The Good Cop cr-4

by Brad Parks

  But that’s only the first step. Holders of a valid Firearms Purchaser Identification Card must then obtain a separate Permit to Purchase a Handgun for each individual gun they wish to buy. That requires filling out another form with the local police-with another minimum thirty-day wait and another thorough background check-and can again require fingerprinting, though the police chief has the discretion to waive that requirement if fingerprints already exist on file and valid identification is presented.

  Once a person has obtained both permits, the latter of which is only good for ninety days, they may then purchase a single handgun from a licensed dealer. If they can find one. The onerous nature of the state’s gun laws pushed many dealers out of business decades ago. In most of the state’s cities-including Newark and Camden, its most violent municipalities-there are no retail outlets that sell guns.

  The result of all this regulation means that, each year, at least three out of every four guns used to commit a crime in New Jersey come from outside the state. And those are just the guns that are traceable. According to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, the origin of roughly half the guns recovered by law enforcement in New Jersey cannot be determined. The record-keeping is either incomplete or nonexistent; or the guns’ serial numbers have been obliterated. It is widely assumed these guns come from states whose laws allow guns to be acquired more easily.

  Indeed, New Jersey’s laws-enacted in response to the epidemic of gun violence that has plagued its cities for decades-have had the unintended consequence of proving that old NRA bumper sticker: when you outlaw guns, only outlaws will have guns.

  If anything, Red Dot Enterprises hoped New Jersey’s gun control laws would get tougher.

  It would mean even less competition.

  CHAPTER 3

  The anointed man of God prattled on for a while about Jesus, Lady Justice, heroism, and other topics on which he felt he could speak with some authority. There were a lot of pretty words and some fine elocution, though anyone listening carefully would have heard that he wasn’t offering any real information. To distill it to one sentence: the family of Darius Kipps didn’t know much, just that they weren’t buying the official version they were being sold.

  Midway through the sermon, I saw Tina Thompson leave her roost and scurry three doors down to the corner office, where Harold Brodie presided. I wanted to alert her to what was happening, but she was heading in the wrong direction and I didn’t want to miss anything on the off chance the good reverend said something useful.

  He didn’t, of course. But once he got himself wound down, he invited Mrs. Kipps to the podium. Next to him, she looked small, and she was partially obscured by the microphones, which had been set at the right height for a six-foot-six minister, not his five-foot-five parishioner. She was gripping a folded piece of paper, from which she read:

  “Darius Kipps was a proud father, a caring husband, and a dedicated police officer. Under no circumstance would he take his own life. We are calling for this investigation in the hopes that the truth will come out.”

  She stepped away from the podium, with nothing more to say. And, of course, the TV people didn’t need anything else: properly edited, she had just given them the perfect ten-second sound bite. She even punched the words “the truth” to give it the necessary bit of drama.

  Shortly after she finished, the all-news station cut back to the studio, so I never got to see if there was anything more to the performance. Then again, I doubted that any of the questions and answers that followed-if there even were any-would have elucidated much. The Kipps family was making a big, public stink. That was the only takeaway that mattered.

  I was still holding the remote control in my hand, figuring out what to do about any of this, when Tina emerged from Brodie’s office and walked straight for me.

  “Brodie just saw that press conference and he’s decided we need to go after this, guns blazing,” she said. “I guess he feels like he owes it to this minister guy after the rough ride we gave him a little while back. You got enough stuff to put together something by maybe eight, eight thirty? Lead with the family calling for the investigation, get the AG’s office comment, then pad it out with all that touchy-feely stuff about him and the G.I. Joe dolls.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I made a display of walking around her, bending down and pointed toward her behind.

  “Oh, hey, look at that!” I exclaimed.

  “What?” she said, trying to look back at what I was doing.

  “I think there are some monkeys flying out of your ass.”

  She stuck her hands on her hips and looked in another direction.

  “I just don’t know if I want to waste my time on a nonstory like this,” I said.

  As she sighed, I continued: “I have copy due on something else by the end of the week, and the editor, let me tell you, she won’t accept any excuses for it not being done because she’s never wrong.”

  I stopped for a moment just to make sure, you know, we were still having fun with this. And I think we were.

  Or maybe it was just that I was having enough fun for two because she finally said, “Are you finished?”

  “Let me think about it,” I said, paused for five seconds, then added, “Yes, I think I am.”

  “Great. Then please get to work. Brodie has a massive, throbbing woodie for this”-it was Eagle-Examiner tradition that Brodie’s interest in stories was often described in penis metaphors-“and he’s even talking about splashing it out front. He’s going to stick around to make sure it’s something he likes. So don’t dawdle.”

  “Ja, mein Fuhrer,” I said.

  I returned to my desk, glancing up at the clock on the way: 5:48. After hours.

  Fortunately, the AG’s spokesman was a former Eagle-Examiner reporter. This was one of the few benefits of all the buyouts, layoffs, and other staff reductions that had ravaged our numbers through the years: many of the high-level public relations people in the state were former colleagues, having switched from covering the news to slanting it. Ben Hilfiker had left us a few years ago after a long and distinguished stint doing stories about the attorney general’s office and the state police, so I had his cell phone number programmed in mine.

  “Uh-oh,” he said, “the state’s largest newspaper is calling. It must be very, very important.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know a lazy government bureaucrat like yourself probably left the office two hours ago, but you think you can give me a comment on something?”

  “I wish I left two hours ago. I’m still here. I tell you, I can’t speak for the rest of Trenton, but there are still a lot of lights on in this place right now.”

  I told him to save the spin for someone else, then enlightened him about the LeRioux-Kipps press conference-which, as I suspected, he hadn’t seen. He grumbled a few unmentionable words about how this better not screw up his date with a Devils game and a beer, then said, “Okay, let me check with my boss. I’m guessing you’ll need this for first edition?”

  “Yep, Brodie wants copy by eight. That going to be a problem?”

  With any other flak, I would have said seven thirty. That was the downside of dealing with a Ben Hilfiker: he knew our deadlines.

  “No, that should be okay. He’s out of pocket right now, but I think he’s having dinner with Mrs. Attorney General later on. As long as I get him before his second martini, I should have something for you.”

  I thanked him and got to work. I would be surprised if the AG wouldn’t at least pay lipservice to looking into it. The attorney general of the State of New Jersey is not an elected official. He serves at the pleasure of the governor. That might seem to make the position less political, but, if anything, it was more. An elected AG at least knew he had four years to do his job before he faced the voters. An appointed one could get bounced at any time.

  And in this case, I knew that Pastor Al-whose eight thousand worshippers included a lot of old ladies who voted as religiously as they atten
ded church-had stumped for the governor the last election. The AG would know that, too. Mimi Kipps had chosen her friends wisely.

  Then again, politics cut all ways. The mayor of Newark was a Democrat, like the governor. And if Newark’s police director put in a phone call to the mayor, who put in a phone call to the governor? Well, it could complicate matters.

  I left a blank spot in the story for the AG’s comment, then put in a perfunctory call to the Newark Police Department. Unsurprisingly, the spokesman on duty told me the department was standing by its statement that “Evidence gathered at the scene supports a preliminary determination that Detective Sergeant Darius Kipps died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

  The next two hours fled by as they often do when you suddenly find yourself writing a thousand words on deadline. I was nearing the end when Hilfiker called back.

  “Hey, got anything for me?” I asked.

  “Yeah, you ready?”

  “Go.”

  He read: “The attorney general’s office is aware of the request for an independent investigation into the circumstances surrounding the death of Detective Darius Kipps. We hope to make a determination within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours as to whether such an investigation would be appropriate.”

  I waited for the rest of it, but there was nothing more coming. “So in other words he’s waiting to see which way the wind is blowing?”

  “More like how hard it’s blowing. But you get the idea.”

  “I was hoping for something a little more definitive. You sure that’s the best you can do?”

  “I got him midway through his second martini,” Hilfiker said. “You’re lucky I got anything at all.”

  * * *

  It took another half hour to finish the story, and Tina was doing what I call “the semihover” all the while. Basically, she didn’t want to make it seem like she was cruising over my shoulder. But she also seemed to be walking in my part of the newsroom more than she normally might.

  I hit the Send button at 8:28, gave Tina a thumbs-up, then stretched my legs, doing a brief stroll just to get my circulation back. I was starving but stayed away from the break room. The thought of foraging dinner from the vending machines was too depressing. There had been too many vended meals in my past. Maybe I could convince Kira to grab a bite before we started sucking down absinthe. No reason she wouldn’t-the girl weighed ninety-eight pounds but ate like she had a tapeworm.

  When I returned to my desk, I placed a call to Mimi Kipps, just to get the backstory on how Mr. Privacy, Pastor Al, talked her into a press conference. Her phone went straight to voice mail and I didn’t leave a message. My morning had given me enough quotes from Mimi and besides, if Brodie was as amorous toward this story as Tina suggested, there would be more time to talk to Mrs. Kipps in the coming days. Sometimes you have to avoid wearing out a source.

  Mostly because I had time to kill, I started halfheartedly working some digital databases for more background on Darius Kipps-as if finding out he was a registered Democrat was going to make a large difference in my understanding of the man. I still had my head buried in my laptop screen twenty minutes later when Tina approached.

  “Hey, nice job,” she said. “Brodie glanced at it on his way out and said it was fine. But you mind sticking around in case the desk has any issues?”

  “Yeah, actually I do mind. Can’t they just call me?”

  “What, you have a hot date or something?”

  I shrugged. This is where my relationship with Tina was altogether too complicated-moral of story: never get involved with a woman who might end up being your boss-and I thought about keeping my mouth shut. Then again, having started work at the ungodly hour of 8:38, I felt the Eagle-Examiner had gotten enough of my time for one day.

  “Yeah, maybe I do,” I said.

  “Oh, what, with that mousy little thing in the library? What’s her name, anyway? Minnie? Maisy?”

  Tina knew Kira’s name, of course. She was obviously trying to get a rise out of me, and I wasn’t going to take the bait. Don’t engage, don’t engage, don’t engage …

  “You get her to go out with you by offering a wedge of cheese or something?” Tina asked. “You know, peanut butter works better. Or, wait, you’re using those little glue traps, aren’t you? Very humane of you.”

  I kept my jaw clenched. She kept prodding: “Just to warn you, some Irish women don’t age well. I’m sure she looks fine now, but by the time she’s forty, she’ll have more wrinkles than a linen suit.”

  Don’t engage, don’t engage, don’t engage …

  “What do you see in her, anyway?” Tina asked.

  Unable to hold myself in check any longer, I fired back, “I see someone who doesn’t try to screw with my head all the time and is actually interested in a normal, steady relationship. I see someone who doesn’t have a million ridiculous issues about commitment. I see someone who isn’t afraid to fall in love just because she may have failed at it in the past.”

  Tina had been smiling-albeit maliciously-when she was making her mouse jokes. But now the smile had been replaced by this hard mask.

  “Great,” she snarled. “Normal. Committed. Have fun with that, big guy. Does she make you turn the lights out during sex? Keep her eyes closed the whole time?”

  I was going for blood now: “Actually, we mostly do it in public places. She likes it when people watch. She says it makes the orgasms better. Wanna bring your pom-poms sometime? Cheer us on?”

  “If you’re involved? I think I’d rather watch bowling on TV. More action.”

  I inhaled to respond-something about how the pins probably stood a better chance of getting knocked up than her-then stopped myself. I just couldn’t believe the venom that was coming out of my mouth. Why was I trying to hurt her? For whatever might have happened between Tina and I-and it had been too stunted and strained to ever really find out what it was-we were still friends, or something, at one point. We had cared about each other, or at least I thought we did.

  Now here we were, going after each other like we were on opposite sides of the table in a divorce lawyer’s office, trying to singe each other’s skin with our words.

  She was standing there, braced, like she was waiting for the next salvo. Instead, I said, “Tina, what the hell? Can’t we at least be civil to each other?”

  “Relax. I’m just busting your chops. Don’t take it so seriously. There’s no need to get all girly on me.”

  “Ah, so you’re not at all upset that I started dating Kira? Because, you know, the way you’ve been acting around me lately I would beg to differ.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said, the mask still in place. “Because I asked you to stay late tonight rather than … whatever you were going to do?”

  “Tina, we barely talk anymore…”

  “You think I really care that much what you do after work? Don’t flatter yourself. Look, you’re a damn good reporter-my best, if you have to know. That’s the only thing that matters to me. Whatever chick you’re bouncing on your balls is none of my business.”

  “You’re … you’re really going to play that game?”

  “It’s no game, stud,” she said. “Anyhow, since you’re not sticking around, I have to. Someone has to make sure the desk doesn’t massacre this thing. Have a nice night. Just keep your cell on, okay?”

  She walked away without bothering to hear my answer.

  * * *

  I was in such a foul mood about Tina, I forgot all about dinner-which would prove to be something of a mistake-and instead talked Kira into leaving five minutes early. It was either that or lure her into making out in Tina’s office. And I figured that would just make things worse.

  We got in my Malibu and started driving toward an address just off University Avenue. I half expected she might have changed into after-work garb-Kira seemed to celebrate Halloween roughly a hundred times a year-but she was still in the dark pink sweater set she had worn to work.

 
; “So tell me about this party we’re going to,” I said as I maneuvered out of the parking garage.

  “Well, it’s hosted by this guy named Powell.”

  “Powell? Is that his first name or his last name?”

  “Actually, his name is Paul,” Kira said. “But he prefers people pronounce it Powell. Like he’s foreign. He’s really from Mahwah. I guess he thinks it gives him mystique.”

  “Ah, mystique.”

  “Yeah, he’s a bit of a character.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Wait until you meet him,” she said, lightly tracing the bones of my right hand with her fingers. “He is getting a Ph.D. in what he calls ‘Death Studies.’”

  “I didn’t realize Rutgers-Newark offered courses in Death Studies.”

  “They didn’t until Powell came along. I’m not sure how he talked them into it. He’s basically just making it up as he goes along. He takes courses from the School of Criminal Justice, the Law School, even the Nursing School.”

  “The nursing school has a course on death?”

  “Oh, I have no idea. I met him because he was taking a library sciences class at the New Brunswick campus. I think maybe he just likes being a student.”

  “I’m sure his parents love that,” I said.

  “I think they have enough money that it doesn’t really matter.”

  “Mmm,” I said, and left it at that. A guy with my background couldn’t exactly make a wisecrack about the Lucky Sperm Club simply because I didn’t have a trust fund waiting for me.

  We drove until I pulled up in front of a five- or six-story industrial-looking building badly in need of a paint job. A hundred years ago it might have been some kind of flourishing factory. But now it was dark and appeared to be abandoned.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s the coolest thing. It’s this loft. I think the lower floors are still being renovated by someone who is going to turn it into condos or something. But they started with the top floor and that’s where Powell lives.”