Maxwell shot your husband so you can be together?”
Rosie eyes widened. She looked to Brad, covered her face and raced to the car, her parents hovering around her.
The reporter who had been stalking Brad since the shooting thrust a microphone in his face.
“What now detective Maxwell? When are you going to give yourself up?”
Brad didn’t miss the glint of evil in Mike Cochran’s eyes, as if he were seeking vengeance against Brad for some unknown grudge.
Danny jerked out of Brad’s hand and pushed his way into the throngs of the media. “Leave my mom alone.”
Brad rushed to Danny’s side but the boy kept yelling.
“How dare you accuse anyone of anything without all the facts. This is America. A person is innocent until proven guilty, not the other way around.”
Brad put himself between the kids and the media, shielding them as he skirted the crowd to get them to the safety of the car.
The silent ride back to Marty’s place took Brad to a dark place. Back to the night of the shooting. How many times had he replayed the scene over in his head? The darkened warehouse where a drug bust was supposedly going down, Marty and Dean, he and Joe, spread out, waiting for back-up before going in. Where had their back-up been? They’d heard noises and gone in anyways. The words reverberated in his head: Shots fired. Officer down.
He felt a tug on his sleeve.
“Uncle Brad, we’re home.” Kelly said, leaning against his arm. “Are you coming in?”
“Of course.” He wiped the perspiration from his brow then helped the kids out of the car and led them inside, along with the others. The sadness in Rosie’s eyes when she leaned around Brad, as if she expected Marty to follow him, and that he’d never come in that door again made him sick to his stomach.
Rosie ran from the kitchen in tears, her mother rushing after her.
Danny and Kelly tucked themselves into Brad’s side. He hunkered down, hugging them. “Mom’s having a rough day guys, we have to help her, okay?”
“Sure Uncle Brad, you know we will. Grandma said I need to be a big boy now.” Danny said, already a little man in the making.
Marty would be smiling down on them, so proud of his son.
Vince, George, Dean, and Joe arrived, offering their condolences to Rosie and Marty’s folks.
The men stood milling around, speaking softly. Up to that point things were as normal as a funeral could be.
The sudden scowl on Vince’s face as he headed toward him made Brad suck in his breath.
“I need to talk to you. Privately.” Vince said when he joined Brad and the kids. The emphasis on “privately” couldn’t be ignored.
What else could go wrong? Limo driver needs to be paid, kid’s college fund, what could he want?
“Danny, Kelly, why don’t you guys get something to eat. We can’t have you getting sick on your mom.” The kids did his bidding without an argument.
As soon as they left, Vince turned to him, his lips tight. “Look Brad, sorry to have to do this to you, here, but I need to see you first thing tomorrow morning in my office.”
Brad’s stomach dropped to his knees. “You already have my badge and service revolver, what more do you want?”
“Not here.” Vince stiffened, back ramrod straight, looking away as Rosie walked by with her mom.
Brad attempted a smile that felt all wrong. He swallowed hard. “Yes, here. What’s going on?”
The watch commander joined them. George Van Norton said, “This isn’t the time or place for this. Do what Vince asks—the rest will be explained tomorrow. Come on now. Take it like the man.”
Dazed by the directive, a sea of blue uniforms staring, heard the murmured questions and realized with numb awareness that much of the brief exchange had been overheard by his peers. Did they know something he didn’t? Several turned away. He had his answer—he was the last to know.
“Fine,” Brad barked, his voice didn’t sound like his own.
Van Norton clapped him on the back. “Maybe you should leave now, Brad.”
Brad jerked away, the superior officer’s words cut through him like a chainsaw. “What? Marty was my best friend! I’ll be damned if I’ll leave Rosie at a time like this.”
Van Norton and the captain exchanged looks of displeasure.
Joe joined him, his dependable back-ups, as usual. “Captain, Commander, is there a problem?” Joe nudged Brad aside just like a partner should.
Just like in the field, Brad felt more confident when his partner was next to him.
“No,” Van Norton said gruffly, “but you can make sure your partner is in my office, 8a.m. sharp tomorrow. You and Dean need to be there too.” Then he abruptly turned and walked away. The captain followed on Van Norton’s tail. They excused themselves, and shaking Rosie’s hand, left Marty’s home.
“What the hell was that about?” Joe asked, his tone bordered on indignant. “Dean and I got here just after they did.” Joe nodded towards their superior officers. As we approached we overhead them saying something about a suspension. I thought I heard wrong.” Joe shook his head. “What the fuck?”
“No shit. Looks like I’m being suspended. Maybe you guys too?”
They huddled around him. “Don’t worry buddy, we’re behind you.”
He appreciated Joe’s defense, but Brad knew better. Fifteen years on the force should have counted for something.
The irony of this whole mess was that when bull shit talks, truth walks. That was the saying, and Brad sensed he was about to walk into something a whole lot worse.
At eight the next morning Brad knocked on Vince Roberts’s door. When Vince motioned through the window for him to enter, his stomach dropped to his feet when he saw Ken Billings from Internal Affairs, but also, Jim Walker, his union rep in attendance.
Vince stood and cleared his throat, “Detective Maxwell, after a basic investigation we find that only your service revolver was fired. Joe and Dean both said th
ey only heard one shot. As such, you are on suspension until further notice.”
“Suspension? As is desk duty?” Brad asked, his voice catching in his throat. Even the idea of riding a desk until he was cleared sickened him.
“No!” Ken stepped forward entering Brad’s personal space. “You are to stay away from this office, away from the scene of the shooting, and anywhere an investigation surrounding the events of August 1, 2016 took place.” The IA brass glared at him as if daring him to argue.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Brad bumped his chest against the IA brass, but Jim pulled him back. “I told you and everyone concurred, that the shooter was hiding in the back corner. That’s where the shot came from.”
Ken let out a snort. “Without the bullet as proof you have squat.”
Brad pulled out of Jim’s grasp, this time Joe yanked him back.
Jim took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, glaring at the IA brass. “Considering your team still hasn’t found the bullet that killed Marty nor the one Brad fired aren’t you being a bit premature? Perhaps you should insist the team work overtime until both bullets are found and ballistics matches them. Without them we have jack shit. “Jim pulled away, straighten to his full height of six feet four inches. “Or is that your intention...to hang Brad simply for the sake of public outcry?”
Thank God his rep was proving valuable.
Ken muscled forward and stood in front of Brad. “At this time you are officially on unpaid leave. If we can’t find proof of your innocence, you will be charged in the death of Marty Rodriguez. Your union rep will fill you in on your rights and from here on in will be the one to update you.”
“Are we done?” Brad barked, wanting to hit something. Anything. Someone.
After his Captain nodded, Brad flung open the office door only to run into Rosie, Danny, and Kelly. Behind them was the bullpen full of officers standing around gawking.
Rosie stopped in front of him and flung a folded paper at him. “Care to explain?”
Brad caught the paper. He looked down. His vision swam. The headline read, “OFFICER RESPONSIBLE IN LOCAL COP KILLING.”
“Rosie, you can’t believe this shit. I didn’t shoot Marty! I didn’t fire anywhere near him—trust me on this.”
“Why newspapers are pointing the finger at you?”
Brad glanced down at the headlines then at the IA liaison. “Son-of-a-bitch.”
When he looked back, Rosie was walking away. And while she didn’t look back, Danny and Kelly did. Danny calling out, “I know you'd never shoot Daddy, I don't believe it. Promise me you'll get the bad guys. Promise, Uncle Brad. Promise—” Danny begged.
Brad squatted in front of Danny. “If it’s takes every breath I have in me, I’ll damn well find who took your daddy from you.
Danny flung his arms around Brad’s neck. “I know you will.”
Brad looked around the room, saw the accusations. Innocent until proven guilty, Brad wanted to remind everyone as Rosie walked away. This is America, damn it. Those words echoed through his mind.
An hour later after a stop at the liquor store for a fifth of Jameson he drove back to the cemetery.
He stared at the mound of freshly packed dirt and flowers. An overwhelming pain stabbed him in the heart, intense emotions choked him with a vengeance, and he cared little of how he looked to anyone watching.
Brad twisted the top off and took a healthy slug.
Life would never be the same.
Not now. How could it after this?
He didn’t need to have Vince or Internal Affairs to spell it out for him. He knew exactly what it meant.
It was the end of his career. He was about to be accused of killing his best friend in the world.
CHAPTER TWO
Christine Jansen stood in front of the new Maddie Maids storefront letting her photographer’s eye view the scene from every angle.
This opening had been a long time coming. She’d been present two months ago, in June, when Maddie signed the leasing contract for the building. She and Maddie had been to a number of sites searching for a location for over six months before that, chronicling every step of the way for the story.
The building was now fully renovated, the new façade complete, and neon sign proclaiming Maddie Maids open for business, flashed in red, white, and blue. She took several shots then went in and brought Maddie out to take her photograph in front of the building.
While Maddie stood beaming in front of her business, her employees and a few nearby shop owners cheered and clapped, congratulating Maddie on her accomplishment.
What a wild ride.
Who would have thought so much was involved in doing the photo layout for Maddie while learning about her rags-to-riches story. It gave her hope. Hope that she too would someday find her own happy ending, whatever it was.
After leaving Maddie to celebrate her success, Christine headed to her office. She had two rolls of film to develop and go over and some last minute items she wanted to check on before she could relax and enjoy the high surrounding her own gallery debut. She still hadn’t figured out what to wear and the gala was in three days and she did so want to look her best.
This debut was her big break. If all went well, the money she’d earn for the hospice would put them over the top of the mark, enough to complete the renovations to the children’s ward. The money was for the kids. The notoriety, that was all for her. Only then would she call herself an established photographer. Her goal was in sight. She could feel it—almost within grasp.
Christine’s stomach was aflutter with bats playing a rousing game of tag using her insides for base. Happiness invaded her soul, gloriously so, yet there a niggling of fear that kept pushing its way to the surface, fear that her decision for the layout of the show might not be interpreted as she wished. No, she wouldn’t fall bait to her own fears. She’d done a good job and refused to allow her insecurities to overshadow what she knew in her heart was her best work. Her photos said what words could not about the disease. She’d let the pictures do her the talking for her.
Her anxiety resolved as she entered her office through the rear entrance. After she unlocked her office door she leaned out to tell her assistant she’d arrived, only to find Angela on her knees crying, the lobby office was in shambles.
Christine’s first thought was Mrs. Cameron’s prediction had come true. She was the second person to be attacked because of the subject matter of her show.
Upon a second look, it appeared as if whoever was responsible removed everything from the file cabinets and tossed it in the air. If she didn’t know better she’d swear it was kids, who had come pretty damn close to demolishing her office, but why? Over her photos? Unlikely, more like mischievousness. Just kids, she was sure of it. Luckily for her the negatives were locked up in her office and her office remained untouched.
Angela stopped what she was doing and sniffled, her face blotchy with tears streaming down her cheeks. “I—I’m sorry.” She sobbed. “I must have left the office unlocked. I came in an hour ago and found the door ajar, and the place was a mess,” Angela muttered, her arms spread, surveying the damage.
Christine went to the front door to check the exterior lock of the door. She called Angela over. “You were probably so upset about seeing the door opened that you didn’t see the lock was broken and it looks like someone used a tire iron to jimmy the door.”
Angela was so relieved she wasn’t responsible for the damages she only cried harder. Christine had to help her into a chair and get her some water. “Does it look like anything is missing?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral.
“No, just this mess.” Angela sniffed, grabbing a tissue from the box on the coffee table. She blew her nose.
“Damn kids.”
“Oh no, I just realized this is a crime scene, maybe we should leave and call the police.” Angela’s body trembled uncontrollably.
Christine chuckled. “Angela, I love you, but you have to stop watc
hing all those CSI shows. It was just a bunch of teenagers bored and looking for trouble. As long as nothing is missing we’ll just clean up and get back to work as usual.”
“But what if it wasn’t? Remember what Mrs. Cameron said when the same thing happened at her office?”
Christine shook her head. “And nothing was missing then either.”
“But she’s convinced it has to do with your show. What if this really is a hate crime?”
“I’m sure she was just in a panic since she’s counting on the revenue from the show to finish off the children’s ward before Christmas.”
“Still, I think you need to call the police then call Mrs. Cameron and tell her what happened, if nothing else so there’s a record of it.”
“I’ll think about it.” But she had no intention of doing any such thing. There were bigger crimes in the city that the police needed to focus on than a little mischief and mayhem from some criminals in training. Maybe she’d add security camera’s if her show was a success, for good measure.
Just as they put the last file away from the stack nearest her, Jared Williams, Christine’s best friend entered the office with three cups of coffee. He always included Angela.
She chuckled aloud at Jared’s wide-eyed expression.
“Redecorating? I’ve heard of shabby chic, but sloppy messy is so not on the menu.”
“Smart ass,” Angela tossed his way. “The least you could do is to help us clean up.”
He frowned. “Is everything okay?”
The second Jared handed Angela her coffee she broke down, sobbing and flung herself into his arms.
The visual made Christine laugh out loud. She looked around for her camera.
Angela buried against Jared’s chest. Jared arms out carefully hanging onto two hot cups of coffee completely unable to do a thing about it.
Yes, it was amusing, but only to her.
Jared gave her a death glare for daring to snicker at his inability to move.
“So what happened? Disgruntled customer or abused employee?”
He glanced down at Angela, but the horror on her face said his joke missed by a mile.
