Protective Behavior

by L A Witt

  “Fuck it.” I pushed up to my feet with a little wince, then headed for my closet. I had a black suit in there somewhere, the same one I’d worn to Samantha’s last wedding. It would do.

  I dressed fast, then inspected myself in the mirror in my walk-in closet as I looped a matching black tie around my neck. The suit itself was a little baggy—I’d lost weight in the past three years. The shirt fit better, though. I looked…tired, but respectable. At least I’d shaved after the bath. A little bit of mousse in my hair, and I was ready to go be awkward at the funeral of a man I barely knew.

  It took longer than twenty minutes to get to Park Avenue thanks to a busted stoplight and a fender bender. By the time I arrived, found parking, and limped as fast as I could to the funeral home, the service itself looked to already be over. All that was left of the crowd—I assumed there had been a crowd, but maybe I was wrong—was the pastor in the front, a solemn-looking black man standing at a lectern in front of the casket, and an older, soft-spoken black woman beside him. They stopped whatever conversation they were having to look at me as I stopped in the doorway of the little chapel, feeling like I’d been punched in the solar plexus. At least there was no little girl here.

  It was a nice little room, with mahogany paneling on the walls and a stained-glass window of a dove sitting on a blossoming branch right at the back. A bouquet of white irises sat beside the lectern. The chairs were old, metal-framed fold-outs, their customary places clearly marked by ancient divots in the dark red carpet. I glanced around the room, looked up at the woman, and felt my voice fade away in my throat.

  “Can I help you, son?” the pastor asked after a moment. “If you’re looking for the Klinger memorial service, it’s not until five.”

  “Uh.” I coughed a little. “No. I actually came for the…” What was his last name again? Christ, brain, get it together. “The Fredericks service.”

  “Ah.”

  “I know I’m late,” I added, my cheeks heating up. “I’m sorry about that.”

  The woman didn’t speak, even when the pastor glanced her way, so he soldiered on. “And how did you know Mr. Fredericks, sir?”

  “I was, ah… his doctor. At All Saints Hospital.” Now the woman looked at me, surprise layered over the grief in her face.

  “Well.” The pastor looked between us, then patted the woman’s clasped hands. “Jazz, I’ll be in the parlor. Come on and join me whenever you’re ready.” He stopped by me on his way out, one hand gripping the worn leather cover of his bible, the other extended toward me. I took it to shake. His grip was firm, almost hard, but his expression was genial. “Thank you for the work you do,” he said.

  “I wish I could have done more,” I said honestly.

  “Don’t we all, son. Don’t we all.” He walked away, and I was left alone with Martin’s mother. We eyed each other for a moment before I remembered how to be a professional.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told her, moving out of the doorway to stand more fully in the chapel. I could see from here that the casket was closed. “I didn’t have your son in my care for long, but I could see that he was a fighter.”

  “He was.” Her voice was low, mellow and even, but her eyes were red-rimmed. “It got him into trouble sometimes, but he was a good boy, and a good man, Doctor…”

  “Campbell. Ryan Campbell.”

  She nodded. “Dr. Campbell. I’m Mrs. Fredericks.” She glanced back at the casket. “You don’t need to feel nervous about coming closer, that thing’s just for show. The morgue had him cremated before I could get to him.”

  I winced. “I’m so sorry about that. There was no wallet in his personal effects, so we didn’t know who to call.”

  She shrugged, but her lips twisted in a grimace. “It’s not like I would have gotten it back anyway, I suppose. Not from those policemen.” Her voice was full of vitriol. She had to have at least an inkling of what had really happened to her son.

  I decided to risk it. “Ma’am, do you know a JJ?”

  Mrs. Fredericks stared hard at me, all traces of vulnerability vanishing. “Why are you asking me that?”

  “Martin mentioned a JJ in the ED. Someone who was with him when he got shot. I thought JJ might be able to shed some more light on what happened to your son.”

  She pressed her lips together tightly before saying, “Well, I don’t know who that is.”

  I’d lost her. I had to try to get her back. “Ma’am, I’m not a police officer. I’m the person your son held onto with all his strength when he told me what happened to him.” I didn’t have to be explicit—Mrs. Fredericks could have cut me in two with how sharp her gaze was. “I don’t want to cause you or your family trouble, I just…” My jaw ached from gritting my teeth. “What happened to Martin wasn’t right. I want to help make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else.”

  “You’re a doctor,” she said softly. “Or so you want me to believe. You don’t have the power to get justice for my son.”

  “I’m a doctor, I swear.” I was this close to whipping out my phone and pulling up the All Saints website, but I didn’t want to lose my momentum. “And I might not have the kind of power you’re talking about, but I know people who do. Good people, who won’t let the men who did this get away with it.”

  Mrs. Fredericks shook her head. “I have nothing to say to you, Dr. Campbell. Your heart might be in the right place, but people like this have been getting away with it over and over again for years. The dirty cops in this city have deep, dark roots. All that stuff that came to light last year was just the tip of the iceberg. It’s not safe to go digging, not even for men like you.” She sighed. “Thank you for coming today, but I think you better leave now.”

  I wasn’t going to fight her on it. I’d just have to put my faith in Mark, and trust that he could get justice for Martin, and for the kid’s mother. “Thank you for speaking with me.” She nodded, but didn’t hold out a hand to shake. Fair enough. I turned and headed for the exit, only five minutes after I entered.

  I was so absorbed in my own thoughts as I walked back to my car that I almost walked into the man who stepped suddenly into my path. I caught myself at the last minute, reeling a little. “Shit. What are you—” My voice died again, but for a completely different reason this time.

  “Hey, Dr. Campbell!” It was Officer Russel. Round-faced, friendly, lying Officer Russel. He was dressed in plainclothes, and held a Starbucks cup in one hand. “Fancy meeting you here. You, uh, heading to a funeral?”

  “Just left one,” I managed.

  “Yeah, yeah, poor Mr. Fredericks. That’s the guy, right?”

  As if you didn’t know. This part of town was nowhere near Officer Russel’s precinct. “That’s him.”

  “That’s nice of you, going to his memorial. Do you do that for all your dead patients?”

  I had to focus to unhinge my jaw, I held it so tight. “No, not for all of them.”

  “Huh. Why for this one, then?”

  “I couldn’t say.” I really, really can’t say.

  “Couldn’t, or won’t?” Officer Russel chuckled and poked me in the side as I stiffened. “Kidding, I’m just kidding! I’m sure you’re a stand-up guy, Doc. Tell me, was there anything interesting going on in there?”

  What was this, an interrogation? “No. I arrived too late, so the service was basically over by the time I got there.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, it is.” I gestured toward my car. “Excuse me, I need to get home.” I went to walk around him, but he caught my arm. His grip was shockingly strong.

  “You sure you’re not misremembering anything that might help us out, Doc?” Officer Russel asked. “Something that might aid our investigation? A name, or maybe something you found that belonged to Mr. Fredericks?”

  Why was he asking that? Did he know I’d taken the phone? No, he can’t know for sure. If he knew, he really would be interrogating you. “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” I said as levelly as I cou
ld manage. “And I do have to get home now. I’m meeting a friend there.”

  “Ah.” Officer Russel let go of my arm and smoothed out my suit jacket where he’d crumpled it. “Then you’d better get going.” He winked. “See you later, Doc.”

  I nodded and moved toward my car, reaching into my pocket for my keys. I fumbled them just as I got to the driver’s side door. The clatter they made against the pavement sounded impossibly loud. I knew Officer Russel was still watching me—I could feel his eyes on my back—but I didn’t acknowledge him. I took a breath, bent down and grabbed the keys, then pressed the fob and got inside as quickly as I could. I wanted to linger for a second, to let my poor stunned brain catch up with my shaking, shocked body, but I didn’t want to tempt fate any harder than I already had today. I turned on the car and carefully pulled out into the street.

  As I drove away, I risked one last glance back in the mirror. Officer Russel was still there, free hand in his pocket as he watched me go. The Starbucks cup he’d been carrying in his other hand was a crumpled mess in his fist.

  It looked like neither of us was fooling the other.

  Chapter 9

  Mark

  “There a reason why Internal Affairs is breathing down our necks?” Officer Russel glared across my desk at me.

  I put up a hand. “Just standard procedure for an officer-involved fatality. You know the drill. All I need you to do is tell me what happened, in your own words, and you can be on your way.”

  He eyed me dubiously. “You going to make an example of me like you do every damn cop who winds up in your office?”

  “That depends,” I replied coldly. “Did you do anything that warrants making an example of you?”

  “Besides having the misfortune of doing my job in a city that puts you in charge of investigating other cops?”

  “I’m not sure how familiar you are with Internal Affairs,” I said, keeping my tone flat, “but all I do is recommend if disciplinary action should or should not be pursued. After that, it’s out of my hands.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure it is.”

  “I can draw you a picture if that would make things clearer.”

  He glared at me. I glared back.

  “You gonna waste my time?” I asked. “Or give me a statement?”

  “You want a statement or a confession?”

  “Is there something you need to confess?”

  His eyes narrowed.

  I tapped out my boredom on the desk with my nails. “No one is suggesting there was any wrongdoing on your part or the part of Officer DeMarco.” Oh, but I knew. Deep in my bones, I knew. Especially since Martin had been shot in the back. But I kept those cards close. “I just have to ask the questions, get the statements, and close it all up in a nice little bow in case somebody asks.”

  He laughed bitterly. “You know they will. Even without an asshole like you involved, it happens every time a cop has to shoot one of them.”

  “One of them?” I inclined my head. “Could you be more specific?”

  “You know.” He gestured with his coffee cup. “Thugs. Gang bangers.” Sobering a little, he shook his head. “Look, we pulled this kid over because he blew a yellow light. He and his buddy started acting shady in the car, and things escalated. The way things went down—that wasn’t what we wanted to do, but I mean, we had to protect ourselves and each other.”

  Tapping my pen on my notepad, I studied him. I let the silence linger for a long moment, and all the while I stared right in his eyes while I watched his body language in my peripheral vision.

  A guilty man would have shifted to one side, then probably back to the other. He’d have broken eye contact. Started working his jaw because his mouth was getting dry. He’d do something to tip his hand and tell a skilled interrogator that he was lying. That he was uncomfortable. Even if he had no way of knowing that I’d heard the recording of what went down, he’d still get nervous because he didn’t want me to find out.

  Officer Russel didn’t so much as twitch.

  He held my gaze, sat perfectly still, and didn’t show even a hint of nerves, which made my blood turn cold. I’d encountered a handful of people like him before. Those who’d absolutely done the crime, but didn’t flinch under scrutiny. Sociopaths, usually.

  I wasn’t a psychologist, so I couldn’t determine if Officer Russel was a sociopath, but I had a feeling I was sitting in front of a man who absolutely knew what he had done, and didn’t feel the least bit nervous about discussing it with me. We both knew he’d shot Martin, and I suspected he believed what he’d done was right. That he was in the clear because cops looked out for cops, his partner would back him up, and the department would—as they often did—agree that it had been a good shoot. He was on paid administrative leave pending an investigation and follow-up evaluation by a department psychologist, and after the obligatory half-assed inquiry, he’d be back on the job and everyone would forget about it.

  Shame about that recording he didn’t know existed.

  I folded my hands and took a breath. “Would you care to elaborate on how the individuals were ‘acting shady,’ and how exactly things escalated?”

  Officer Russel inhaled deeply and sat back in the chair, flattening his palms on the armrests. “They were reaching for their pockets. When we couldn’t see their hands, we both got nervous, and when the individuals wouldn’t show their hands or empty their pockets, we drew our weapons. After some back and forth, with both occupants of the car being belligerent and uncooperative, they got out of the car and confronted us physically.”

  “Is that when Mr. Fredericks was shot?”

  “Yes. He was reaching for his pocket and moving in a threatening manner toward my partner. So, I shot him.”

  At this point, most cops were either on the verge of tears, or well past that verge. By and large, we didn’t even like taking our guns out of their holsters, never mind discharging them. Taking a life on the job was something that could haunt a good cop to the grave. Even those who weren’t good cops were at least agitated by this point. Maybe a guilty conscience, maybe defensiveness because they were worried about losing their job.

  Russel? Still cool and collected. Indifferent, even. Like we were discussing a dent in his cruiser’s door, not the man he’d sent to die a slow death in Ryan’s emergency room. Not the fact that, from everything I’d heard on that recording, he hadn’t shot Martin in the name of officer safety. This was coldblooded murder if I’d ever encountered it, and I was currently calling on every second of training and experience I’d had since the academy to keep my expression blank. No way in hell did I want this man to know he was making me nervous. Or that I knew the truth of Martin’s death.

  I was supposed to be objective at this point. Gather statements and evidence. Write a report for those above my paygrade to decide if Russel was innocent or guilty. I was an investigator, not a prosecutor or a juror, and nothing compromised an investigation faster than confirmation bias. I had to keep an open mind if I was going to do this right, and I damn sure couldn’t let Russel suspect I didn’t.

  “All right.” I kept my voice and face as neutral as I could. “I’ll need a written statement from you, and I’ll be talking to your partner as well. Have you been in contact with your union representative?”

  He rolled his eyes and gestured dismissively. “The union rep and a department lawyer called me yesterday. I’ve been through this before. I know the drill.”

  “Have you?”

  “Oh, yeah. Third year on the force, I shot a junkie who tried to assault my partner with a knife. Then about…” He quirked his lips. “Ten years ago now, I think? Went to arrest this guy with an outstanding warrant, and he took off.” Officer Russel shrugged and looked me dead in the eye. “He tried to ambush us with a gun. Didn’t have much choice.”

  Well. That was an interesting development. I’d look into his disciplinary record after I’d collected all the evidence relevant to the case. While I would have bet money those two situ
ations had been as questionable as the one I was investigating now—and I’d have bet my pension both victims were black—I had to do this the right way. I couldn’t let his past shape my perception of the present. Confirmation bias and all that.

  While Officer Russel began writing his statement, I made a note to send another request up to the commissioner about body cameras. Some precincts had them, including Russel’s, but thanks to limited funding, there weren’t enough to make the cameras mandatory for all officers. It was usually rookies and their field training officers who had to wear them, more for training purposes than anything. Personally, I thought there were better uses for them than critiquing a rookie’s execution of a traffic stop.

  Like, say, recording an innocent person’s execution during a traffic stop.

  I rubbed my forehead. Mandatory use of body cameras would definitely make my job easier, or at least more cut-and-dried. Maybe that was why the city conveniently never had the resources for them. God forbid they support the evil bastards of Internal Affairs.

  I paused outside the gate of the small blue house on the corner, and double-checked the address. This was the place, so I followed the path up the walk to a covered front porch, and rang the doorbell.

  A moment later, the inside door opened, and a middle-aged black woman met my gaze through the storm door screen. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m looking for Jasmine Fredericks.”

  Her expression hardened and her eyes narrowed. “And you are?”

  “Detective Mark Thibedeau.” I held up my badge. “I’m with Internal Affairs. I’m investigating the shooting of Martin Fredericks.”

  For a second, she looked like she was about to tell me to kick rocks, but then her eyebrows jumped and she squinted at my badge. “Internal Affairs? So you’re…”