EQMM, February 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  He swung his lens from Ramirez to Forrest as she approached. The deputy greeted her perfunctorily and filled her in on what he knew. As she moved on toward the bodies, she ignored Nick and his sound man as if they weren't there.

  Perfect. Keeps it real. Just the way we like it.

  She slipped on latex gloves as she went, her keen eyes scanning the alley for more obvious evidence, like spent shell casings. If she noticed something, Nick had to spot it too, zooming in to maintain her POV. Sometimes he spotted it first, he was that good. He stayed close behind her, but not too close, careful not to interfere. That was another Police in Action rule, and it was inviolable.

  She approached the dead girl first. Nick adjusted his lens, kept the detective in sharp relief, so smoothly viewers would barely notice he was shooting with a shoulder-mounted camera. When she knelt to examine the body without touching it, he pushed in for a tight shot of the victim's face.

  His hand suddenly faltered. The shot grew shaky. He lost his focus.

  He blinked several times, feeling queasy. That had never happened before, not in all the years he'd been a shooter, and certainly not at such a key visual moment. But when he'd zoomed in just now, it wasn't the face of a young woman he'd seen.

  For a moment, he'd flashed on the face of his dead mother.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and responded slowly, like a man coming out of a trance. Sergeant Forrest stood beside him. He was trembling and perspiring heavily.

  "You okay, Nick?"

  She knew him by his first name because Dominic Falco, a retired LAPD deputy, was his father, and George Claxton, a retired detective, was his boss, the executive producer of the show. And because Rosemary Falco, his mother, had been murdered by an intruder who'd later committed suicide in county jail. The official version, anyway, that had stood unchallenged for twenty-two years.

  "You don't look so good,” she said.

  Nick shrugged, embarrassed. “It must be the heat."

  The shot was ruined. He was furious with himself. Yet the reason he'd lost his concentration troubled him even more.

  My mother's face. Jesus.

  The sound man returned to the patrol car to get Nick a bottle of water, leaving them alone.

  "You'd better get out of the sun.” Sergeant Forrest smiled a little. “I don't want you keeling over on one of these bodies and compromising my evidence."

  Nick smiled weakly, averting his eyes. He'd always prided himself on his toughness, on his ability to keep shooting no matter how disturbing the images. He'd shot plenty of crime scenes where the carnage was worse than this and never missed a beat. He knew she wouldn't blame him, but he'd disrupted her work just the same.

  She studied him closely. “You sure that's all that's bothering you? Just the heat?"

  "I'll be fine,” Nick said.

  He could hear the lie in his voice, and it scared him.

  * * * *

  "I have a right to talk to him, Joyce. He's my son too."

  "I've tried, Nick. He won't come to the phone."

  "Look,” Nick said, talking as he paced in his small apartment. “I know I screwed up. I should have been there to shoot the game. I'm sorry, okay?"

  "It wasn't just any game, Nick. Tony's team was playing in the finals. You promised him you'd knock off early and be there. Of course, you've made promises before, haven't you?"

  "I was on a ride-along,” Nick said. “We caught a hot pursuit just after lunch that turned into a standoff. I couldn't just abandon a great story like that."

  "You always have an excuse, Nick. And it always involves your camera."

  "It's how I make my living, Joyce."

  "It's how you hide, Nick. It's how you keep a safe distance, putting that camera between you and the rest of the world."

  He could hear the edge in her voice, the lingering resentment. He couldn't blame her, he thought, not after the way he'd behaved the last few years of their marriage—the drugs, alcohol, other women. In the end, he'd wrecked his marriage, alienated his son, almost destroyed his career. But George Claxton had stuck by him, gotten him some help, kept him on the payroll. Now, everything was okay again. He was working hard, staying clean, making his child-support payments. Everything was under control.

  Until today. Until that moment in the alley when I saw my mother's face on a dead girl.

  "Tony's birthday is coming up,” he said, turning the conversation away from himself. “I'd like to be there."

  "We're having the party at Dom's house, Nick. It was Tony's idea. You know how he worships his grandfather."

  "He's a drunk, Joyce. He's—he's not the saint you and Tony think he is."

  "Maybe you could drop by the house with your present before we leave for the party.” Her tone had softened, reminding him of why he'd once loved her, and maybe still did. “I could talk to Tony, try to convince him to see you."

  "What do I get with him? Five minutes?"

  "Better than nothing,” she said. “More than you gave him at the soccer game."

  "Touché."

  "You know your father's sick, right? The liver again."

  "George Claxton told me. He's always on me to patch things up with the old man."

  "Maybe he's right, Nick. Maybe it's time you and Dom made up."

  Nick said nothing, just felt the old feelings well up, threatening to overwhelm him. If they only knew, he thought. If they only knew the truth.

  "He's your father, Nick,” Joyce went on. “I don't know what it is between you two, but—"

  "No, you don't,” Nick said, and abruptly hung up.

  He wanted a drink in the worst way, but got out a collection of CDs instead, the discs he'd used to copy the Super 8 movies he'd shot as a boy. He was only interested in one—the video he'd shot at thirteen when he'd surprised his father by coming home early from basketball practice. He still remembered the moment four years ago when he'd discovered it in a box with all the other home movies he'd made, viewing it for the first time, eighteen years after he'd shoved it in the back of his closet under a pile of old sneakers.

  Buried deep, like so much other stuff all these years.

  He slipped the disc into the CD drawer of his computer, recalling how that first viewing had sent him into a tailspin. Now he watched it to steel himself, to help him prepare for what he had to do. It was grainy and washed out with age and copying, but the images were adequate. Over and over he studied it, late into the night. Watching his father, Deputy Dominick Falco, the grandfather Tony now idolized, carry his wife's body from their bedroom to the kitchen, to cover up the way she'd really died.

  * * * *

  George Claxton sat behind his big desk in the offices of Claxton Productions, sipping bottled water as he studied a rough cut of the Police in Action episode that would open the new season, the show's twenty-first.

  He shifted uneasily in his chair, trying to keep his mind on the video. It wasn't easy, not with his best friend, Dom Falco, slowly drinking himself to death, and Dom's son, Nick, always on the edge.

  Damn, he thought, I should feel on top of the world, counting all my money and other blessings. His mind drifted back to his early days as a consultant on one of the police dramas, when he'd realized that what cops face on the street every day was every bit as compelling as fiction, if it could be produced right. So he'd taken early retirement and gone into production himself. Twenty years Police in Action had been on the air in prime time, spawning countless weaker imitations and making him one of the rare African-American producers to make it big in network TV. He'd built a small business empire with it, put three kids through college, watched out for Dom and Nick the best he could. What do I have to do, he asked himself, to earn some peace of mind?

  He started as someone knocked on the door. Nick Falco opened it a crack and stuck his head in.

  "You wanted to see me?"

  Claxton nodded. “Shut the door."

  Nick closed it behind him and took a seat on the other side of Claxton's
big desk. At thirty-five, he was still a good-looking kid, Claxton thought, with a nice face he'd inherited from his mother. But not today. Today, he was unshaven and haggard-looking, with dark circles under his eyes. Still, Claxton thought, just seeing him stirred up memories of Rosemary Falco.

  "You look like crap,” Claxton said.

  "I'm a little tired, that's all."

  "Late night?"

  "You could say that."

  "I heard you had some problems yesterday, on the ride-along."

  "Heat got to me. It won't happen again."

  "You sure that's all it was?"

  "I'm not using again, if that's what you're thinking. I'm not drinking."

  Claxton nodded and let it go. “You call your old man yet?"

  "No."

  "Don't you think it's time you two talked? It's been what, four years?"

  "What's on your mind, George?"

  "He's sick, Nick. He's in bad shape."

  "Not so bad he can't throw a birthday party for Tony next week."

  "It might be his last one. Did you ever think about that?"

  "I guess that happens when your liver's shot and you keep on boozing."

  Claxton wanted to say more but held back. Then he said, “I want you to take a week off, pull yourself together."

  "We're scheduled to shoot in Fort Worth in two days."

  "I'm sending another crew. I want you here in L.A., resting up."

  "Where you can keep an eye on me?"

  "It's not a request, Nick."

  Nick glowered. “Is that all?"

  Claxton nodded curtly. Nick got up and headed for the door.

  "Nick! Maybe with the time off, you can find five minutes to pay your old man a visit."

  Nick said nothing, just stood there, looking sullen.

  "I'm telling you,” Claxton said, “when he's gone, when it's too late to say the things you need to say, you'll regret it."

  "I'll take that into consideration,” Nick said, and closed the door on his way out.

  * * * *

  That afternoon, Nick went to see Sergeant Forrest.

  They met by appointment in her office at sheriff's headquarters in East L.A., where she kept plaques and certificates of commendation on the wall behind her and a framed photograph of her longtime female companion on her desk. With her clean record and plenty of years in for retirement, and a reputation for standing up to the brass, Nick figured she was the right one to come to with his story. Still, he dreaded digging up the past like this, worried sick about how Tony would take it, learning what his grandfather was really like.

  Sergeant Forrest listened to him calmly and attentively, but Nick could see in her stiffening posture the conflict she had to be feeling, since he was accusing a former deputy of murder. He'd brought along old newspaper articles he'd photocopied at the public library, implicating his mother's boss, Marshall Blake, in her death. The articles reported the basic facts, at least what the press and public had been fed: Blake had been arrested for Rosemary Falco's murder while preparing to flee the country. The case had never gone to trial because Blake had committed suicide in county jail shortly after his arrest, following a verbal confession to the lead detective.

  When Nick finished telling Sergeant Forrest his version of the story, she folded her hands tightly in front of her, looking sceptical.

  "And you think your father actually committed the crime?"

  "I don't think, I know,” Nick said tersely.

  He handed her a CD he'd burned that morning. She glanced at it curiously and slipped it into her computer. He studied her eyes, which became more troubled as she watched it.

  Afterward, she said, “It's obviously important evidence. It must have been a terrible thing to witness, for someone so young."

  He wasn't interested in her pity, just her assistance. He mentioned his parents’ marriage, which had slowly deteriorated because of his father's drinking and volatile temper. He identified the crumpled necktie on the bed as one he'd given Dom on Father's Day.

  "It's pretty obvious this guy Blake was framed,” Nick said. “That he was chosen to take the fall for Mom's murder."

  "We don't know that,” Sergeant Forrest said carefully. “That's what investigations are for, to get at the truth."

  Nick clenched his teeth. “The camera never lies."

  He let the words hang there between them, his eyes unblinking. She didn't look away but she didn't seem too comfortable, either.

  Finally, she asked, “Why are you showing me this video now, after waiting so long?"

  "Because my son Tony is about to turn thirteen, the same age I was when—” Nick broke off, swallowing with difficulty. “I don't want him to grow up with a bunch of secrets between us. I lost my mother. I don't want to lose him too."

  "It could get very ugly, Nick. You need to understand that."

  "I understand that my mother deserves justice."

  "And what about you? How are you holding up, keeping all this to yourself all these years?"

  He dropped his eyes. “I've had a few problems."

  "You're hoping for some resolution."

  "You could say that."

  "I'll look into it. But I'd prefer to go about it quietly, without a formal complaint. It might make my initial inquiries easier."

  He raised his conflicted eyes. “I picked you because I trust you."

  "I appreciate that,” she said.

  * * * *

  Her first step after talking with Nick was to fill out a standard request form for the Rosemary Falco report, which she delivered personally to the Homicide Library, keeping her supervisor out of the loop. She knew it was risky but felt it was necessary at this stage. To her surprise, the clerk reported that the file was missing. Probably misfiled, he said, and promised to begin a search. But two days later, he e-mailed her that the file was nowhere to be found, and there was no record of it being checked out. This caused her some concern.

  She considered going to her commander, then thought better of it. Not yet. Not until she had enough evidence so that no one above her could quash an investigation. Then she remembered that two decades back, before the department was fully computerized, a hard copy of every homicide incident report was sent to the Records Bureau. If someone had deliberately hidden or destroyed the original report, it was possible they'd forgotten about a copy being kept in Records.

  This time, at the Reports Retrieval Unit, she struck pay dirt. She surreptitiously made a photocopy of the report, which she read during a solitary lunch in Chinatown, miles from headquarters.

  The report placed Rosemary Falco in her kitchen when she died, fully dressed, the victim of an intruder. That version had been corroborated by crime-scene photos and a coroner's investigation. With Marshall Blake's alleged confession and jailhouse suicide, the homicide case had fallen into inactive status, effectively if not officially closed. Sergeant Forrest knew that Dominic Falco, only a deputy, couldn't have carried out such an elaborate coverup on his own, that he must have had help within the department.

  She felt sick about what she'd uncovered, about the wider implications. But as she reached the bottom of the final page, she was in for one more shock.

  The report had been signed by the lead investigator on the case: George Claxton.

  * * * *

  She drove directly from Chinatown to the storage section of the crime lab. She was relieved to learn that the key physical evidence in the case had been properly preserved and ordered samples taken from the victim's clothing and fingernails. That done, she tracked down Marshall Blake's widow, who still lived in the same house, and asked a few discreetly worded questions. She discovered that Mrs. Blake had tossed her husband's personal items into a box and stashed them in the garage, intending to sort through them before disposal. In her pain and confusion, Mrs. Blake had procrastinated, and the box had remained there ever since, untouched. Among the items was a brush and comb set that Sergeant Forrest bagged and submitted for DNA analysis—una
vailable twenty-two years ago. At the crime lab, she cashed in a favor to get the DNA processed quickly and on the QT.

  With that underway, she drove east two hours to Palm Desert to visit Bud Billingsley, a retired deputy she'd met when they were rookies at the training academy. Billingsley, whose problem with black people had surfaced when he'd worked patrol, had been assigned desk duty at county jail around the time Rosemary Falco had been killed. She figured Billingsley might know something and be willing to give it up, for reasons having to do with his ingrained racism.

  A longtime divorcé, he lived alone in a middle-class neighborhood down the highway from Palm Springs. Heat shimmered off the asphalt as she turned into his cul-de-sac and pulled up in front of his two-bedroom house. She found him lounging by a small pool with two little dogs, a pot-bellied man with leathery skin, drinking beer before noon. When she explained what she was after, he was quiet a moment, then told her that everything he was about to say was strictly background, off the record.

  "I don't need no trouble,” he said. “I'm too damn old. You okay with that?"

  She told him she was. He started talking.

  After being processed into the old Hall of Justice jail, Billingsley said, the suspect, Marshall Blake, was left alone in his cell with bed sheets on the bunk, despite signs of serious despondency that might have called for a suicide watch. A short time later, he was found dead, hanging by his neck from a knotted sheet.

  "Was George Claxton around that night?” Sergeant Forrest asked.

  "Claxton,” Billingsley asked, contemptuously, “the colored guy that got rich producing Police in Action? Yeah, he was around—and he made sure things went down the way they did."