by Lou Reiter
He didn’t have the normal diversions kids could create since neither of his failed marriages came with any. His first marriage was short-lived. He and his wife were both 19 and in love, actually “in lust” would be a better description of the relationship. The sex had been great and constant. Sex in the bedroom, kitchen, car, and boat. After six months, lust faded and the young couple realized neither one really liked the other. Taylor missed the sex that simply being young brings to a bed.
Taylor’s second marriage was to a LAPD cop. Both were in their second year on the job and it felt right. Unfortunately, his wife was recruited by the DEA and dispatched to their Phoenix office. For a while the commute wasn’t that bad, but it got too much when the DEA transferred her to St. Louis after her first year with the agency. Both felt their marriage couldn’t last and they parted with good feelings and respect for each other.
Taylor spent his first days, well, quite a few weeks, of retirement at the gym. He wasn’t a big man, but had maintained a good muscle tone and kept his weight in check. He spent an hour every day on a cardio machine. Another hour was occupied with free weights and stretching exercises. He would salivate when he read gossip about the LAPD in the Times. He didn’t get many calls from his old buddies, but in fairness, he didn’t call them either. Poof—it seemed as though he didn’t exist on the planet any longer.
Taylor knew he had to get out of this rut. He knew his vague routine would slowly eat away at his drive and ambition and he would eventually start questioning his self worth. But, what the hell was he going to do?
He needed a trip out of Los Angeles!
How Taylor ended up in Santa Fe wasn’t important. What was significant was that he liked the town, weather, outdoor activities, food, and art. The yuppies and hippies were another thing. By the end of his first year in retirement, he was a full-fledged resident of Santa Fe with a rented condo and beat-up Jeep Wrangler. He was even thinking of adopting a ponytail and earring.
One day Taylor was eating his usual breakfast at Tia Sophia just off the old square. Old Sophia’s was his favorite breakfast spot. Mostly locals or those working in the Old Town shops and art galleries settled into the tight booths or crowded onto the few rotating seats at the narrow counter. Tia Sophia was a small, narrow restaurant, almost Pullman style. Two rows of booths lined the outer walls with wooden, high backed benches well worn by years of loyal customers. The huevos rancheros were sumptuous, particularly smothered with Hatch green chili sauce. Sometimes Taylor drove down to Albuquerque to have breakfast at Garcia’s for a change of scenery. But, he always favored original Garcia’s restaurant, not those new ones the family started up in the yuppie parts of town. Taylor liked the days when a cook was stationed in the parking lot tending a rolling barrel heated by the propane tank below, blackening fresh chili peppers for the next day’s menu. You could actually hear those suckers pop as air escaped the pods. Get too close to that action and your eyes would burn like hell.
Suddenly his solitary breakfast was interrupted when someone slid into the wooden bench across from him. It was a small guy in a buckskin sport coat crowning a pair of starched and pressed jeans. A plaid shirt, bolo tie, and well worn cowboy boots completed his uniform. The cowboy character carried a leather folder with the Seal of New Mexico heavily embossed on the front.
“Luke McKinney,” the bolo said as he extended his hand. “You’re Chief Sterling, aren’t you? Used to be with the LAPD?”
“Guilty as charged, but I’m just Taylor now. And you?”
Turned out the Luke guy was an adjuster for the State Risk Division and was investigating a fatal shooting involving a state police trooper. An attorney in Santa Fe was making a shitpot load of money from filing civil suits against police agencies involved in shootings. Cowboy Luke wanted someone to look at the case and give advice about potential liability issues. Taylor jumped at the chance to work on the case and was back in the saddle once again. From that one case, word of mouth, and the Internet, Taylor Sterling became a sought-after police consultant. Life was good.
Taylor told the desk lady in Greenwood Village that he had an appointment with the Chief of Police and offered his business card. She picked up her phone and whispered something into the receiver.
“The Chief is expecting you. Go down that hall. Wait for the door to buzz.”
Chief Watkins’ office was located in a far corner of the building. Taylor had to traverse by a portly woman in the outside office who must have been the chief’s secretary. She didn’t say a word, simply pointed to the open door beyond her desk. She did give Taylor a curt smile.
Chief Watkins looked the part. He was wearing a field service uniform, dark blue with a gold stripe running down the side of each leg. Four stars blasted on each collar. As he got up, Taylor noticed he wasn’t wearing a full equipment belt, instead he wore a holstered Glock, one of the smaller versions. Maybe a Model 24. Chief Watkins had silver hair, matching Taylor’s. But, he obviously spent less time at the gym and more at the feedbag than Taylor did. They might have been the same age, but then the chief might have just forgotten to care for himself.
“Chief Watkins, Taylor Sterling here,” Taylor announced extending his hand. It was a good firm grip.
“Chief Sterling. Heard a lot about you. You come with baggage. Some good; some not so good. Guess it depends who you’re asking or who’s been taken to the wood shed.”
“I don’t go by Chief anymore, boss. Call me Taylor. Some folks like me; others don’t.”
“Well, the Insurance Pool thinks you’re the great white shark. They put a lot of credit in your work. They say you’ve helped them get out of some sticky situations. Not sure what I’ve got, but I’m willing to listen,” the chief said as he spit into a stained Styrofoam cup.
“I heard you did your active time with LAPD? Worked some IA there?”
“True. Twenty years. Only thing different about a big city department is you get to experience just about everything. Sometimes more often than you want.”
“Well, this here problem is new to me, Taylor. Got a call a couple of days ago from the Women’s Advocate Group out of Chicago. They run a rape hotline number. Woman I talked with says they’ve had two or three calls in the last couple months about some cop raping women. Best they can figure it might be here in the Village. Of course it could be a phony cop with a blue light in his car. I just never heard of cops doing something like that.”
“Chief, you’ve been spared. Unfortunately it’s happening everywhere in big and small departments. Rape. Porn. Child porn and sex. If you can imagine it, it’s been done in spades. Cops going to prison for 10, 15 years for on-duty rape. And it’s not just the young guys. Older cops are involved, too.”
“Taylor, you got whatever you need on this end. I haven’t contacted the State Police yet. Figured you might have other plans. I’ll introduce you to Captain Reeves. He’s my second in command. Never worked any IA, me neither. We usually only get bitching about a ticket or cops being rude. The Insurance Pool said this kinda stuff was right up your alley.”
“Unfortunately, it is. Can I use your secretary if necessary?”
The chief nodded his approval.
“For now let’s keep everything within our little circle. Cops can be the worst rumor mongers around. And if you call in the State Police, you can be assured that it’ll stop any reasonable attempt to keep the investigation yours. Can you give me the name and number of the person who contacted you from the Women’s Group? Also, can you give me a copy of your SOP Manual and the current Collective Bargaining Agreement with the FOP?”
As the chief jotted down the name and number he said, “No problem.” He yelled to his secretary to get the manual and CBA.
“I guess I can reach you at the cell number on your card? Say, where will you be staying?”
“Either the cell or the listed e-mail, boss. I’m over at the Courtyard in Rialto.”
“How come not here in the Village, Taylor?”
“Just a practice that’s served me well on police audits and investigations. Fewer eyes and ears. Never know who you’re sitting next to or doing business with.”
*****
Taylor found the Women’s Advocacy Group office in a small building complex west of downtown Chicago, just off Milwaukee Street. It was a tired, old neighborhood of working class people. No chain stores lined the street where the WAG office was positioned above a weave and curl shop. Cynthia Good, the director, met Taylor outside her office door, guiding him inside and motioning to one of the chairs at a small round conference table.
“Mr. Sterling, Chief Watkins called and said you would be coming. This is the first time we’ve had anything like this called in on our hotline. I mean, we’ve had calls in the past about misconduct involving a cop, but this time three callers are saying the abuser was a police officer in the same town. I’m glad the chief has responded to my call. You say you’re a consultant working with the police department?” She looked down at Taylor’s business card.
“That’s correct. The Insurance Pool has hired me to look into this matter. Both the Pool and Chief Watkins felt the Village PD was too small and didn’t really have someone on board with the expertise to handle this type allegation.”
“Now, Mr. Sterling, you do realize I have to maintain a strict sense of confidentiality on this issue?”
“That’s true of any hotline operation, normally. I want to ask you a couple questions, however.” Ms. Good nodded and extended her open palm as an invitation for Taylor to continue. “Did your operators indicate anything significant about the three calls?”
She considered the question and said, “Well, yes. They all felt the callers were Latina, based on a combination of accents and first names. No one gave a last name.” The director paused and then continued, “Each caller was pretty sure they were in Greenwood Village when the incident occurred.”
“Was there a similarity in times or days of the week? I mean, when the assaults occurred?”
“I can’t recall whether the day of the week was identified. Most callers don’t specify that. But all the callers said the incidents occurred during the early morning hours, say after midnight.”
“That’s very helpful for my investigation, Ms. Good. Do you think any of the callers would be willing to discuss the issue with me?”
She pondered his question. “The one last week might. It actually was the roommate of the woman assaulted who called us.”
“Do you have a way of making contact?”
“Most of our calls have a caller ID and most of our volunteers manning the hotline will copy that. I can see if that’s the case here.”
“Can you try to contact her? It would be extremely helpful.”
“Give me a couple days. Can I reach you at the Greenwood Village police department?”
“Use either Chief Watkins’ direct line or my cell number. I’m staying in Rialto.”
Taylor was hopeful that this line would prove useful. Certainly the information Ms. Good had given him was very specific. The targeted women appeared to be Latinas and the incidents seemed to be occurring on the graveyard shift.
Taylor returned to the Greenwood Village police station and looked up Capt. Reeves. Mike Reeves was in his 40s. During preliminary introductions, Taylor learned that this was Reeves’ only experience in police work. He’d been with the Village for 15 years. He’d attended the Command School at Northwestern and was hoping to get a spot at the FBI National Academy. Competition for acceptance was fierce. The greatest benefit was the networking the academy provided; it was a preliminary step to eventually landing a job as police chief. Of course, it was always good to have twelve weeks away from home at the FBI Academy in Virginia on the city’s nickel.
Taylor asked Captain Reeves to explain how traffic citations are written by Village officers.
“We haven’t gotten into the new electronic method yet. Budget is always an issue with the Village. That’s why we don’t have videos in the cars. We still use the old ticket book system. There are 20 citations in each book. Each citation has four copies. The original goes to the violator. The next two copies are routed to Traffic Court and the last one stays with the book.”
“Yeah, that’s the system I had years ago. What happens to the used books?’
“They’re retained. There’s a place for them in the property/evidence room. We destroy them after three years.”
“Can you get me one book from each of your graveyard shift officers? You don’t need a whole bunch. Let’s say, give me the last one turned in by each officer.”
“Okay. Come on back in a few hours and we can go over them together. I might be able to help you understand our system.”
“Thanks, Mike. Remember this is just between you, me, and the chief.”
*****
Taylor returned to the Village police station after getting the call from Captain Reeves. He found him in Chief Watkins’ office.
“Hey, Taylor. Found something interesting. I was just briefing the chief on it. Graveyard has five officers under one sergeant. The sergeant hardly writes any tickets. But what was interesting was the ratio of men to women ticketed.”
“Mike, you’re one step ahead of me. That was something I was going to ask you to do but forgot.”
“Four of the guys write essentially the same ratio, or maybe cite a little higher percentage of men. Officer Reynolds, however, wrote 18 of the 20 tickets to women! That’s got to mean something, don’t you think?”
“Means a lot, Mike. But let me look at his ticket book,” Taylor replied.
Taylor first surveyed the ages. Nothing stood out there. Then he turned the book over and looked at the backside of each ticket. These had no printing on them. But several had penciled notations—BT, FA, PT, NC, LT, FB. He recited those letters to the other two men.
“Any idea what these mean?” Taylor asked. Both men shook their heads. Taylor continued, “Sometimes officers write notes on the back of their tickets. They use codes in case they get called into court. It refreshes their recall of the encounter. But these may have some other meaning. These might be sexual or kinky. I think I’ll check up on it.”
“What do you mean by check up on it?” Chief Watkins asked.
“I’ll take a look and see whether one notation stands out and pay the lady a visit.”
“Won’t that open the door for people to know what we’re going?” Mike Reeves asked.
“No, I’ll do it as a quality control audit. Tell them we do this all the time to make sure our officers are courteous and professional,” Taylor explained as he found a ticket with the notation PT, BT. He turned the ticket over and handed it to Reeves. “Shirley Jones. Where’s this Fieldcrest Manors?”
Taylor recalled something Cynthia Good of the Women’s Advocacy said and took the ticket book back. He leafed through each of the tickets Reynolds had written to females and surveyed the race of each. All were marked either Caucasian or Black. He went back over them again to review the last names. None seemed to be Hispanic in origin. Taylor realized that some officers might simply check Black or Caucasian depending on the skin tone. He remembered Ms. Good told him her hotline operators thought each woman caller was a Latina. It appeared that Officer Reynolds didn’t write traffic tickets to Latinas.
*****
Taylor reached Shirley Jones by telephone. Surprisingly she was receptive to discussing her encounter with Officer Reynolds, but wanted to meet away from her home. She agreed to meet Taylor at the Rialto Courtyard where he was staying.
Taylor was sitting in the lobby when he saw whom he thought was Shirley walk through the door. The woman appeared attractive from a distance.
Taylor was the only person in the lobby at that time in the afternoon and the woman headed his way. She was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and a very short black leather skirt. Both looked to be at least one size too small. Shirley also wore a faux leopard skin waist length jacket. Her purse was clearly Coach. Her blond
hair was fashioned in an upsweep, held in place by two glitzy combs. Not much of her moved as she walked over to where Taylor was sitting.
“Ms. Jones. Or is it Mrs.?”
“Shirley is better,” the woman said as she offered her hand. She sat down in the chair immediately opposite Taylor. Her skirt rose slightly over her thigh revealing the tops of her nylons and the lower part of a nude shaded garter belt. She didn’t bother to rearrange herself as she stared at Taylor with her lips slightly parted.
“Shirley, I’m Taylor Sterling. Taylor is fine. I’m doing an audit of the Greenwood Village Police Department. Many police agencies like to do these. They show how well the agency is doing, or not doing.” Taylor watched as the woman continued to focus her stare at Taylor.
“Public opinion is very important these days. Police chiefs want to make certain the cops on the beat are treating the public respectfully and professionally. Your encounter with Officer Reynolds was simply picked at random. I’m glad you’re willing to meet with me.”
“Officer Reynolds! He was a tight assed prick. Excuse my language. Cost me $134.” Shirley smiled when she uttered “tight assed prick.”
“What did he specifically do that irritated you?”
“I was just playing around with him, you know. Just being a little flirtatious. I like men. Other than my husband, that is. But Officer Reynolds just turned me off. Kind of like I wasn’t even there. Do you mind?” she said as she slipped out of her coat. Her breasts didn’t move as she leaned back into the chair to further accentuate their impressive size.
“He did use unprofessional language, though, but maybe I instigated it. On a dime he suddenly turned cold. Just the facts bullshit, you know. I was just playing around with him. I didn’t want to get in his pants or anything. The prick just turned cold and laid that ticket on me. I haven’t decided whether I’m going to pay it or take him to court. I’ll probably pay it. Don’t really care to see his ass again. Now, you, maybe you’d like to spend some time with me. How long you in town for?”
“Not long, Shirley. If I had some free time maybe we could consider it, but I don’t and, as you told me, you’ve got a husband.”
