Broken Badges: Cases from Police Internal Affairs Files

by Lou Reiter

  “Damn right, you should have, Clyde. That man needs help, and not from some do-gooder priest. You put him out on the street with a gun and he doesn’t even know if he’s ready to use it again. Clyde, he’s your man; part of your family. You’re letting him down. Get off your ass and get him some real help, and get it now!”

  The Cliffhanger Bar looked just like it did in the video, although Taylor thought it appeared even smaller. It was four in the afternoon and the place was empty.

  “Hey, Clyde, what’s going on? You guys want a beer?”

  “Ernie, you can see I’m on duty.”

  “And your point is, Clyde? How ‘bout you. mister?”

  Taylor considered the request and decided he needed something to wash down the afternoon’s conversations. He asked for a local microbrew, dark stout if Ernie happened to have one cold and ready. A new stout had been delivered earlier that afternoon and Ernie popped the cap, streaming the brew into a frosty glass.

  “Ernie, this here is Taylor Sterling. He’s retired LAPD. Wants to ask a couple of questions about the shooting.”

  “Heard about you. You seem to get around. Had three different townsfolk tell me about you being in town. Of course the Springs is a pretty small place. Hear your car is somewhat tied up. Well, what you need from me?”

  “Tell me what you remember about the day of the shooting, starting at the beginning.”

  Ernie came around the bar and motioned for all to take a seat at one of the tables. “I really don’t know a lot. These two Outlaws came in early in the morning. We don’t get many of them here. Don’t really want them either. Bad ass guys. Anyway, they came in and took a seat at the bar. I heard them talking. Something about how long it might be for somebody to show up. Don’t know what or who they expected. Anyway, these other guys came in looking like another biker gang. One of them, don’t know which one, told me it would be best for me to go into the back room for a couple minutes. He was menacing enough for me not to question his suggestion. After a couple minutes I heard shouting and then gunfire exploded. Almost over before it began. When I peeked out I could see Skippy, so I figured it was safe. Then everybody showed up. Sorry I don’t have much else, Mr. Sterling.”

  “Anybody carrying anything you might remember?”

  Ernie leaned back, closed his eyes, and moved his hands like he was a movie director framing a scene.

  “One of them Outlaws had a backpack, now I remember. Don’t think I remembered that until now. Yeah, a backpack. Looked like one those paddlers use when they do white water kayaking. Insulated. You know what I mean?”

  “I do,” Taylor agreed. “What happened to it?”

  “Don’t know! I think it was down at the guy’s feet against the bar. Would be dark down there. You know, I don’t know if I ever saw it again.”

  “Anybody taking pictures after the shooting?” Taylor directed his comment to both men.

  Ernie indicated there were a bunch of crime scene techs from CBI taking pictures inside and a video was recorded.

  “Chief, you got a local newspaper? Anybody from the local news on the scene?”

  “As a matter of fact there is a paper and there was a reporter on the scene. Guy named Goober was shooting all over the place. The CBI wouldn’t let him inside, so he was spending his time shooting everything outside. I remember one picture showing up in the Gazette. Got shots of all the bikes lined up and a couple of the Utah cops. Goober also got some pics of the shot cop being put into the ambulance.”

  “How about you and me pay this Mr. Goober a visit? See if he’s got some outtakes.”

  Goober lived in a small prairie style cottage. Many people would die for one of those vintage homes! But, Goober’s place was in sad need of repair. The cottage showed wood rot and the stained paint was flaking off in sheets. Goober had been called beforehand by Clyde and was told to expect visitors. He had taken out his contact sheets and placed them on a makeshift table made of plywood and two saw horses.

  “I was really excited when you called, Chief Clyde. Don’t get many calls like that. Us freelance photographers are a dying breed. There are just so many Smart phones out there with pretty good cameras. I can barely make my rent selling photos. You know I wasn’t allowed inside the Cliffhanger so I got no actual crime scene shots. Only got some of the wounded cop being put into the ambulance. Got about a couple hundred shots outside though. This new camera I got takes five in one push of the button. What you interested in seeing?”

  Goober was what you might imagine a freelance photographer would look like. He was tall, but very thin. His pallor was grey and hair unkempt. Dandruff sprinkled like snow on his dark, wrinkled shirt. Heavy framed glasses defined his pock-marked face.

  “Goober, I’m interested in shots of the Utah cops outside. Maybe showing them around their bikes. I’m looking for one maybe carrying a backpack or kayak bag. One of those waterproof kinds,” Taylor suggested.

  “You a cop?”

  “Used to be. Retired and helping the chief with this shooting investigation since my car is tied up for a couple of days.”

  Goober laughed. “I heard the task force captured a bright yellow 911. That yours?”

  “Belongs to a friend. I’m planning on getting it back.” Taylor turned and glared at the chief.

  Goober was busy leaning over the contact sheets with a small magnifying glass. “There’s a bunch on this first page!”

  Taylor allowed Goober to direct him to the right shots. Finally he saw what he was looking for. One of the Utah cops was caught emerging from the bar with a strap looped over his shoulder. A grey bag was suspended under his armpit between his arm and chest. It appeared to be about 18 inches in circumference and 24 inches long.

  “You got these photos on your computer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Need to see them blown up, Goober.”

  Before long they were able to identify ten shots that focused on the bag-carrying cop. Zooming in, they were able to discern a name on the front of the cop’s leather jacket. “Big Mouth.”

  “Can you give me a couple 8x10s of these, Goober? And maybe download them to a thumb drive? I’ll pay, or wait, the chief will pay. Right, boss?”

  Clyde nodded and waved him on.

  Ernie identified the bag in the photo as being the kind he’d seen carried by an Outlaw. Taylor realized while he’d been involved with Goober, a call had transferred to his voicemail.

  “Taylor, Rachel Mendez. Found a lip reader. Young girl working at the Native American School for the Deaf. She said we could see her tomorrow morning at about ten. Can you meet me at my office at 8:30 and we can drive out there together? I’ll bring my laptop. I’ll figure you’re on, unless you call me tonight.”

  *****

  Rachel Mendez was in her office when Taylor arrived. She was wearing another ensemble taken right from the wardrobe room of CSI. Her short, tight red leather skirt was offset by a sleeveless V-neck silk blouse without much room for maneuvering.

  “What, no Starbucks?”

  “Didn’t know how you took it. I see you’re playing CSI again. Doing it rather well, I might add. Doesn’t this create problems in the office?”

  “I have a strict rule against office sex, Taylor!”

  “How about non-office sex?”

  “Depends.” She didn’t give a hint of a smile, frown, or smirk when she answered. Just a matter of fact statement.

  They drove into the foothills of Gunnison in her agency Ford. On the way, Taylor filled Rachel in on what he and Chief Clyde had discovered while interviewing Ernie and the shutterbug known as Goober.

  The School for the Deaf was a compact grouping of portable classrooms placed on cinder blocks. Little vegetation surrounded the stock buildings, other than a few cottonwoods that somehow got water from the dried streambed.

  Two Feather Stanton was waiting for them in the portable bearing the sign “Office” above the door. She was a small, slight framed young woman in her mid-twenties. Her co
mplexion was dark brown, and she had large brown eyes and thick black hair worn in a braided ponytail. She was wearing faded Levis and a blue plaid shirt.

  “Ms. Mendez, pleasure to meet you,” Two Feather welcomed as she extended her hand. “And, you must be the cop from LA? Vacationing?”

  Taylor loved Two Feather’s enunciation and the melodic tonal quality of her voice. He found this voice pattern was common among Native American women. Their voices were always much softer than those of most women. During trips to Maui, Taylor noticed similar traits evident in Native Hawaiian women’s speech. The sound was pleasant to the ear and had a calming effect on him.

  “No, I was just passing through Juanita Springs and got held up for a few days. Thought I might be able to help the DA and Chief Clyde with the shooting they had a few weeks back.” Taylor’s comment didn’t register with Two Feather, but Rachel gave him a thin smirk.

  Rachel set up her laptop and played the portion of the tape highlighting the initial confrontation between the Utah cops and the Outlaws. Two Feather asked to replay it several times. The last two times she scribbled on a tablet.

  “It’s actually rather clear to me. At least what the one fellow is saying. Lot of profanity, though.” Two Feather blushed as she pointed this out.

  “When the guys at the bar turn and glance at the six entering the bar, the only one speaking says ‘Fuck!’ Then the two get off their stools and stand facing the six and the same guy says, ‘What the fuck you want?’

  “As the speaker is reaching for the knife in the sheath on his side he says, ‘Don’t give a fuck if you’re cops!’ Then he whips out the knife and you can see a flash from the dark object in the hand of one of the six who had just entered.”

  Taylor and Rachel looked at each other simultaneously.

  “You pretty certain about this?” Rachel asked Two Feather.

  “It’s very clear to me. I’m glad he didn’t have a cigar or something in his mouth. His words were very distinguishable.”

  Rachel asked if she could hook her laptop to the printer on one of the desks in the office. It took her less than ten minutes to type an affidavit with the initial paragraph outlining Two Feather’s credentials followed by her translation of what she observed on the videotape. Taylor was surprised Two Feather didn’t question the need for the formal affidavit, particularly when Rachel had her swear to the truthfulness and accuracy of the document.

  “That was very revealing,” Taylor commented as they were driving back to the DA’s office. “It blows open the story the Utah cops gave. None of this shit about wearing colors was mentioned. It seems the Outlaws were pretty surprised by the cops’ arrival and what they were doing there.”

  “Yeah, what do you think was going on?”

  “Rachel, I think we just watched a drug rip-off. I think the cops came to the bar knowing there was going to be a drug exchange, but that’s just my gut feel at this stage of the game. The stories the Utah cops gave CBI were all the same, as if they had rehearsed their parts in a play.”

  “Well, they certainly had time to do that. They left the scene before CBI got there and were never in isolation. They were together at the hospital in Gunnison the whole time, too.”

  “That Code of Silence or Blue Wall runs deep in law enforcement,” Taylor remarked. “Even more so when you’re dealing with dirty cops. In this case they figured there were no witnesses, at least still alive. Of course, they probably didn’t know about the surveillance video.”

  “Still a long shot, Taylor. What else you got up your sleeve?”

  “I’ll go back and work with Chief Clyde and get affidavits from Ernie and Goober. Have Goober authenticate the photos and have Ernie swear the tape he gave us was his, straight from the bar camera. Then I’ve got to make some calls to a few inside people I know.”

  Taylor took a sideways look at Rachel’s toned legs. With the short skirt, he could assess her thighs quite nicely.

  “I’ve got a couple cases I’ve got to prepare for court this afternoon, Man with Big Eyes,” Rachel teased, having observed Taylor checking out her exposed legs.

  *****

  “Butch Reynolds, here.”

  “Butch, friend out of the past… Taylor Sterling.”

  “Christ, what’s it been, four years or more? Heard you retired. Finally got fed up with the bureaucratic bullshit?”

  Butch was an old friend of Taylor’s and was stationed in Sacramento. Taylor knew Butch back in the days when Taylor had oversight of the LAPD narcotic units. It was a great assignment, but one Taylor didn’t particularly like. Narco officers were more difficult to supervise than motor cops were. Narcs felt they were special and carried the salvation banner for all mankind. Taylor fought a constant battle to make sure his men weren’t cutting legal corners to fulfill their assigned mission.

  Butch was on the board of LEIN—Law Enforcement Intelligence Network. That body acted as a funnel for all intelligence information about narcotic operations, organized crime, and groups out to destroy the country. It was a select organization that prided itself on professionalism, leading to a sense of exclusivity.

  One of the special programs LEIN sponsored involved searching out unreliable informants. When an informant proved to be compromised or kept giving false information just for the money, a police agency could have them blackballed and identified as unreliable. That way another agency wouldn’t get sucked into a mischievous web of deceit. Butch was based out of Sacramento in the California Bureau of Narcotic Enforcement.

  “What you got, Taylor?”

  “You know I’m not with the LAPD anymore, right?”

  “Yeah, but with me that’s a plus. Heard you and the chief couldn’t get along. Never had that problem with you or anyone working for you. What you need?”

  “I got sucked into an investigation in Juanita Springs, a little town in Colorado. Long story, short on substance. Anyway, the investigation involves a shooting a couple weeks ago between a couple of Outlaw bikers and some Utah cops acting like outlaw bikers.”

  “Taylor, don’t have to go any further. We’ve had some potent information on that incident. We got cop groups all over the country playing outlaw bikers. Used to be cops would ride together on their Gold Wings and Harley cruisers in groups like the Blue Knights. Now we got gangs of cops in every corner of the country. I say when they dress like thugs, act like thugs, they are thugs. Can’t tell them from the true asshole one-percenters. Only thing that sets the cops apart is when they get into trouble, they whip out their badges to try to slink out of the problem.”

  “How about the Blue Gravediggers out of Utah?”

  “Don’t specifically know about them, but I can find out. What else you got, Taylor?”

  Taylor filled Butch in about what he had discovered to date. He told his friend he was most interested in finding out if the Denver chapter of the Outlaws was involved in narcotics and if so, did they have a pipeline to another group in Utah. Taylor told Butch to concentrate on the Park City area. Taylor relayed his gut feel that somehow the Utah cops had gotten wind of a narcotic transaction in Juanita Springs and might have staged a drug rip-off.

  “Don’t know how they could have uncovered that kind of information, but it seems they might have,” Taylor said. “I figure with the size of the bag the guy was carrying, it was probably filled with coke or H, not grass or pills. Could have been as much as four kilos. What’s that worth in today’s market?”

  Butch gave a low whistle. “Street value? About $200 a gram, maybe ten percent less for coke. You’re looking at a score of about $800,000 for four kilos. Somebody would be very unhappy with that loss.”

  “Well, see what you can find out. By the way, this isn’t an off the record investigation. I’m working with the local chief in Juanita Springs and the DA in Gunnison.”

  *****

  Butch Reynolds called his contact in the Utah Bureau of Investigation. This state agency dealt with a lot of the statewide criminal aspects in Utah. Some ma
jor crime investigative units deal with task force operations principally in narcotics and gang enforcement. Butch was directed to Sal Domingo after he told his contact he was interested in Park City narcotics. Sal was the Officer in Charge of the DEA Metro Narcotics Task Force covering Park City.

  Park City fell into serious decline when the mining industry collapsed. But then the “beautiful people” found the city and turned it into a winter wonderland and a mecca for vacationers. The Sundance Film Festival added to Park City’s allure, but it was the ski industry that really strengthened the local economy and brought thousands of tourists to the area.

  The Canyons, Deer Valley, and Park City Mountain were destinations for skiers and those who wanted their money. Of course, the 2002 Winter Olympics didn’t hurt its image as a high flying place to be. Park City is located just 32 miles from Salt Lake City and the international airport helped the resurgence of the city in the 1980s. At that time, only 8,000 full time residents called Park City home. Some residents were extremely wealthy, although that crowd tended to be part-timers. A large transient crowd of young people make up the grunt crew for the ski business. Then there are the snowflakes whose life’s purpose is to find the perfect downhill run. The Wasatch Back Mountains might have been a major reason why Park City wasn’t under Mormon influence. When silver mining was booming in the 1800s, there was a significant push to bring in non-Mormons to do the hard labor. Even after the bust during the turn of the century, the remnants of those miners became the predominant residents.

  “Hey, Sal, this is Butch Reynolds from Sacramento, LEIN. Don’t think we’ve ever met. I’m helping an old buddy from LAPD who’s doing leg work for the DA in Gunnison, Colorado.”

  “What’s the issue, Butch?”

  “Stems from the Outlaws out of Denver, round-about. Got involved in a shooting in the small town of Juanita Springs. Seems a few off-duty Utah cops calling themselves the Blue Gravediggers ended up in a confrontation with a couple of Outlaws. The Outlaws lost.”