Shane got on the elevator, rode to the third floor, and moved up to the heavy glass-paneled, wood-frame door of the Advocate Section. After taking a deep breath, he pushed it open and walked inside.
He was back in the narrow, gray and brown space fronted by three reception desks, where secretaries directed business to the twenty advocates seated behind them. Across the hall, on the opposite side of the open atrium, were the investigating officers, known as IOs. They were regular detectives assigned to IAD who did background interviews and took affidavits from "wits." All of Shane's memories of the place came rushing back. From where he was standing, he could see back to the advocates' cubbies located on the far side of the office. The advocates were all sergeants or lieutenants and worked in five-by-five clutter at small desks, cardboard "case" boxes filled with affidavits and IO reports clustered at their feet.
Shane remembered the chief advocate, a tall, vanilla milkshake named Warren Zell. Shane moved to one of the secretaries, a black woman with a remarkable body, and smiled at her.
"I'm Sergeant Scully. I've been assigned here. I'm supposed to report to Commander Zell."
"Hi," she said, "I'm Mavis. Take a seat. I'll tell him you're here."
While she buzzed in, Shane sat and picked up the LAPD newsletter, The Blue Line, that was on the table along with a stack of Chief Brewer's newsletters, a glossy white four-sheet called The Beat. He assumed The Beat was required reading in this political squirrel cage. He was looking down when he heard the female voice that distressed him the most.
"Mavis," the voice said, "can you send all these 301's on the Scully deps out to the subpoena control officer and tell him I need them served as soon as he can get them issued? Also, make sure this charge sheet gets sent to Pam Davis in the District Attorney's Office. They're monitoring his board for a possible murder indictment."
He looked up and saw Alexa Hamilton standing with her back to him, wearing one of her severe, tailored gray suits. Her shapely calves and tight, rounded ass were only a foot from his face.
"Work, work, work," he said softly.
She turned abruptly and, for the first time, saw him sitting there.
"It's not work when you're having fun," she replied.
"Don't forget to subpoena Barbara Molar; she's an eyewitness and supports my statement word for word."
"We always include exculpatory evidence, despite what you think, Scully. This division exists to try and keep the department clean. We're not down here doing hatchet jobs."
"This division exists to destroy hardworking cops so people like you can get an E-ticket ride to the top of the department. You know it. I know it. Everybody on the job knows it. But don't take it from me, go ask any uniform sitting in the front seat of a Plain Jane."
Alexa stood there and tapped her thumb against a file folder. "Y'know, Scully, you mighta been an okay cop, except you've gotta do everything your own stiff-necked, jackoff way. You're always trying to be the smartest guy in the room, always cutting corners and blaming others. This is a division that is set up to defend the rules and mandates of this department. Since you have your head so far up your ass, you only see things through your navel; it's understandable your view is clouded. That's your problem, not mine." She turned to Mavis. "On second thought, Mave, I'm gonna walk this stuff over to the subpoena control desk personally. Nothing's too good for Sergeant Scully." She turned away and, carrying the paperwork, moved back to her desk behind the counter. Her hips swayed seductively as she walked. Shane felt nothing. She had turned his balls to ice.
The phone buzzed, twice.
"You can go in now," Mavis said.
Shane got up and headed down the long rectangular space between the east wall and the three reception desks. He entered Zell's office at the end of the room.
Seated behind a slab of oak was Commander Zell. He had his jacket off; a huge Glock automatic in an upside-down shoulder holster hung under his arm like a sleeping bat. It is a proven LAPD street-cop axiom that any officer in plain clothes who wears a shoulder rig is, by definition, an asshole. If it's upside down, then he's a puckered, purebred asshole. Zell looked up and pushed a stack of signed papers away as Shane entered.
"Sergeant, don't bother to sit, you won't be in my office that long." It was starting out worse than Shane had expected. "You're under my direct supervision," Zell went on, but while he spoke, he turned his attention to another stack of papers. "I expect you to report for duty at eight-thirty every morning, without fail. You have only half an hour for lunch, so I suggest you bring it. You punch out at five. It's a straight eight. No overtime will be approved. Questions?"
"Well, sir, I have to drop a fifteen-year-old boy at school every morning. I have to get him there by eight-fifteen. Eight-thirty is going to be pretty tight."
"Then here's your solution, Sergeant. You drop him off at eight instead of eight-fifteen." Zell finally looked up, fixing his gaze on Shane, as if to determine what sort of lame idiot wouldn't be able to figure that out by himself.
"Sir, if I might ask, what will I be doing?"
"You're the unit discovery officer."
"I'm sorry?"
"On every case going through here, the accused officer has the right to look at all statements and affidavits taken by our IOs. It's called discovery," Zell said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "In order for the accused to get those documents, somebody has to Xerox the material, or make tape copies if it's a voice or video recording. The discovery officer works at the Xerox machines located on the second floor. There are four machines and some audio/video duplicating equipment. You make copies of everything, including personnel investigations, addenda, and any supplemental findings of proposed disciplinary action. Also include the response of the accused and the reply of the commanding officer, photographs or laser reproductions, rough field-interview notes, chronological records, case summaries, and the department wit list." He was ticking them off from memory, showing off. "Every case folder will tell you how many copies and where they are to be sent. They go out by registered mail to the accused officer's defense rep."
"I'm a Xerox machine operator?" Shane asked. He couldn't believe this was his new job.
"You are the unit discovery officer. Your job is to operate Xerox and electronic duplicating equipment. That's it. That's the job. You're excused."
"Wasn't there a crummier job you could have given me?" Shane asked, anger creeping into his voice.
"If you don't want the job, just tell me."
"Why? So you can hit me with a negligent-duty slip and put me in for insubordination?"
"Then go do what you've been asked to do."
"Yessir."
Shane moved out of the room and walked back down the hall. He stopped at Mavis's desk. "What room does the discovery officer use?"
"Room 256," she said. "It's locked. Here's the key." She handed him a key attached to a square wood block. It reminded Shane of a gas-station lavatory key. Appropriate. He was definitely in the toilet. As he moved out of the Advocate Section into the open corridor, he saw Alexa Hamilton coming back from the ladies' room. She passed him, her gaze straight ahead, as if he didn't exist or, more to the point, as if she knew he was about to disappear.
He punched the button for the beautiful old wrought-iron box. The elevator arrived and he got on. An elderly black gentleman in a dark blue blazer was running the lift.
"You must be new here," the old man said. "Whatchu gonna be doin'?"
"I'm the new discovery officer."
"Boy, good goin'. That sounds pretty darn important."
"Yeah," Shane said sadly. "No doubt about it. I am de man."
Chapter 16
UNIT DISCOVERY OFFICER
After calling Harvard Westlake and leaving a message for Chooch that he'd be late picking him up, Shane spent the morning Xeroxing cases in the narrow one-window office on the second floor. It was the only office that Internal Affairs had rented on two. Except for the occasional secretary who came in and dro
pped more cases on his stack, he was alone with his thoughts while the Xerox hummed and coughed up copies, passing its white light over the endless pages.
Shane wondered how much longer he should stay on the job. He'd pretty much run out of police department highway. He couldn't believe that the district attorney would ever bring murder charges. That was just being orchestrated by Chief Brewer to put pressure on him. But being terminated by Alexa Hamilton at his upcoming board was a distinct possibility. Except for Bernie Cookson, the judges were stacked against him. He would probably lose his tin and be kicked out, his seventeen-year pension going down the drain with the verdict.
He thought about Barbara Molar, how he wanted to hold her and make love to her, but this was immediately followed by a puzzling feeling of dispirited grief for something he couldn't identify. Moments later he was aware of a thickening depression. As the Xerox machine hummed and kicked pages into a tray, he tried to work it out.
He knew that pursuing a relationship with Barbara was stupid under these circumstances. Beyond that, something else was nibbling at his subconscious. He finally slapped it down and held it up.
It was a simple five-word question.
Why had Barbara married Ray?
What had led her to walk away from him and find solace in the arms of the most brutal cop on the force? She said that it was sweet to see tenderness in such a huge, seemingly brutish man.
Shane had known Ray almost from the day he'd joined the force, and he had never seen tenderness. Ray Molar was buffalo meat. His temper was always close to the surface, hiding there, waiting to explode. So why had Barbara married him? Why had she made such an obviously miserable choice?
With that question came another.
What weakness in her had caused her not to see Ray for what he was? Of course, Shane had also been fooled at first. But he'd had Ray as a partner. Having a kick-ass partner was considered a life-insurance policy in police work. Shane had misevaluated for reasons of his own survival. Why had Barbara been fooled?
His mind left that half-chewed thought and began on another. He had physical desire for her. He had once thought he loved her, but yesterday afternoon at Shutters, she had seemed to be trying to start up their relationship on the heels of Ray's death. He could understand cerebrally why this might be: she was lonely and scared, and Ray had been abusing her. She had come to hate him, but…
Ray had been her husband for twelve years. She had once slept in his arms. Yet his death seemed to hold no consequences for her. Shane had despised Ray, but he had not felt the same way since he'd squeezed off the round from his Mini-Cougar and watched his bullet explode in Ray's head. The picture of that death was on a macabre bulletin board in his psyche. He could not do anything without walking past it. Yet Barbara had no remorse, no guilt, no misgivings. To her, Ray's death was the doorway to her future. What did that say? What did it mean? Had he been too young, immature, and blinded by lust to see any of her shortcomings back then? Had she changed… or had he?
Shane looked at his watch. He was surprised to see that it was just a few minutes to twelve. He finished the case he was Xeroxing, then, following instructions, he put the copies in a manila envelope and addressed them to the defense rep involved. Then he put the packet in the OUT basket, where it would be picked up and sent off by registered mail.
He shut off the Xerox, locked the office door, dropped the key with Mavis, and headed out of the Bradbury Building on his lunch hour make that half hour.
Shane wasn't hungry, so he decided to check on his Scientific Investigation Section request. He began to walk the four blocks to Main Street, where Parker Center was located. He needed to clear his mind. He made it a brisk outing, his arms swinging hard, his stride even and quick. When he got halfway there, he ran into another movie barricade. He badged his way through, walking along the sidewalk while wary assistant directors with head-mikes and walkie-talkies clipped on their belts glared at him. He was ignoring their barricades, trespassing on their superiority.
"You're in our shot, sir," one of them yelled.
Shane hurried along. Arnold was across the street with the director, engaged in an animated discussion. There was a lot of gesturing and arm waving. Tourists and downtown office workers stood behind the barricades, holding their cameras at port arms, hoping for a shot while streetpeople angrily cursed this invasion of their living space.
Shane got to Parker Center and moved quickly to the Scientific Investigations Section on the seventh floor. He went down the corridor, hoping to remain invisible. Occasionally somebody would look at him, grab the arm of a companion, and start whispering. Shane could write the dialogue: "That's him, right over there. Can you believe it? He shot Lieutenant Molar… they used to be partners."
He got to SIS and asked for the results of his laundry tag analysis. A middle-aged woman with thick, red-rimmed Sally Jessy Raphael glasses leaned across the counter with the results. "We got lucky. Most of the laundries in the database are local; this one is a ways away, but was still inside the sample area."
Shane looked at the printout. "Mountain Cleaners, Lake Arrowhead," he read aloud.
"That's what the computer says," she replied. Then almost as an afterthought: "I don't know if you missed it, but on the inside of the tag is a date, April tenth."
"Thanks," he said. "You're right, I missed it."
He moved away from the desk with the printout. The address was on Pine Tree Lane in Lake Arrowhead. He left Parker Center for the walk back to Broadway and Third, wondering why Ray Molar was getting his shirts done in Lake Arrowhead, and whether it really mattered.
Arrowhead was a two-hour drive up in the mountains. Shane had been there once or twice before. He remembered that the town sat in wooded splendor, around the ten-mile circumference of a beautiful freshwater lake. The community was picturesque, catering mostly to artists, writers, and L. A. refugees. A lot of old Hollywood royalty had built huge mansions on the lake in the thirties, and some of these houses still existed out-of-place old European-style homes with their stone walls and slate roofs.
When he got back to IAD, he picked up his key and trudged back down to the Xerox room. He unlocked the door and saw that a new case had been shoved through the mail slot. He picked it up and glanced at it as he walked across the room to drop it on the IN pile. Just as he was setting it down, he saw the name on the face sheet: PATROLMAN I JOSEPH CHURCH.
Shane stopped and looked at the sheet again. Joe Church was the patrolman who had escorted him yesterday morning, red light and siren, to see Chief Brewer. He flipped through the file, reading quickly.
According to the charges, three weeks ago Patrolman Church had been in a Code Thirty burglary car. He had accepted a call on a "hot ringer" in Southwest. A Hoover Street jewelry store was being robbed. It was a "There Now" call. Church had "rogered" the transmission but had not shown up for almost forty-five minutes. His Mobile Data Terminal showed him as being three blocks away. When he finally got there, the owner of the store had been beaten almost to death, and was still in the USC Medical Center. The IOs on the case stated that Church claimed he had never received the call, despite the fact that he had rogered it, and all of his communications and times were logged on his MDT as well as in the Communications Center.
Shane dropped the case back on the pile, not attaching much significance to it, except for one stray thought: Why would an officer whom the chief of police had just personally directed to an IAD Board of Rights be given a special assignment by the chief to pick up and escort Shane to his office? It didn't make sense. But then, nothing that had been going on lately made much sense.
He turned on the Xerox machine and spent the rest of the day burning copies in the hot, narrow room.
Shane punched out at five-thirty, walked back to his car next door, and headed to Harvard Westlake.
Chooch was sitting alone on the curb. Everyone else had been picked up. He stood slowly, then dragged both his book bag and ass over to the car and got in.
"Sorry. We're gonna have to make new arrangements for the pickup. I can't get back here till five forty-five. I sent you a message. I hope they gave it to you."
Chooch was strangely quiet. He just nodded.
Shane put the car in gear and headed up onto the freeway, back to Venice.
"Did you have some kinda talk with Mr. Thackery?" Chooch finally asked after almost ten minutes of silence.
"No, why?" Shane said, glancing over at him.
"I don't know. He pulled me out of study hall. It was like he was a different guy, wants to be my bud. He said I was gonna get another chance, that he had gone to bat for me."
"I'll bet your mom called and set him straight. Sandy did pretty good, huh? I'm telling ya, you got your mother down in the wrong column, Chooch."
"Yeah… What column is that, the 'Don't bother me, I'm always busy' column? She's had me in boarding school since second grade. Up at Webb School in Ventura, I never even got to come home at Christmas. I was the only kid left in the dorm over the holidays. I was being watched by custodians… had to eat at the headmaster's house. Sandy's some mom, all right. We gotta get her a Mother's Day award."
"People aren't always what they appear to be," Shane persisted. "Your mom has reasons. Her job takes her away a lot. She's trying to give you a great education. She wants you to have a good start in life."
"Thackery said if I have any problems, or if I want to talk, I should look him up," Chooch said, changing the subject. "As if I'd even tell that dickhead which way was due north."
"Look, Chooch, if he's changing his tune, don't hawk a lugie at him."
"He's a prick."
"Yeah, maybe. Or maybe he's had a change of heart. If he's trying to cut you some slack, take it."
"And you believe him?"
"Yeah. Yeah, sure, I believe him. Hey, look, Thackery may be okay underneath all that Latin he quotes. Maybe he's just a guy who's scared, like us."
The Tin Collector s-1 Page 10
