by V. M. Burns
“That’s exactly why they need to hear you. They need to hear you because you’re a cop—an honest cop. Because you have something to say that these young kids need to hear. They’re going to hear enough about the law from a lot of men and women who haven’t practiced in over twenty years, if at all. I want them to hear about the law from someone who upholds it every day. There’s more to the law than written rules and regulations. Whether they’re prosecutors or public defenders, we should all be on the same side. The side of law, the side of order, the side of justice.”
“No pressure, right?” I barely hid a smile. “I agree with everything you’re saying, but I just don’t know that I’m the right person to do it. Talking to a bunch of twenty-two-year-old wannabe Clarence Darrows isn’t my idea of fun. Being a cop takes up a lot of time. I’ve never taught anyone before. I don’t know the first thing about teaching.”
“You’ll learn, and I’ll help you. Just give it a try—one semester. If you hate it, then I’ll get someone else. I promise. It’s only part-time, and there are perks that come with being on the faculty—like discounted football tickets.”
He was pulling out all the stops now. “I’m not qualified to teach at a law school. I have a bachelor’s degree. Don’t you need a PhD to teach at that level?”
“Normally, yes—”
I started to interrupt, but Judge Browning didn’t get where he was by being unprepared.
“You’re right. Normally you would need a terminal degree like a PhD or JD to teach at this level. But we have a program where we allow experts in their field to teach as long as they have a college degree, more than five years of experience, approval of their manager, and if they work with a tenured professor.”
“Wow. That seems a lot.”
“That’s the problem with our law schools. We have a lot of tenured professors who have studied law for years, but they’ve never practiced a day in their lives. Besides, I want these students to learn the other side of the law. The relationship with the police needs to be established early. We’re a team.”
“But why me?”
“You’ve been working with at-risk kids at the rec center already. This will give you an opportunity to help future prosecutors and defense attorneys as well.”
“You’re not going to leave me alone about this, are you?”
“I didn’t get where I am by giving up. You should know that. It’s just one class—one semester. It’s part-time, and I’ll be there to help you.”
“All right, one semester. That’s it. After you get all the letters from parents asking for their money back, you’ll see I was right.”
What had I gotten myself into? Suddenly, the cake I was eating tasted like sawdust. I needed air.
The basement of the courthouse was linked to the jail through a tunnel, and that’s where I was headed. The tunnel made it easy to transport prisoners back and forth. Somehow, just leaving the courthouse seemed to alleviate a great deal of tension. I was finally able to breathe again. Back on familiar turf, I felt confident. Maybe that’s what I needed to do, teach the class from the basement of the county jail.
The tunnel between the courthouse and the jail was actually very large and had a café and tables where police, lawyers, and judges could grab a cup of coffee and a bite to eat. I ran into several people I knew in the basement, including my temporary partner, Officer J. Harley Wickfield IV.
St. Joe’s police department had about 261 sworn officers and over a hundred civilian employees. In the Investigative Division, there were sixty-five sworn and civilian personnel. We were assigned to a wide variety of duties, but our main responsibility was to investigate major crimes. This included robbery, homicide, suspicious deaths, domestic violence (repeat offenders), and aggravated assault. Crime had been up over the past few months, and investigators were stretched thin, which was one more reason for me to feel guilty for the administrative leave.
Harley had been assigned to work with me so he could learn the ropes in preparation for his investigator’s exam. The fact that Harley and I were friends was amazing; on the outside, we’re complete opposites. Harley was a twenty-six-year-old white male from a rich, Southern family. His vibrant blue eyes made him very popular with women, which could be quite useful during an interrogation.
His ancestors owned a large plantation outside of Nashville, Tennessee. The dilapidated slave quarters were still there as a “testament to the family’s prestige and social standing.” At least that’s what J. Harley Wickfield III told me. Having met Harley’s parents, I was further amazed he and I were friends. Number Three (as I liked to refer to Harley’s dad) still bemoaned the financial loss that weakened the family’s fortunes after the Civil War, or the “unconstitutional acts of Northern Aggression”—another quote from the illustrious Number Three.
But for some reason I couldn’t explain, Harley and I were friends. In fact, he was almost like a brother to me. Personally, I considered it one of those freakish anomalies of life. But Harley had a different philosophy. Despite all facts to the contrary, Harley believed we were related. His theory was one of his slave-owning ancestors must have fathered one of my ancestors, making us blood relations. None of my relatives could be traced to Tennessee, but he didn’t let facts interfere with his beliefs.
I went to the table where Harley was having a cup of coffee.
“What’re you doing here?” Harley said with his Southern drawl, which despite five years in Indiana, he hadn’t dropped—although, it did become more pronounced when he needed to turn on the charm.
“Just getting some air,” I said. “Stopped by Judge Browning’s party. But I was hoping I’d run into you. I have a question.”
“I’ve got one for you too. You first.”
“What do you know about the Skulls?”
Tilting his head to the side and raising an eyebrow, Harley asked a question without saying a word.
He was astute—another reason I liked him. “I know you recently spent a few weeks working on the mayor’s Gang Prevention Taskforce. It’s been a while since I was involved in anything gang related.”
Harley was perceptive enough to know I wasn’t being completely honest, but also smart enough not to push. He was a good officer and would make an excellent investigator one day. “I know they’re one of the toughest gangs in the Midwest. Scary bunch. They have a really complex structure with different levels, modeled after the Italian mafia. Mostly they’re into drugs, everything from harvesting to distribution. No one really knows how many members there are—could be in the thousands. I read only a week ago that they’re trying to corrupt people from all areas of society. Lawyers, judges, bankers. They focus on the area between Cleveland and Chicago.”
“What about St. Joe? Have you heard of the Skulls getting a foothold around here?”
“Nothing concrete. Only rumors. Why? What do you know?”
“Not much, just have some suspicions.” I didn’t think Chris Green was actually a member of the Skulls. He’d have to kill to become a full member, and I didn’t believe he’d sunk to that level. But Sis Green’s descriptions of a few of the kids Chris was hanging with sounded like some thugs we were watching closely for ties to the Skulls. We didn’t have any proof the Skulls had made their way to St. Joe, but a couple of known gang members had been spotted in town, and we knew they had relatives here.
I hoped to change the subject before Harley got too suspicious. “So, what did you want to ask me?”
“I was going to—”
Before Harley could finish, Division Chief Mike Barinski walked up and interrupted our conversation.
“Just the men I’m looking for,” Chief Mike said. He grasped my arm and steered me to a corner, allowing a guard escorting a prisoner to pass. “You saved me from having to track you down. I need everything you have on Thomas Warrendale and quick. The mayor wants a briefing first thing tomorrow morning.”
* * *
Death went out to the gambler’s house
> Come and go with me
The gambler cried out, I’m not ready to go,
Ain’t got no travellin’ shoes
Got no travellin’ shoes, got no travellin’ shoes
Sinner cried out, I’m not ready to go
I ain’t got no travellin’ shoes
* * *
Chapter Four
“Look, RJ, I’m not supposed to be talking to you and we’re not even having this conversation.” Chief Mike looked over his shoulder.
“What conversation?”
It took him half a second and then he slapped me on the back. “Exactly.” He glanced over his shoulder again. “I’m between a rock and a hard place, and I need your help with this Warrendale murder. I’m understaffed and Harley is a good cop, but he’s never investigated a homicide before. Plus this guy Warrendale lived too close to the mayor’s neighborhood for comfort, so he’s asking questions. I need my best man on this.”
I opened my mouth, but he held up a hand. “I know. I know. You’re on administrative leave, but I talked to the mayor who talked to Human Resources. If you’re agreeable, there’s two ways we can do this.” He held up a finger. “Your shrink’s willing to sign off that you’re fit to return to work.” He stared into my eyes.
I stared back without blinking. “What’s the second option.”
He took a deep breath. “If you were to take early retirement from the force, I could hire you back as a consultant. You’d be a contractor. You work with Harley and teach him the ropes.”
I had been seriously considering leaving the force, but had grown too accustomed to having a roof over my head. My pension might keep me from starving until I figured out what else I wanted to do with my life, but consulting would provide an income. I would definitely think it over.
Chief Mike, as he liked to be called, was large, both vertically and horizontally, and looked as though he slept in his clothes. A linebacker with a heart of gold. He had the knack of inspiring the cops who worked for him to go the extra mile. Tough but fair, he’d have taken a bullet for any one of us, even the shots fired by the media. He often did.
“Come on, RJ, I really need you. I’m desperate.”
I reached in my jacket and pulled out the note from my shrink that I’d been carrying around since my last visit.
Chief Mike hesitantly took the paper and read it. Then he released a sigh and used a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. Relief oozed out of every pore. He froze when I added, “I’m back, but I want to think about that consulting thing. For now, I will continue to be a detective for the police force.”
He reluctantly nodded.
The briefing didn’t take long. The smell of gasoline was so strong, the fire had definitely been set deliberately. But the coroner’s preliminary report stated the fire wasn’t the cause of death. From what was left of Warrendale’s lungs, the coroner determined he’d died before the fire. There was also a hole in Warrendale’s skull just the right size for a small-caliber bullet. We were holding that part back from the media.
Afterward, Harley and I spent the next few hours reviewing the case file, including pictures and video from the crime scene. But there were still some foggy areas. Pictures and videos were great tools in police work, but nothing really takes the place of seeing things with your own eyes. We needed to talk to the coroner.
If there was one thing I hated about being a cop, it was visiting the county morgue. Don’t get me wrong; the coroner was a nice guy, but the morgue held too many bad memories. It was sterile, cold, and impersonal. Maybe that was a good thing. If your loved one ended up at the morgue, you probably needed something hard and solid to ground you. Perhaps the sleek, steely-gray counters combined with the white walls and white-coated personnel could help you keep your sanity at a time like that. It didn’t help me with the images of that six-year-old girl with one shoe. But then maybe cops are different.
The official report wasn’t ready yet, but the overworked, underpaid, and eternally jolly coroner promised the report would be in my hands first thing in the morning. He wasn’t ready to stake his reputation on it, but he felt strongly that Thomas Warrendale died from a gunshot wound to the head. The fire—probably an attempt to cover the murderer’s trail—was the work of a rank amateur.
I had a little time left before I was scheduled to meet Harley at the crime scene, so I made a small detour and swung by my old high school. St. Joe High School was a tall, stately building on the Northwest side of town. Walking through the halls, I was inundated with the sights and the smells of my youth—cold-gray lockers, sweat-soaked athletes horsing around in the halls, and the thump of rap music that blared through headphones. My senses were almost overwhelmed as I relived moments from my youth. Most of those memories were good, but I wouldn’t trade places with these kids for any amount of money. At sixteen, I’d been sure I knew more than anyone else on the planet, just like these kids. Amazing how the older you get, the more you realize how little you really know. Maybe that’s the key to maturity, realizing you don’t know anything. I didn’t have to wander long. It was just a few minutes before I saw Chris.
Was it my imagination, or did he look scared? “Hey, Chris. Got a minute?”
“Yo, man. What brings you here?”
We did a knuckle punch and a manly half hug.
Chris was about five-eight with a slight build. He wore his hair cut short, and he had one visible earring, a diamond stud. I didn’t notice any tattoos or other markings that indicated gang connections.
“Just checkin’ on some things. How’s it going?”
“Good. Good. Things are good.”
Maybe I would have believed him if he wasn’t looking around like a cornered rat. Gang colors weren’t allowed in school, but I looked for other signs of gang affiliation on Chris, caps turned a certain way or jewelry. After a quick assessment, I concluded he looked much the same as all the other kids.
“Really? I saw your grandmother the other day. She’s worried about you.”
“Oh well, you know … she’s always worried about something,” Chris shrugged.
“Does she have any reason to be worried about you?”
He held my stare for a moment and then blinked and backed away with a laugh.
“No. No, man, of course not.”
I got closer, my face only inches from his, and stared him in the eyes. Chris squirmed a little before he dropped his gaze. “Come on, RJ, you know me.”
“I do, and you know me.”
The warning bell sounded, but I stood my ground for another few seconds before stepping back. “Go on. I wouldn’t want you to be late for class.”
Chris ran down the hall. He looked back only once and then opened a door and scurried into his classroom. It was a brief conversation, but I’d learned quite a bit. No noticeable tattoos, clear eyes, and no smell of alcohol or weed. Chris was still just an impressionable kid. As I walked out of the school, I chuckled at the way he’d rushed to get away from me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a kid happier to get to class.
My house was very close to the historic district of St. Joe.
On the other side of the river, large Victorian, Georgian and Craftsman homes sat on tree-lined cobblestone streets. The cherry trees, with their big white blossoms, filled the air with a soft, floral scent that reminded me of spring. Many of the large homes in this area had been converted into duplexes, triplexes, and quads. Several of the largest homes had definitely seen better days. But the area was undergoing a rebirth, as young families started to move back. Sitting high on a hill, the grandest of these homes had a view that couldn’t be rivaled, at least not in St. Joe. The St. Joe River, Martin Luther King Memorial Park, and a view of the St. Joe skyline, such as it was, were the sights these lucky people saw each and every day. The mayor lived in the grandest of the grand homes.
Thomas Warrendale had lived on the edge of the historic district. No river views, no view of the park, and a lot less square footage. These homes retained few of
their historic details. They were far enough away from the historic district that the neighborhood association didn’t harass the owners about paint colors, but they were apparently too close for a criminal to commit arson without incurring the wrath of city hall.
All that remained of the house was a charred shell. Through the home’s skeletal remains, I could see Harley in full gear, sifting through the rubble.
“It’s official.” Harley’s greeting wouldn’t make sense to an outsider, but I understood the fire chief had formally announced arson. That suspicion led to the fire chief notifying the state fire marshal. The fire marshal would be sending an inspector to investigate.
In Indiana, the Office of the State Fire Marshal had eleven investigators. Each investigator was responsible for between nine and thirteen counties. Their caseloads were huge.
“Do we have an ETA?” I said.
“Not yet. Maybe by noon.”
“That’s fast.”
“The mayor’s office strikes again.”
Sifting through the remains of a fire was a dirty and tedious job. Technically, the Uniform Crime Scene Technicians (UCST) collected evidence, photographed and diagrammed the crime scene, and documented the evidence, which was then passed on to the investigators, who in this case were me and Harley.
In the trunk of my car, I kept a bag with boots, coveralls, and gloves. There’s no way you can walk through the ashes of a burned house without coming out covered in dirt and soot and smelling like smoke. In addition to the dirt, until the fire marshal determined what chemicals were used to ignite the flames, there was also a risk of inhaling potentially dangerous chemicals. The Crime Scene Unit had already done their jobs, but I wanted another look, and it would do Harley good to see things up close and personal. All geared up in a jumpsuit, gloves, boots, and cap, I grabbed a few more essentials from my trunk—flashlight, camera, evidence bags, and a small shovel. Harley already had a video camera. We were determined to leave no stone unturned.
