Burning Man

by Alan Russell

  It was easy to imagine how and why the Iron Maiden had come to mind. My subconscious—probably tired from working overtime on my own pyre—had cued me into my inappropriate behavior. But my latest middle-of-the-night vision of Chief Ehrlich wasn’t as easy to interpret.

  In some ways my conjuring up the chief shouldn’t have come as any surprise to me. The doctors had finally approved my going back to work, and today was the day I planned on cashing in his marker. I wanted Robbery-Homicide Division, what LAPD cops called Homicide Special. That was what I was going to ask him to deliver. I had thought I was sure about that, but my moment after was making me have second thoughts about my game plan.

  In my postdream awakening I had this sense that the chief was offering me a job in Robbery-Homicide. That’s what I was expecting from him. What I didn’t expect was my coming to the job interview naked. What was worse was that my unclothed body revealed the extent of my burns. My vision had distorted the picture of my body, making my skin grafts red and raw and all my flesh rigid. Somehow, my year of healing and all my gains looked to have been reversed. My body showed all the ravages of the fire and more. Instead of going forward, I had this sense that I was going backward.

  It wasn’t exactly Marley’s ghost rattling his chains and talking to me, but the image of my body degenerating spoke to my doubts. Could it be possible that Homicide Special wasn’t right for me? My subconscious, or whatever it was, seemed to be telling me that. It must be nerves, I tried to tell myself. Homicide Special was what any LA cop wanted. It was the top of the detective food chain. Besides, lots of people had dreams where they were naked, and even though my moment after wasn’t quite a dream, it was close enough.

  I tried to tell myself that there might have been some other reason I was naked in my vision, but the more I tried to convince myself of that, the more strongly I began to feel that taking the position in Homicide Special wouldn’t be good for me. Doubting Thomas had seen his own wounds and they weren’t pretty. Still, it was too late to be reconsidering the job. I had made my appointment with the chief to press him for this placement. That’s why Sirius and I were now waiting in the antechamber of the chief’s office. There was no fallback position I had in mind, no other job in the department that interested me. When you are prepared to ask for a boon, you better know what it is you want.

  I ran my hand along my partner’s head and neck. He was no longer part of the equation. Sirius’s injuries precluded him from returning to K-9 work. That added to the emptiness I felt, but I hadn’t brought him along just to feel nostalgic. Sirius was there as a reminder to the chief of what we had both given and what we were both owed. Besides, it was likely the chief remembered my partner more than he did me. The two of them had made the cover of Time magazine with their memorable handshake. There had also been a shot of me on the inside of the magazine, but the picture they’d selected made me look as if I should have been wearing the white mask of the Phantom.

  Sirius and I sat waiting outside of the tenth floor suites at the Office of the Chief of Police (OCP). Two large desks manned by officers barred entry into that space. This wasn’t my first time in LA’s Police Administration Building (PAB), but I’d never been to the OCP. The new ten-floor limestone building had cost the citizens of LA almost half a billion dollars. The architectural firm designing the building had tried to construct it in such a way as to allow a sense of openness between PAB and the city hall building. Spatially at least, that seemed to have been achieved. PAB was part of the new LA skyline; city hall was to the south, the LA Times building to the west, the Caltrans edifice to the east, and the Cathedral of Saint Vibiana to the southeast. The view from the tenth floor was so impressive you didn’t even notice the smog.

  After a twenty-minute wait a smiling administrative assistant, definitely a civilian, came out from the inner sanctum.

  “Good morning, Officers,” she said, showing a lot of white teeth beautifully set off by her mocha skin. “I’m Gwen and I’ll be showing you to Chief Ehrlich’s office.”

  “Don’t blow it,” I whispered to Sirius, but I was really talking to myself. My dog doesn’t need a muzzle; my tongue does.

  As we walked behind her, I reminded myself to be the old Michael Gideon, the one I’d studied on videotapes. I had practiced for this role; in another lifetime I’d even lived it.

  The LAPD is the fifth largest law enforcement agency in the country. To put that in perspective, the FBI is the fourth largest. There are almost ten thousand officers serving the city of Los Angeles, not to mention three thousand civilians, including Gwen. You don’t just walk in off the street to see the chief. Most LA cops retire never having had a personal audience with the chief.

  Gwen motioned us into an office, and Chief Ehrlich came out from behind his desk to greet us. “Officer Gideon,” he said, shaking my hand. “And my four-legged friend Sirius,” he added, bending down and offering his hand. This time Sirius only sniffed at it, and a bit suspiciously at that. It was probably the “four-legged friend” comment.

  “Please sit,” Ehrlich said.

  The chair I planted myself in would have been acceptable to royalty. Ehrlich took a seat behind his desk, crossed his hands and smiled for us. He was good about making eye contact and didn’t seem distracted by the scarring on my face.

  “I am glad to see you are both doing so well,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He knew why I was there, but was still going to make me ask. No one doubted the chief’s smarts, but he was only eighteen months into his job and the rank and file hadn’t yet made up their minds about him. Ehrlich had come from outside the ranks of the LAPD. Because he had a number of eclectic interests and degrees in subjects other than law enforcement, the media liked to refer to him as a Renaissance man. His nickname was “the Professor.” His proponents said the nickname referred to his time teaching at Columbia University; his critics said it reflected Ehrlich’s tendency to lecture and be pedantic.

  “The last time we talked was last April at the Westin Bonaventure Hotel, sir,” I said. “On that occasion you said that when I was ready to come back to the force, you would see to a placement of my choosing.”

  The chief offered the barest nod. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I might not have even seen it.

  “The doctors have cleared me to come back,” I said. “Unfortunately for Sirius, his injuries are such that he is no longer fit for K-9 duty, and he is now officially retired. Without him as a partner, I don’t want to return to Metropolitan K-9.”

  I took a deep breath and tried to forget the view into myself that I’d experienced that morning. The vision that came after my fire dream wasn’t infallible, or at least I didn’t want to think so.

  “What I’d like to be is a detective,” I said, “with a placement in Robbery-Homicide Division. I want Homicide Special.”

  Ehrlich twisted his fingers into steeples and took a few moments before answering. “If you get your wish, have you considered the ramifications?”

  Only seventy-six detectives are attached to Homicide Special. Because those detectives work on all the high-profile cases, it’s a job everyone wants. “I know it will ruffle feathers.”

  “It will do more than that. There’s going to be a lot of talk about how the fix was in. Experienced detectives that have been waiting for placement on Homicide Special are sure to raise a stink. It’s unlikely anyone at RHD will greet you with open arms.”

  “I can live without the hugs,” I said. “I paid for the position with my pound of flesh.”

  “I won’t argue with that, but walking into a hornet’s nest doesn’t sound like the best way to start off in a job.”

  “Is that your way of telling me it’s not going to happen?”

  “If you’re set on Homicide Special, then I’ll start the ball rolling. I think there is a better option for you, though, a position that I believe is suited to your skills, needs, and desires.”

  “Vice?” I asked. My self-imp
osed muzzle hadn’t lasted very long.

  Ehrlich chuckled, or at least made the attempt, and then asked, “Why did you go into K-9?”

  “I like dogs.”

  “From what I understand you like autonomy even more than you like dogs.”

  If he thought I was going to argue, I didn’t. I couldn’t.

  “Before taking this meeting, I put in some calls to people that know you.”

  I tried to look surprised, but the truth is that I had heard from several people the chief had talked with. The chief had told them to keep it on the QT. I knew that because that same phrase was used by a few of my sources, even if I wasn’t exactly sure what the QT was.

  “Everyone said you were bright,” Ehrlich said, “perhaps to a fault. They said you were impatient, and that you use caustic humor as a defense mechanism. Is that about right?”

  “Sometimes the humor is more puerile than caustic.”

  The chief didn’t slap his knee, but he didn’t appear to take offense either. “How is it that you became a cop?” he asked.

  “I was a sixth-year senior at Cal Northridge and was being forced to reluctantly graduate. There was a job fair on campus and I started talking to some cops manning the booth. My first question was about the department’s retirement package, and they told me right then and there that I was LAPD material.”

  “What was your major?”

  “For five and a half years it was undeclared, which seemed to suit me, but then the Northridge administrators said they were sick of me and that I better get my sheepskin in something. Since I had taken so many courses in so many subjects, I discovered that I qualified for the trifecta in anthropology, history, and humanities. If they’d let me stay another year, I could have had the pick six with political science, religious studies, and psychology, but I ended up with minors in those.”

  “It sounds as if you enjoyed school.”

  “It seemed like a good alternative to growing up.”

  “You’re single I understand.”

  “You understand right. As you undoubtedly know, my wife died.”

  He nodded. “How did that affect you?”

  “For a long time it was like starting and ending my day with a kick in the balls.”

  “What about now?”

  “It’s more like a kick in the ribs.”

  “Do you have any family?”

  “A mother,” I said, and then after a moment’s hesitation I gestured with my head to Sirius and added, “And my friend with the mange here.”

  Sirius looked at me with his big, brown eyes. His mouth was open and it appeared as if he was laughing. I’m glad my partner appreciates my sense of humor.

  “Your encounter with Ellis Haines made you famous,” said Ehrlich.

  Haines was the real name of the Santa Ana Strangler, who was now also known as the Weatherman. When you’re considered the worst of the worst, I guess you’re entitled to two nicknames.

  “As I understand it,” said Ehrlich, “you could have cashed in but didn’t. There were all sorts of movie and book deals offered to you, but as far as I know you turned down all those offers. Why is that?”

  “I wanted creative control and ten percent of the gross. They might have accepted my demands, but unfortunately Sirius was holding out for a lot more. When I told him they were considering a female poodle for his role, he went ballistic and there was no reasoning with him.”

  “You’re right,” the chief said. “Your humor is probably more puerile than caustic.” At least he said it with a smile. “But let’s call it what it really is: a wonderful defensive mechanism. And when you use it, most people probably forget the question they asked. I am still curious, though, as to why you didn’t sell the story of you and the Strangler.”

  “Not everything’s for sale,” I said, “even in Los Angeles.”

  He nodded. I don’t know if it was my answer, but the chief’s mind seemed to be made up. “Your notoriety from that case has put you in a unique position. Like it or not, the city of Los Angeles looks upon you and Sirius as heroes. To the public, that’s a designation that far exceeds rank. It’s no secret that the department would like some of your luster rubbing off on it.”

  I was already shaking my head. “We did the required appearances. I am not going to be used as a glorified PR tool. I did the dog act. I won’t do the dog-and-pony act.”

  The chief gestured with his hands for me to calm down. “I’m not talking about putting you onstage. Yes, your name would be associated with this office, and you might be required to serve on some committees and do some public outreach, but what I have in mind isn’t some PR flak position, because frankly I don’t think you’re qualified for that.”

  “You got that one right.”

  “There’s no name for the position I’d like to offer you, but what I need is much the equivalent of a devil’s advocate.”

  I looked to see if the chief was smiling. He wasn’t. I spoke to my doubts, and maybe my vision: “Are vestments optional?”

  “In the Catholic church the official title of the devil’s advocate was Promoter of the Faith. It was the job of the advocatus diaboli to present any and all facts unfavorable to the candidate proposed for beatification or canonization.”

  “I don’t know how to break this to you, Chief, but I don’t think you have to worry about anyone in the LAPD being nominated for sainthood.”

  “I think I’m aware of that, Officer Gideon,” Ehrlich said. “What I’m trying to tell you is that every organization needs its professional skeptic.”

  I remembered my moment after, and how I’d had to confront my own festering wounds. I had even attributed a name to how I was feeling, a name I used again. “You’re looking for a Doubting Thomas?”

  “I am looking for a point man that can both think and work outside the box. Los Angeles is like no other police department in the world. Our citizenry call this place La La Land, and Hollyweird. We have a unique caseload, and periodically our department is forced to confront situations that are anything but run-of-the-mill. I am looking for someone who can deal with the unusual, the peculiar, the curious, and perhaps even the enigmatic.”

  “So you’re talking about me working Elvis sightings and crop circles?”

  “I doubt those would even raise eyebrows in Los Angeles. What I was broaching was the possibility of you working special cases.”

  “Where I would be your devil’s advocate?”

  “That position no longer exists in the Catholic church,” he said. “I believe the church erred when they discontinued that post. Saints need exacting scrutiny.”

  “Sinners need it even more.”

  “Does such a position interest you?”

  “What would I tell people? That I work in the Defense against the Dark Arts Division?”

  “I have another name in mind: Special Cases Unit.”

  “And would you be the one deciding what a special case is and what’s not?”

  “That would be my prerogative, but I’d also expect you to be keeping an ear to the ground and working up cases on your own. With your injuries you could have retired on disability. It’s clear that you’re here because you want to be.”

  “There are some cases that fall between the cracks,” I said. “They’re low-priority and they shouldn’t be.”

  “You would have carte blanche to work such cases, as long as they didn’t interfere with your special cases.”

  “What’s your definition of a special case?”

  “Justice Potter Stewart said he couldn’t necessarily define pornography, but said, ‘I know it when I see it.’ We’ll know it when we see it.”

  “Would I be reporting to you?”

  “You would.”

  “I am not the person you’re looking for if what you want is a departmental snitch or a personal lapdog.”

  “Those are not positions I had in mind for you.”

  “You already have an Internal Affairs Division. I am not going to be play
ing your devil’s advocate to other cops, am I?”

  He shook his head and said, “Only if the case is deemed special.”

  “When do you want my decision?”

  “How long do you need?”

  “By week’s end.”

  “That works for me.”

  I stood up and we shook hands. Sirius bounced up, but we weren’t able to make our escape without the chief offering some more parting words.

  “You should know,” Ehrlich said, “that this wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment offer on my part. I have been mulling over the idea of a Special Cases Unit for some months now, and when you arranged for this meeting, I started considering you for the position.

  “I expected that you would come in asking for placement in Robbery-Homicide, and I hoped to be able to convince you to give the other position a chance. To that end, I was willing to sweeten the deal.”

  From what he was saying, he still was. “Sugar works for me.”

  “Upon your acceptance,” he said, “you would be getting your detective’s shield and with it almost total autonomy.”

  I wasn’t overwhelmed and my face showed it.

  “From day one of the job,” Ehrlich said, “I’d have you on the transfer list to RHD. That way, if things don’t work out, you can ultimately make your move to happier hunting grounds. You might have to wait a year or two to get placed, but by going that route there wouldn’t be nearly as much acrimony.”