Kind of Blue

by Miles Corwin

  “I just got back from coffee with Grigsby,” I said. “He tried to convert me again.”

  Ortiz laughed. “Bible Bob’s gone after me a few times, too. I think he gets bonus points for converting a Mexican Catholic to a born-again Christian. But you’re the big prize. He gets a double bonus for bagging a Jew. Now if we had a Muslim detective, Grigsby would drop you in a hot minute. That would be his ultimate prize.”

  Ortiz hung up his suit coat and dropped his briefcase at his desk. “So Duffy talked you into coming back.”

  “Something like that.”

  “He’s one persuasive motherfucker. He could have been a hell of a detective. But as long as I’ve known him, he’s been a lieutenant. Didn’t you work with him when he was still a detective?”

  “Yeah. At Pacific. I was a uniform at the time, but I’d help out on some of his cases. He was devious as hell, just like now.”

  “I know he wasn’t a detective long.”

  “Only a few years. He knew that wasn’t his future. He was sharp, but he was drinking too much, staying out late, chasing women, dragging into the squad room every morning with the Irish flu. So he got sloppy.”

  “If you’re sloppy as a lieutenant, you misfile a report,” Ortiz said. “If you’re sloppy on the streets, you can get someone killed.”

  When Ortiz saw me tense, he gripped my forearm. “I’m not talking about your situation. You know that.”

  I nodded.

  “I think that’s why Duffy never made captain,” Ortiz said.

  “I agree.”

  “But he’s more capable than most of those pencil pushers with stars on their collars.”

  “He’s damn smart, but when he goes on one of his binges—stand by,” I said. “Don’t think the brass hasn’t noticed that. But they know he delivers. And as long as his detectives are clearing cases, they’re not going to move him out.”

  “Hey, for your first day back, let me take you to lunch.”

  “Don’t have time. Since I came back in a rush, I’ve got to take care of all the LAPD bureaucratic bullshit. Let’s do it another day this week.”

  “All right, brother. I heard you’re flying solo on this case. If you need some backup, I’m there.”

  For the next hour, I worked on the murder book and dashed off the required letter to the chief, listing a few cursory reasons why I had decided to return. I visited the city doctor for a quick physical, and in the mid-afternoon I met with a dour LAPD background investigator from personnel division who asked me a number of bizarre questions, including: “During your eleven months away from the LAPD, did you ever have sex with animals?”

  “Only when I was drunk,” I said, staring at him poker-faced.

  The man looked through me, checked the “No” box and asked, “During your eleven months away from the LAPD, did you ever have sex in public?” I shook my head, but recalling that barren stretch of self-imposed exile since Robin left, I wanted to say that I wished that I had the opportunity.

  Shortly before four, I returned to PAB to meet with Commander Wally Wegland. In the anteroom adjacent to his office, Wegland’s adjutant, Conrad Patowski, extended both his hands, wrapped them around my right hand and shook it. “It’s been too long, Ash,” he said. “Too long.”

  We were classmates at the academy and had crossed paths over the years, although I usually tried to avoid him. I didn’t like adjutants. Most were sycophantic strivers, desperate to ride in the slipstreams of their powerful bosses. In the army we called them jobniks. And I found Patowski particularly smarmy. Although he was my age, his face was pale and unlined and there was a boyish, unformed quality to him, as if he had managed, somehow, to avoid life experience. His shoes were buffed to a gleam, his shirt was heavily starched, and his pants had razor-sharp creases. His outfit looked more like a military uniform than a business suit.

  “We only work a few floors from each other,” Patowski said. “Let’s get lunch one of these days.”

  “Sure, Conrad,” I said without enthusiasm.

  “I meant to call you, during this past year, Ash,” Patowski said in a hushed tone, rubbing his palms together. “So glad you managed to work it all out and come back. I’ve always admired you, and the remarkable way you clear your cases. We can’t afford to lose good people like you. And I want you to know that my heart really went out to you. I know it was a difficult time.”

  Patowski nodded sympathetically and then picked up the phone and whispered into the receiver. Opening the office door he said, “Okay, Ash, the commander will see you now.”

  Wegland came around his desk, tightening his tie. He was an unlikely looking cop, I thought. Skinny and sallow, with an aquiline nose, and nervous, twitchy gestures, there was something birdlike about him. Even his bad comb-over, which swirled atop his balding pate, looked like a nest.

  “Thank you for stopping by, Ash,” he said, extending a hand.

  I shook his hand while surveying the office. On one wall were two shadow boxes filled with patches from police departments from throughout the country. On another wall, a dozen midnight blue LAPD coffee mugs stamped with various unit insignias were lined up on a shelf. After Wegland pulled a chair from the corner of the room for me, he walked back around his desk, sat down, and placed his hands primly on his lap.

  At Pacific, I had been struck by how Wegland, grim-faced and humorless, always went about his job with a robotic efficiency. Later, Wegland began quickly climbing the LAPD ladder. He was one of those LAPD officials who rose through the ranks, not because he was a good patrol officer or skilled investigator, but because he studied like a fiend, tested well, and never took any chances on the street that could precipitate a complaint.

  Wegland cleared his throat, poured himself a half glass of water from the pitcher on his desk, and took a few gulps. “I wanted you on this case because I know your track record. I know you can do the job.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “But I have a question for you. Because of the, the—” he paused, searching for the right word, “calamity you were involved in last year, well, I wondered. Do you think because of the questions you might be asked by other detectives and maybe even witnesses, because of the questions you might even be asking yourself, and because of the fact that your judgment might be challenged, well, will all that hinder your investigation? In other words, do you think you can become a highly effective detective again?”

  “I think I’m a highly effective detective right now,” I said sharply.

  “I think so, too,” Wegland said, lifting his hands from his lap and clasping them on his desk. “So that’s settled.” Wegland turned and studied a shadow box for a moment. “I knew Relovich’s father. When he retired he asked me to keep an eye out for his son. I don’t take a request like that lightly. So I just want to stay in touch with you, make sure you’ve got everything you need, insure that Felony Special is doing right by old man Relovich’s son. That’s the least I can do for my late friend. So you’ll keep me apprised of the investigation, I’d appreciate it.”

  I stood up and said, “I’ll keep you posted.”

  I returned to the squad room and began plotting my next moves. I was frustrated that I couldn’t question Abazeda right now. I had stumbled on a good lead and I wanted to run it down.

  I had to be patient, but tomorrow night I planned to find out if Abazeda had dropped by Relovich’s house, pulled out a .40-caliber semiautomatic, and shot him in the face.

  CHAPTER 7

  Early the next morning, I arrived at the squad room before most of the detectives had started work. Oscar Ortiz rushed up to me and said, “Let’s get a cup of coffee.”

  “What’s that shit on my desk?”

  Ortiz stood in front of me to block my view. “I just called maintenance. They’re on their way to clean it up.”

  I craned my neck for a better look. “What is it?”

  Ortiz grabbed my arm and tried to lead me out the door. “You don’t want to see it.”<
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  I pushed past Ortiz, and when I reached my desk I dropped the murder book on the floor, the photographs scattering on the linoleum. Someone had crudely slashed red paint in the shape of a swastika. Next to it, taped to the desk, were a picture of Hitler and a magazine photograph of the liberated survivors of Buchenwald, walking skeletons streaming through the barbwire fences.

  I felt as if I’d been slugged in the gut. Just then Graupmann ambled by, glanced at the desk and asked, “Fan mail?”

  Swinging from the heels. I landed a right cross flush on Graupmann’s jaw, hitting the sweet spot like a batter pounding a fastball on the meat of the bat. Graupmann wobbled to his knees.

  “You crazy motherfucker,” Graupmann shouted. He grabbed the side of a desk and was pulling himself to his feet when he dove for me. I sidestepped him, but Graupmann reached out, clutched a pant leg and tugged. I lost my balance and tumbled to the ground. Graupmann, straddling me, tried to punch me in the face, but I jerked my head to the side and he only grazed my cheek. I reached around and, in a windmill motion, slammed him flush on the ear with the heel of my hand. I heard him yelp with pain.

  I pushed myself up with one hand and with the other punched him in the Adam’s apple. With a strangled cry, he fell on top of me.

  Duffy, who was just coming into work and still clutching his briefcase, separated us with a couple of swift kicks, as if he were breaking up a dogfight in an alley. He grabbed my shirt with a meaty hand, jerked me to my feet with ease, and dragged me into his office, slamming the door shut.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” Duffy shouted, stabbing a finger in my face.

  “Did you see my desk?” I rasped, trying to catch my breath.

  “I caught a quick look at it. But how do you know Graupmann did it?”

  “Who else? I worked in this unit six years and never had a problem. All of a sudden he’s here and my desk looks like a Nuremberg war crimes museum.”

  “Got any proof it was him?”

  I flashed him a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look.

  “What’s the proof?”

  “It’s circumstantial.”

  “Then let it go,” Duffy said.

  After I stomped out of his office, I spotted a janitor scrubbing my desk with paint remover. I knew I was too pissed off to get any work done, so I snatched the murder book from under my desk and took off.

  Ortiz stopped me at the elevator, patted me on the shoulder and said, “Ride it out, Ash. Just chill for the next few months. Then, when you’re back in the groove here and they can’t fuck with you, take care of your business with Graupmann.”

  I was still so enraged I was unable to speak. I just nodded and slammed my palm on the elevator’s down button.

  I had an appointment with a department psychologist this morning, and I had about ninety minutes to kill. So I drove aimlessly around downtown, swearing to myself, envisioning a number of scenarios where I could drive my fist into Graupmann’s smirking face.

  At nine forty-five, I parked in front of the Far East National Bank building on north Broadway in Chinatown and spent a few minutes calming myself down. Then I walked up to the third floor, where the LAPD’s Behavioral Science Services Section is based. A few cops, who looked distinctly ill at ease, fidgeted in the waiting room. I checked in with a receptionist who was protected by bulletproof glass.

  While I waited, I remembered the photographs that Sandy Relovich had given me. Lindsey had taken them on her birthday at her father’s house. As I began flipping through the pictures, the receptionist called my name. She buzzed me through the door and led me down the hallway to Dr. Nathan Blau’s office.

  I had first met Dr. Blau when I was a twenty-five-year-old patrolman in the Pacific Division and had just shot and killed a suspect. Shrink time is required by the LAPD after all officer-involved shootings. My partner and I had pulled over a Monte Carlo speeding down Washington Boulevard. I had my hand on the butt of my Beretta when I bent down to ask the driver, a man in his early twenties with stringy blond hair, for his license. When the passenger reached for his waistband, I already had the Beretta out. When I saw the flash of chrome, I blasted the man in the chest. I had no remorse about the killing, probably because after two years in the IDF, I had been blooded; I had already worked through the roiling emotions after taking a life.

  Blau had asked me why I was so wary about the occupants that I had my hand on my gun before I even exchanged words with them.

  I explained that I had heard the dispatcher announce a bank robbery earlier that afternoon, although no descriptions of the suspects were available. I knew that experienced bank robbers often carried buckets of water in their cars because tellers slip die packs in with the stolen money; sensors by the front door activate the packs within thirty seconds. But robbers dunk the money in the water before the die packs explode. As I approached the car, I had seen a large circle on the carpeting by the back seat, which looked like it could have been the impression of a bucket. My hunch saved my life. I later learned that during a previous heist the man I’d killed had gunned down a guard.

  After we talked about the shooting during that first session, Blau had asked me if anything else was troubling me.

  “I only have two problems,” I deadpanned. “My mother and the Holocaust.”

  Blau snorted with amusement.

  Later, when Robin left me, I made an appointment with Blau, who looked more like a truck driver than a psychologist, which seemed to reassure cops who were spooked about seeing a shrink. He had a thick chest and arms corded with muscle from regular weight-lifting sessions at the academy gym, close-cropped black hair, and a broad, sunburnt, impassive face. Although he was Jewish, he could have passed for Navajo.

  Blau sat on a sofa in his sparsely decorated office, sipping coffee. I slumped onto an overstuffed chair across from him, next to a metal end table with a small fountain on top, a trickle of water splashing over polished rocks.

  “We haven’t seen each other for a while, Ash,” Blau said. “How are you doing?”

  “Not so well this morning.” I told him about how my desk had been defaced.

  “Is that going to make your return problematic?”

  “Naw. When I first left the academy I got used to dealing with a lot of anti-Semitic shit. You know, LAPD dinosaurs. But a lot of these guys have retired. Things have changed. I remember my first training officer at Pacific. He made some crack about Jews. I got in his face and asked, “What do you have against us?” He looked me up and down and said, “What I’ve got against you is that you people are never happy, no matter what. Hell, Jesus Christ wasn’t even good enough for you.”

  Blau and I chuckled.

  I described how Duffy stopped by my mother’s house on Friday night and asked me to return to Felony Special and take over the Relovich case. For the next twenty minutes Blau asked me a series of pro forma questions about my drinking habits, appetite, work, financial situation, state of mind, and relationship with family members.

  “Been dating?”

  “Not much. Still a little gun-shy since I’ve been separated.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty good. Except for one thing. During the past year I’ve been getting a lot of headaches. They’re pretty intense sometimes.”

  “I’d recommend you see a neurologist. If the doctor says there’s nothing medical or neurological going on, then you and I can deal with it.”

  “I know what’s going on. They’re caused by stress.”

  “Where’d you go to medical school?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “Okay. I’ll go when I have time.”

  “How are you sleeping?” he asked.

  “Sometimes fine. Other times not so well. Lately, I don’t know why, I’ve been dreaming about the old days in the army, about being on patrol.”

  “The VA has an excellent sleep disorder clinic,” Blau said.

  “I’m a veteran,” I said. “But wrong army.”

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nbsp; “Right. I remember.” He ran his palm over his bristly hair and said, “Let’s talk about why you left the department last year.”

  “Just didn’t want to deal with all the crap,” I said.

  “Can you tell me a little about the precipitating incident.”

  I listened to the burble of the fountain for a moment. “Korean guy named Bae Soo Sung operated a small market in South Central. He worked sixteen hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year. Unlike some of the market owners in the ‘hood, everyone liked this guy. He gave people credit; he was friendly; he smiled at the customers; he gave money to the local Boy’s Club. One afternoon, a guy wearing a Shrek mask charges through the door waving a pistol. Sung steps away from the counter. He keeps his hands up. He follows instructions. He dumps the cash from the register into a paper sack. Asshole grabs the sack and starts to walk out. But he pauses at the doorway, whirls around, and for no fucking reason at all, plugs Sung in the chest.”

  I recalled the flickering black-and-white images on the store video, the look of terror and surprise on Sung’s face as he crumpled to the ground. “Sung did everything right. He cooperated completely. He couldn’t even identify the shooter because he was wearing a mask. Shooting him made no sense. Asshole was just having some fun, some target practice. So now Sung’s wife’s a widow and his three young children have no father.”

  “That’s a terrible thing,” Blau said. “But why were you investigating the case? I didn’t think Felony Special handled South Central market shootings.”

  “We don’t. But the case went unsolved, the detectives moved onto other homicides and wouldn’t even return Sung’s wife’s calls. So she started pestering that new Korean city councilman. He either felt sorry for her or decided that this was a good political issue to run with and get some ink. So he held a press conference and contended that the LAPD doesn’t care about Korean victims. He called the chief and complained about the investigation’s lack of progress. The chief had the murder book sent from South Bureau Homicide over to us. I ended up with the case.”