Bullet Beth (George Hastings police procedural)

by James Patrick Hunt

  “What about the funeral?”

  “She brought the kids up here for it.”

  Hastings stared at her for a moment. “Didn’t you talk to her then?”

  “No,” Tudi Rodgers said. She seemed to take some satisfaction in it.

  “All right,” Hastings said. “One more thing. There was a report that when you were told Johnny was dead, you said something like, ‘Well, he finally did it.’ Do you remember that?”

  “I might have said something like that.”

  “What did you mean by it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  “I guess I thought he finally died.”

  “You mean committed suicide?”

  “I didn’t so much mean suicide.”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  Tudi Rodgers looked back to the restaurant again, putting her hands together.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I meant that the wages of sin finally got him.”

  “When you say sin, do you mean sodomy? Homosexuality?”

  “No. I mean his drinking and drug use. And not just that. There are other things.” She paused to glare at Hastings. “He was no saint, straight or gay. He was not a nice guy.” She looked at the detective with a newfound defiance, as if to say a life with him had given her the right to speak harshly. “Can I go back to work now? I’ve done enough for you, I don’t think I should have to lose my job too.”

  On the way back to St. Louis, he got a call from his lawyer.

  Brummell said, “I filed a Motion to Dismiss today.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You remember we discussed it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there’s a possibility that we can get you out of the lawsuit on that immunity issue. First, I argued that you were entitled to absolute immunity because your role in the case was quasi-prosecutorial. That is, you assisted the prosecution in preparing the case for trial. You sat at the table with them, helped them prepare the evidence, etc. The second argument I made was for qualified immunity, which is a little more complex. I argued that there were no set of facts for which you could be held liable.”

  “How do you feel about it? Will it be granted?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Hastings waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. Hastings thanked him and they said goodbye.

  The road unfolded before him. Hastings tried not to get his hopes up, but he envisioned the motion to dismiss being granted soon, the cup taken from him.

  A few minutes later, he called Aaron Peterson.

  Hastings said, “I found a note in Johnny’s car saying he was to meet B.B. at eight o’clock. Who’s B.B.?”

  “B.B.?” Aaron said. “No one I know.”

  “Know of anyone with those initials?”

  “No.”

  “He never spoke of anyone with those initials?”

  “No. Listen,” Aaron said. “Are you still going to want to talk to Jeff?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll call him.”

  “Well we can meet you tonight if you want to come over.”

  Hastings hesitated. He looked out the window as if the view would give him an answer. It didn’t.

  Hastings said, “No, that won’t work. I’m going to need to talk with him alone.”

  “I’d like to be there,” Aaron said, pressing.

  “You can’t,” Hastings said. “Sorry, Aaron, but this is going to have be done on my terms.”

  “What if he wants to have a lawyer present?”

  “That’s his right. Does he want one present?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll talk to him about it.”

  “Yeah, well, when you talk to him about it, make sure you don’t try to tell him what he should say or not say to me. Because that would make me very disappointed.”

  “I won’t,” Aaron said, being defensive now.

  “Good,” Hastings said. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Asshole, Hastings thought.

  Who was it who said Aaron was kind of a squirrel? Anna, the owner of the salon. He wondered if Aaron was playing games with him. Still, it was hard to imagine Aaron killing anyone. Maybe his partner had done it and Aaron was covering for him. Or they were covering for each other. Aaron struck Hastings as one of those people who would hedge and lie even when it wasn’t in his interest to do so. Trying to be clever and above people. A squirrel.

  In any case, the question is asked: who benefits? Who would benefit from the death of Johnny Rodgers?

  His wife, possibly. If Rodgers had had some sort of life insurance policy that would give benefits to her or her children. Rodgers had worked for a large pharmaceutical corporation. Maybe he would have gotten a life insurance policy that way.

  His father?

  No benefit. Perhaps the relief of no longer having to worry about having a gay son. An exit from shame. But William Rodgers had an alibi. Besides, he was no killer. His grief over his son’s death, and life, had been genuine. Hastings had liked William Rodgers. He thought he was a fundamentally decent man. He had not been happy that his son was homosexual. Perhaps his views on the subject were not entirely progressive, but what could be expected from a man of his age and background? And who was to say how Hastings himself would react if he had a son like Johnny? William Rodgers made Hastings think of his own father. Like Rodgers senior, Hastings’s father had been a religious man. Unlike Rodgers, Hastings’s dad had been a jerk. He used religion as a weapon, used it to tear down his wife and those closest to him. He was not violent, but he was a bully all the same, mean spirited and devoid of any warm feeling. Hastings did not mourn his passing. But he cried like a baby at his mother’s funeral, sorry for her death and her life, sorry that she had given so much of her life to a man who probably wasn’t capable of caring for anyone. Hastings’s experiences with his father had made him cynical about religion. Yet when he reached his middle years he wondered if the whole thing was just a coincidence. Joe Klosterman, his closest friend, was a man of faith and was one of the most decent people Hastings had ever known. Would he have been like that without the Catholic church? Or was that too just a coincidence?

  Strangely, his discussion with William Rodgers had made Hastings angry at the son. Would it have killed Johnny to ask for his father’s understanding or forgiveness? Or had Johnny scorned his father as Hastings had scorned his?

  Hastings called Klosterman.

  Klosterman said, “Are you on your way back?”

  “Yeah. Anything new?”

  “Haven’t heard back from the fingerprint people yet. Hey, did you hear about the dog story on the news?”

  “No.”

  “You know Jimmy Cremin? He’s a patrol officer on the south beat?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he responds to a call about a fucking pit bull dog running after people in the street, children now, and he goes out to the house and this ten year old kid answers the door and the dog is right there, snarling and snapping at Cremin. Well right away Cremin’s scared shitless. He knows what a pit bull can do to you. Tear your nuts right off. One of those pit bulls killed a child just last month in Fenton. Cremin thought the damn thing would be in the backyard or something. He pulls his weapon and starts shouting at the boy to put the dog away, lock him in the bedroom or something. The kid tells him to go fuck himself, actually uses those words, calls him retard and asshole and then he opens the door to let the dog out. The dog rushes Cremin and Cremin shot it twice in the head. He should’ve shot that fucking kid too.”

  “I didn’t hear about this.”

  “Well, it was on the news and you know how they played it.”

  “Lemme guess: Nazi police officer kills Benji.”

  “Pretty much. You know, when the other cops showed up, the neighbors to a person were thanking Cremin for putting that dog down. It was a total menace, scaring the shit out of everyone. Terrorizing the
neighborhood. And that kid. Fucking crocodile in human form. He was almost as scary as the dog. We’ll be dealing with him in about two years.”

  “The brass back up Cremin?”

  “Oh, yeah. Nobody feels much sympathy for pit bulls or their owners.”

  Hastings said, “In all the years I worked patrol I never once met a pit bull owner who wasn’t a turd. They get those dogs for a reason.”

  Klosterman said, “So how was Kirksville?”

  Hastings told him.

  Klosterman said, “The alibis check out?”

  “Yeah,” Hastings said. “So what do you know about Baptists?”

  “Catholics in drag,” Klosterman said. “No, wait. I got that backwards. A Catholic is a Baptist in drag.”

  Hastings laughed. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Murph said it. His wife’s a Baptist, you know.”

  “Is she?”

  “Yeah. Murph was raised Irish Catholic, but drifted away from it. His wife goes to church though.”

  “She doesn’t seem like one,” Hastings said.

  “What do you mean, doesn’t seem like one? Why, because she’s from Chicago? Because she doesn’t go all apeshit if her daughter goes to a dance?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You got a little learning to do about your protestant faiths there, homey,” Klosterman said. “I thought they made you study theology at St. Louis U.”

  “They did. Six hours. I don’t remember much of it.”

  “That’s because you didn’t want to,” Klosterman said. “See, not every Baptist is a Southern Baptist. They came over here from England, I think. Then there was a schism around the time of the Civil War because the southern Baptists supported slavery.”

  “God’s will?”

  “More like Alabama’s will, which had a way of interpreting the bible so that it was pro slavery. But that was a long time ago. And I think they sort of made a formal apology for it about ten years ago. They’re not as primitive as you think.”

  “What about that preacher in Kansas, says God hates fags?”

  Klosterman thought for a moment. “Oh, that guy? The one that goes to the soldier’s funerals, holds up the signs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, he’s just a nut. That’s the Westboro Baptist Church. The official Baptist church doesn’t support his outfit or what he’s doing. And even those guys never killed anyone. I think the worst thing they’ve done is spit on people.”

  “The families of the soldiers may see it differently.”

  Klosterman said, “Yeah, maybe. You know, when I was a kid, I went to school with some Baptists who gave me shit because I guess there weren’t any Jews around to harass. They said I worshipped statues like all Catholics. I’d fight back, call em’ rednecks and hicks. I enjoyed some of those fights.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “But I don’t really feel any animosity to them anymore. Life’s too short.” Klosterman said, “You see that movie Bruno?”

  “No.”

  “I did. It’s like Borat, only this time he pretends to be a European homo. Anyway, this British guy pretends to be gay and his sole purpose is to make regular American churchgoing folk as uncomfortable as possible. Gets them in situations and tries to upset and embarrass them. But the thing is, he’s the one that comes off looking like an asshole while most of his targets are pretty gracious and understanding. Most Americans are pretty tolerant. Even Baptists. I think his experiment sort of backfired on him.”

  “He made a lot of money, though.”

  “I don’t care. He’s still a fuckhead. Are you thinking about Rodgers’s dad? That he’s some sort of fag-hating nut?”

  “No,” Hastings said. “He seems like a pretty good guy, actually. And his alibi checks out.”

  “What about the sister?”

  “She’s a shitbird. But she’s clean. She didn’t think much of her brother though.”

  He got back to St. Louis a couple of hours later and saw that he had a message from Rupert Lackey, one of the homeowners at the lake. Hastings returned the call and spoke with Lackey.

  They spoke for a few minutes. Lackey said he was a hospital administrator in Kansas City and that he had bought the house at the lake two years ago. He didn’t have any friends or relatives in St. Louis and he had not heard of anyone named Johnny Rodgers.

  Lackey said, “My home wasn’t broken into, was it?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Rodgers’s car was found near your home. That’s all.”

  “And he drowned?”

  “We’re not sure,” Hastings said.

  “Well, I’m sorry I haven’t helped.”

  “You’ve helped,” Hastings said.

  Hastings typed up a summary of this discussion and saved it in his computer. Then he walked out to the hall and into Karen, his captain. He said hello to her and kept moving, but then she stopped and said she wanted to talk.

  Karen said, “I understand you were on the road this morning.”

  Hastings said he was.

  “Kirksville, I believe?” Karen was being clever.

  “Yes,” Hastings said, his tone lacking in patience. “Why?”

  “We had a complaint.”

  “From who?”

  “Tudi Rodgers.”

  “She file a written complaint?”

  “Not from there.”

  “Did she call you?”

  “No, she called administration.”

  “What’s the complaint?’

  “She said you threatened to take away her property.”

  “The car?”

  “Yes.”

  “It wasn’t hers. It belongs to the victim’s children. In any event, I didn’t take it from her. I just told her I wanted to search it.”

  “Did you have a search warrant?”

  “No.”

  “Then you threatened her so you could search it.”

  Hastings sighed. “I talked her into cooperating. I did nothing unlawful. Karen, what is this?”

  “I’m just concerned, that’s all. I’d feel better if I thought you were investigating a homicide.”

  “I am.”

  “You sure? I reviewed the fingerprint report and they didn’t find anything.”

  Hastings thought, shit. It must have been completed after he got off the phone with Klosterman. Karen had gotten a copy of it. Now she was using its inconclusiveness against him. Combining it with the complaint from Tudi Rodgers.

  Karen was still mad at him for going around her on the search of Johnny Rodgers’s apartment. Now she was paying him back. Ambushing him in the hallway.

  Hastings put his anger down and managed to say, “Well, you’ve got me at a disadvantage there, because I haven’t seen that report yet.”

  “George, we don’t have unlimited resources here. You waste man hours on a suicide that took place hundreds of miles from here, I get called on the carpet for it.”

  “When was the last time you got called on the carpet for something like that?”

  “Well…”

  “You’re pissed off that I didn’t check with you before calling in the fingerprint team. I understand that. If you feel disrespected, I assure you that was not my intention. But, Karen, policy doesn’t require me to do that.”

  “I’m your supervising officer.”

  “I understand that. But I’m a supervisor too. And within that context, I am to be granted a certain amount of autonomy.”

  “You are still under my command.”

  “I understand that too. Karen, listen, it doesn’t benefit you to micromanage other supervising officers on individual homicide cases. I know what I’m doing, all right? You’re a captain, not my FTO (field training officer). I’m not undermining you. Don’t undermine me.”

  “Yeah, and what if we get sued again?”

  Hastings stared at Karen. He had never had much respect for her as a police officer and certainly not much as a detective. Still, he was genuinely dumbfounded th
at she would throw something like that at him now. She was angry at him, but still…

  Hastings said, “That is a really — chickenshit thing to say to me.”

  “Well…”

  “If you think Bradbury got acquitted because of something I did wrong, this is the first I’ve heard it.”

  “I didn’t say that. It’s just that the City has to pay for defend these things.”

  Hastings really had to control his temper. Now she was suggesting that he had cost the City money. Not Bradbury or the jury that let him go free. It was his fault. He had probably had a police officer take a cheaper shot at him during his career, but he couldn’t remember when.

  Exercising all his powers of self-control, he looked away from her and said slowly and surely, “Are you ordering me to cease the Rodgers investigation?”

  She didn’t answer right away.

  And Hastings added, “If you are, I would respectfully request that you put that order in writing.”

  “Don’t push me, George. Get it resolved. Soon.”

  Hastings walked into the detective squad room. Klosterman was at his desk on the telephone. He put his hand over the receiver and said, “I got that fingerprint report.”

  “Yeah,” Hastings said. “I know. Will you come in my office when you get off the phone?”

  Klosterman came in later. Hastings asked him to close the door behind him.

  Klosterman said, “No readable latent prints, other than Rodgers’s.” He looked at Hastings for a moment and said, “You said you knew?”

  “Yeah. Karen told me.”

  “Oh.”

  “It seems she got her own copy.”

  “Which means she requested it,” Klosterman said. “She could have just asked me.”

  “No, she wanted to be clever about it. Christ, doesn’t she have other shit to do?”

  “Look, George, don’t sweat it. She does things like that all the time. Don’t let her get to you.”

  Hastings thought about telling Joe about her mentioning the lawsuit. But he decided not to. It would upset Klosterman too and then spread bad morale around the squad room. It should only be his problem. Besides, there was in George Hastings a distaste for tattling. Karen was mean to me…

  “Joe, do you think Rodgers killed himself? Tell me what you think, not what you think I want to hear.”