by L A Witt
Chapter 17
Mark
I closed the folder and put it on top of the growing stack on the left side of my desk. There was another stack on the right, but it wasn’t nearly as tall.
Sitting back in my desk chair, I rubbed my stiff neck as I glanced back and forth between the two stacks. I’d had a hunch. I’d spent the last three solid days scouring files to see if that hunch went anywhere. From the dramatic difference in the stacks, I’d been correct, and a sick feeling coiled in my stomach.
The hunch had started with Officer Russel’s case history. In his career, he’d been involved in three fatal shootings, all of black males. I was working the third incident. The previous two had been deemed good shoots and he’d returned to active duty. When I’d gone over his case files, it had occurred to me that this was more complex than just a white officer shooting two black men and getting away with it. Each incident had been investigated by Internal Affairs. There were different detectives involved both times, and different review boards had issued the verdicts.
Question was, did that mean Officer Russel had been justified the previous two times, when this time was clearly racially motivated? Or was his exoneration evidence of a systemic problem?
So I’d started digging.
Along with Erin, who’d come back from her honeymoon and not a moment too soon, I’d gone down to the archives where older case files were stored, and we’d randomly pulled the files of three hundred officer shootings spanning the past twenty years. In the three days since, I’d pored over each file, one by one, to see if a pattern emerged.
And holy shit—there was a pattern.
Out of three hundred case files, two hundred twenty-two were white officers shooting black civilians. Out of those two hundred twenty-two, nineteen were in the stack to my right—bad shoots resulting in officers being disciplined (sometimes terminated) and the city settling with the victim’s families. Nineteen.
I slowly shifted my gaze to the left. Two hundred and three cases.
Out of three hundred randomly selected officer shootings spanning twenty years, two hundred and three were black civilians shot by white officers, and were deemed good shoots. Self-defense, usually. Accidental, in some cases—an innocent bystander shot by accident while police engaged with hostile suspects.
Two. Hundred. And three.
I swallowed bile as I stared at the towering stack. I’d investigated more officer shootings than I could count, and I was mortified at the number of mine that had ended up in that stack. Yes, officer shootings were sometimes justified, and I wanted to believe I’d always come to unbiased conclusions based on facts and individual circumstances, but…had I?
Going through this sample of case files, I’d come across thirteen of my own. In nine of them, I’d reported to the board that the shooting was justified, and they’d concurred. Nine out of thirteen. I remembered some of them rather vividly, too.
“It was dark and he just came out of nowhere. In that light, I swear I thought he had a gun.”
“There was a weapon in the car, and when she started getting belligerent, I was afraid for my life and my partner’s.”
“He ran, and then he reached for his pocket. I had a split second to react, and in that split second, I thought it was a gun.”
Releasing a long breath, I ran a hand through my hair.
Holy shit. Have I been putting cops back on the street after they knowingly and deliberately killed innocent black people? Have I—
My office door opened, and I nearly jumped out of my chair.
Erin halted, staring wide-eyed at me as she balanced another banker’s box on her hip. “Oh. Sorry. I… should I have knocked?”
“No. No.” I exhaled and relaxed—sort of—against the back of the chair. “Just a little jumpy.”
“So I see.” She came in, nudging the door shut with her foot. “Here’s everything you asked for.” She eyed my desk. “Uh, where do you want it?”
“Just put it on the floor.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “I’ll get to them this afternoon.”
“You know it’s almost five, right?”
“Christ, really?”
“Yep.” There was a heavy thud as she put the box beside the others. “Are you okay? You seem kinda…”
I looked up at her, and her features were pinched with concern.
Sighing, I gestured dismissively. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m… Just going through all these case files is a bit…” I swallowed. “Eye-opening.”
“Yeah? How so?”
I debated giving her a vague answer, but decided against it. “You know everything in this office is confidential, right?”
“Of course.” She’d signed enough contracts to that effect, she knew better than to discuss anything that was said, especially around her cop father and stepfather. And at this point, I needed to talk about it with someone before my skull imploded.
“So, those case files I’ve been going through? I pulled all the incidents that were white officers shooting black civilians.”
Her eyes flicked back and forth between the stacks. “Let me guess.” She pointed at the larger one. “Those files?”
“And these.” I pointed at the other.
Her brow furrowed. “So, what’s the difference?”
“One stack is for shootings that were found to be justified. The other, not justified.”
Erin nodded toward the bigger stack. “I’m guessing those were justified?”
My stomach flipped. “How’d you guess?”
“Well, I mean, if that many officers”—she gestured at the stack—“had been busted for murder, it would’ve been a lot bigger news than…” She indicated the smaller one. “And also…” She chewed her lip as she met my gaze. “I mean, let’s face it. Everyone knows there’s a problem in this country with white cops shooting black people. Why would it be any different here?”
Her candidness caught me off guard. I couldn’t argue with her, though. Not after everything I’d seen, especially lately.
Deflating a bit, I let my head fall back against the chair. “I guess I didn’t realize how big of a problem it was here. And having a front row goddamned seat to officer misconduct, you’d think I would’ve seen the pattern.”
“Maybe. But now you do see it.” She looked right in my eyes. “Question is, what are you going to do about it?”
I nodded slowly and drummed my fingers on the desk. “Yeah. That’s the part I’m still trying to figure out.”
“They could probably start by diversifying IA a little.”
I raised my eyebrows.
She huffed a laugh. “Come on, haven’t you noticed? If the cops can be called the thin blue line, Internal Affairs could basically be the thin white line.”
I blinked. Holy shit. She was right. “Damn. I never noticed that.”
“I did. I think it’s the first thing I noticed when I started here. The only time I ever see a black person on this floor is when they’re being investigated.”
“Whoa.” I laughed dryly. “Anyone ever mention that you inherited your father’s bluntness?”
“I got some of it from my mom, too, but…” She half-shrugged.
“You’re right, though,” I said with a nod. “I’ll bring it up with Lieutenant Bridges. Along with…” I motioned toward the teetering stack of files.
“Good idea.” She rocked on her feet. “So, do you need anything else from me?” Gesturing over her shoulder, she added, “I still need to catch up on all your filing.”
“No, I’m good. Just, um, if you decide to stay late and grab dinner, let me know when you head out to get food. You fly, I’ll buy?”
Erin smiled. “You know you should leave your office once in a while, right? Especially when you’ve been marinating in all this?”
“I know. But I want to start writing up everything we just talked about so I can discuss it with Bridges and the rest of the department.”
“Okay. I’ll let you know.”
; “Thanks, Erin.”
She left my office, and I stared at the files again.
I considered myself to be a damn good detective. I was thorough. I busted my ass. I could spot the details that other people missed. And for fuck’s sake, I’d wanted to be in Internal Affairs because I wanted to be that line of defense against dirty cops like my dad.
But all along, I’d been oblivious to the fact that I’d been part of the thin white line that let officers get away with racially motivated murder.
How the fuck I was going to learn to sleep at night with this on my conscience, I had no idea, but one thing I couldn’t do was change the past. I could, however, do something to unfuck the future. And once I’d done that, I suspected I’d be reopening a few of the cases currently sitting on my desk like a Leaning Tower of Shame.
Step one—more diverse personnel in Internal Affairs.
Step two—body cameras on all officers, not just rookies.
Step three—figure out how to convince the bean counters downtown to budget for steps one and two.
I sighed and reached for my coffee, but it had long since passed lukewarm and was now ice cold. Time for a refill so I could wake myself up and get that email written to Lieutenant Bridges.
On my way out of my office, I turned to Erin to ask if she wanted me to get her some coffee, but she was on the phone. And from the horror on her face, it wasn’t anything good.
“Okay, but is he okay? Like, how bad is—” Her brow furrowed. Then she sighed with a hint of relief. “That’s good. But do they know who did it? Did they catch him?”
Alarm straightened my spine. I didn’t want to eavesdrop, but when she met my gaze, her eyes wide, she gestured for me to wait a second. Then, “Hang… Hang on, Zach.” She covered the mouthpiece on the receiver. “Someone mugged Ryan.”
My heart dropped into my feet. “What?” I put my coffee cup on her desk and pulled my phone out of my pocket. “Is he all right?”
“Zach said he was released a little while ago, but he was beaten up pretty bad.”
“Jesus.” I sent the call to Ryan’s number, but it went straight to voicemail. “Shit…” I was about to ask Erin for some more details, but right then the elevator doors opened. I had a split second of hope that Ryan had stupidly come here instead of going home.
Except it wasn’t Ryan.
It was Lieutenant Bridges.
“Lieutenant,” I said. “What’s—”
“I need to talk to you, Detective.”
Erin and I exchanged uneasy looks. She continued her call with Zach, hopefully getting more information about Ryan’s condition, and Bridges and I went back into my office.
As I shut the door, Bridges didn’t let the grass grow: “We have a setback in the Martin Fredericks case.”
“A setback?”
She nodded. “Dr. Campbell was scheduled to meet with me this morning to discuss his testimony, but he was assaulted outside his home.”
Oh. Fuck. This wasn’t just a mugging. Now that I had a second to process, I wasn’t at all surprised, and probably would have reached that conclusion on my own before too long. What I hadn’t realized was that he’d been on his way to meet Bridges. “Is he all right?”
“Yes, but this does leave our investigation without a critical witness.”
I blinked. “Without… But you just said he’s all right. Is he, or isn’t he?”
“He is, but the assault left him with a moderate concussion.”
I watched her, waiting for her to elaborate. Except… she didn’t have to. The pieces fell into place. Shoulders sinking, I exhaled. “The defense will rip apart his credibility as a witness because of the traumatic brain injury.”
“Exactly. And it happened before I could get a statement from him.”
“I have a statement from him.”
“You do. You also have a very recent personal history with him, which the defense will also use to eviscerate his credibility. Yours too.”
“What about the recordings?” I asked. “Even without his testimony, we have two recordings—one very carefully acquired according to department protocols—that are damning on their own.”
“And we both know the defense will find a way to chip away at everything we present,” she said. “That’s assuming this even goes to court, which it will only do if you present a strong enough case to the board.”
“I have a recording of a man being shot in cold blood,” I growled. “I have eyewitness testimony from a man who was there when it happened. How much more do we need? A literal smoking gun?”
“You know how this game is played, Detective,” she said coldly. “It’s our job to present evidence. It’s the board’s job to determine if that evidence points to a possible crime. And it’s the court’s job to determine if it was a crime. Every bit of ambiguity and lack of credibility is a strike against—”
“If Officer Russel had been a black man shooting a white civilian,” I snapped, “we’d already be at trial.”
Bridges stared at me. “I beg your pardon?”
“There is no ambiguity here, Lieutenant,” I went on. “Between the recordings and JJ’s testimony, this was cold-blooded murder. From a man who has already been exonerated for killing two other black men.”
She narrowed her eyes. “So because he was innocent two previous times, he must be guilty now?”
“Depends on how innocent you think he was the last two times.”
She held my gaze. “Detective, do I need to remind you that your job is to look at the evidence in play now, and not let prior incidents color your judgment?”
“Except when the prior incidents show a pattern. And that pattern doesn’t just make Officer Russel look bad.”
“What does that mean?”
I gestured at my desk, and then I explained everything I’d seen in the three hundred files I’d combed through. When I was finished, I faced her again. She stared slack-jawed at the files, looking shell-shocked after everything I’d told her. I let her absorb it all for a moment, then quietly added, “It isn’t just Officer Russel who has a history of murdering black men and hiding behind his badge. It’s the city and our own department not holding him or anyone else accountable.”
Staring at the files, Bridges swallowed hard. “Are you suggesting reopening these cases?”
“I’m suggesting we need to reexamine them. All of them. Not just my random sample.”
“You’re talking about a lot of manpower and overtime.” She cut her eyes toward me. “Not to mention convincing everyone above both our paygrades that this is justified and not just—”
“If they can look at all of this and tell me with a straight face that I’m just being an overzealous vigilante, I will resign.”
She blinked.
“I’m serious,” I said through my teeth. “If this city is really so convinced that I’m just trying to stir shit up that they’ll ignore…” I flailed my hand toward the stacks of files. “Then I’ll save them the trouble of firing me.”
“You’re wagering a lot on this, Detective. Because I suspect they will fire you—if not both of us—if you’re wrong about this.”
“Yeah. I know.” I set my jaw. “Kind of seems worth it to me, don’t you think?”
She pursed her lips, but grudgingly nodded. “All right. But our top priority is the Russel-Fredericks case. I need your analysis of Russel’s previous two incidents on my desk ASAP, and then I’ll take it to the board.”
I nodded. “I’m on it.”
“For now, go home and get some sleep. You look like shit.”
I laughed dryly. “Yeah. Thanks.” She started to leave, but then I said, “Lieutenant?” When she turned, I pushed my shoulders back and inhaled deeply. “I realize this situation is delicate, and my relationship with Dr. Campbell makes things complicated, but I—”
“Go see him, Detective.” She sounded resigned and exhausted. “I doubt you’ll be able to focus until you’ve seen with your own eyes that he’s all r
ight. So…go see him.” She jabbed a finger at me. “But then get on that analysis first thing tomorrow morning, and for both our sakes, do not fuck this up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter 18
Ryan
It was hard getting home.
There was blood on my walkway. Not a lot of it—just a few splotches from the head wound I didn’t even remember getting. Most of it had gone into the grass and already vanished under the light drizzle that had started after noon, but there was still a little left a few feet in front of my bottom step. Not just blood. My blood.
I don’t think Ronnie even saw it—when I stopped just in front of the steps, she put her arm very gently around my hips and said, “You can do it, just go slow.” I was limping—the first shot to my leg had left a hell of a hematoma—but I wasn’t worried about making it up the stairs. I was more worried about what was waiting for me on the other side of the door.
Not a person, or a thing. Just a feeling I wasn’t sure I could handle.
Sure enough, as soon as Ronnie left—after settling me on the couch with my pain meds and a fresh glass of water, as well as a promise to call and check on me tomorrow—the emotion I’d been worried about crept in. It crawled around my heart, seeped into my lungs, and stretched its tendrils out over the inside of my brain as tenaciously as a cancer. Fear. Wavering, morphing, strong one moment and weak the next, fear. Every creak, every rustle, even the sound of my own breathing made me anxious, made me want to turn and look, headache be damned. I got up three separate times—groaning each time, leg trembling like I’d just run a marathon—to check the house, my phone clenched in one hand and my baseball bat in the other. I couldn’t even turn on the TV, worried that I might miss something otherwise.
I knew I was being hypervigilant. I knew I was exhausted and anxious and still in pain and also, oh yeah, concussed, and it was blowing up my sense of necessary caution into something untenable. I also didn’t know how to stop it. I didn’t want to be alone—it would take me forever to fall asleep, among other things, if I was alone—but I didn’t want to call Samantha. She’d end up coming over and micromanaging my life the entire time I was on medical leave.
