The Way I Die

by Derek Haas

  “Then when I’m done, you can tell me your story. Deal?”

  “We’ll see,” I answer.

  If I could plan for a year just to steal a visit with my convict father, then I wondered if I could put together something bigger, grander. My senior year, we read a book called The Count of Monte Cristo, and it opened my eyes. I don’t think you’re supposed to treat that book like a blueprint when you’re eighteen years old, but maybe they should’ve thought about that before they made it required reading in high school.

  I thought about going to law school and becoming one of those advocates for the wrongly imprisoned, but I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Copeland, I didn’t have the grades nor the patience. Maybe I could have gotten into junior college somewhere if the admissions department took pity on me, but law school was a mountain too high to climb. I’d tell you more about some other thoughts I had, but you already know I was a cop, so I’ll quit dancing around it.

  I graduated from high school and joined the LAPD. My mom blew a gasket, but Miguel talked her off the ledge and supported me all the way through the academy. The woodcutter and the snake. A lot of people, when they hear that story, they identify with the woodcutter. But me? I like that snake. Stupid woodcutter dumb enough to warm up a frozen snake deserves to get fanged.

  So I did the academy and I did two years in the sheriff’s office like they make you do and when I got my assignment, I requested patrol in Miguel’s district, and he was honored, and he made sure I got partnered with a friend of his, and the whole time I watched and waited. Before long I had a quick affair with a married lecturer.

  He gave me the file on my dad’s arrest in exchange for not calling his wife.

  The report was straightforward. The arresting officer and only witness was Miguel Gutierrez, who reported he heard a scream while he was on his footbeat. There was an anomaly, however. Miguel responded to the cry for help alone.

  I looked up who his patrol partner was at the time. A white guy, Danny Secott, two years on the job when the night in question happened, had only been with my stepfather a couple of weeks. He transferred to Hollywood Division and was driving a shop for the last five years when I tracked him down. We call patrol cars shops. It took me two or three Pink’s hot dogs and a whole lot of whiskey one night, but I pried the story out of him at a bar called The Happy Ending on Sunset and La Brea between the hours of midnight and two in the morning. I guessed I knew what happened by this point so it was just a matter of Secott confirming and filling in the details.

  He was partnered with Miguel that night and around 10 P.M., Miguel gets a call from a lady he’s been shacking up with. Secott wasn’t too clear regarding the details, but next thing he knows, Miguel tells him they need to walk over to Western and Melrose.

  When they get there, Miguel sends Secott into a massage parlor where he knows the owner and wants to introduce them in case they have trouble. It’s part of the new community policing initiative they got going now, he tells him. So he’s inside there and realizes it’s a barely legal whorehouse—I realize he’s telling me this story in a bar called Happy Ending—and the Korean madame tries to unbuckle his belt, and all he can think of is that he’s been set up. Is Internal Affairs about to bust down the door, are there cameras everywhere, is this why he’s been partnered with Miguel Gutierrez? He’d heard of rookie cops fresh out of their sheriff’s stint getting jammed up by Internal Affairs—they’d rather catch rookies who didn’t already have pensions and friends and twenty years on the job. Rookies make easy IA prey.

  Anyway, all these thoughts went through his head but none of it happened. He begged off from the Korean lady and whip-jacked out of there and searched the street for Miguel but there was no sign of him. Secott thought he was being hazed, this was all some kind of big joke, but no, no one was stepping out of the shadows, pointing fingers, and laughing, so he reversed course and walked up Melrose when his radio buzzed. Miguel was calling in a 245, assault with a deadly weapon, and the address was just a few blocks over.

  He arrived in time to see a female victim with a gash across her head, a male assailant, knocked out, broken nose, and reeking of alcohol. Miguel, chest puffed out, said he happened to be passing by, heard screams, all that. He responded and knocked out the attacker.

  Secott looked over the scene and saw about a million faults with the story.

  “We got a problem, though,” my stepfather says to Secott before he can voice his doubts. “Anyone asks, you’re going to have to explain why you were in the rub and tug and I was three blocks over.” Secott knew then that he had been set up, and so when Miguel wrote the report, Secott signed it, every word. He transferred after that, just had a queasy feeling about Miguel, because he knew the entire scene looked staged. Later, he found out Miguel married the victim, and it all clicked into place for him like the keyword in a codebook. He knew Miguel set a trap for the husband, but what could he do about it anyway?

  When Secott finished telling me this story at two in the morning, he asked me what my interest was in all this anyway? Was I Miguel’s new partner? No, I told him . . . I’m the daughter of the guy he arrested. Danny Secott spooked then and told me to keep his name out of any IA reports, and I told him not to worry about it, we never met. That was the last I saw of Secott. People think all cops in the LAPD know each other, but you could drive a shop one station over and I might never see you.

  Anyway, I had no intention of bringing IA anywhere near this. In fact, I wanted them sniffing in any other direction than mine. Not for what I had planned. The Count of Monte Cristo, remember?

  First, I worked a transfer for a convict named Lester Tomkins from Folsom to the Twin Towers under the false information he had a hearing with a trial judge regarding an appeal. It is surprisingly easy, or maybe not at all surprisingly easy, to forge transfer orders if you know the way the system works. I spent two solid years learning the ins and outs of the Los Angeles penal system, and the amount of money and resources that go to clerking errors is laughable. At least once a day, a prisoner from one jail or trial shows up in some part of the state he’s not supposed to be in. Frustrated lawyers arrive to meet clients who are stuck in a holding cell five hours away. Judges suspend hearings because no one can seem to locate the accused. It was easy to put an order into the computer with one of the seventy clerks’ chicken-scratch signatures on the paper copy and no one double-checking.

  Lester Tomkins arrived in C-Wing, fourth floor, three days later, though he had no idea why he’d been transferred and no one to tell him the answer. The food was better than at Folsom, so he sure as hell wasn’t going to complain. No. I know. I’ll get to that in a moment. All will be made clear, Mr. Copeland. Stay with me.

  The day after he gets there, I drive to the 9-1-1 call center and phone up the desk sergeant at the Wilshire Station, an old lifer I know named Jerry Massey who’s half deaf and all the way dumb. I put on a voice and tell him I’m a kick out clerk at the Twin Towers and I need an officer Miguel Gutierrez to come over and sign some forms. I do this when I know it’s the end of shift so that A. Jerry Massey will just put the orders through so he can go home; and B. Miguel is gonna jump all over the overtime. A solid C. is that he’s gonna ditch his partner and come alone because the overtime orders don’t extend to everyone.

  After the call, I zipped over to the Twin Towers to see who I could see. I was still barely out of my assignment there, and most of the sheriff’s officers in charge of the jail were guys I cut my teeth with and most of them liked me. I just needed one to do me a favor. Turned out I had my pick.

  I chose this El Salvadoran kid named Luche because he once tried to put the moves on me and was easy to scare. Anyway, he owed me from the way his version of “putting the moves on me” was considered sexual assault in most states. The truth is I would’ve never been able to pull this off if I gave a shit about my job, but the uniform was always a means to an end for me, and this day was the end.

  So my stepfather Miguel gets t
o the Twin Towers about an hour after his shift is over, and I meet him in the waiting area. He does a “surprised to see me” and I do the same, and I’m trying to keep the predator look off my face. As far as I know, I’ve already spooked him, but he gives no indication something’s amiss.

  This is the time to back out and quit, but I’ll tell you the truth, it never crossed my mind.

  He asks what I’m doing there and I say just visiting a friend from the academy, and he says he’s there for some paperwork but he’s not real sure what it’s all about. I watch him talk to the desk sergeant, but it’s clear no one has any idea about overtime or forms to sign and that’s so normal, his suspicions aren’t raised. He’s a little pissed for driving downtown but he’s planning on collecting that overtime regardless and tick, tick, tick, no sweat off his back.

  I move to the desk and play innocent. I say that since he came all this way, I want to show him something. He asks what and I say it’s a surprise and to follow me and Miguel checks his gun with the desk sergeant ’cause that’s what you do and Luche buzzes us inside.

  We go down a row of inmate cells to this little work area they got off C-Wing. Luche lets us in and shuts the door behind us.

  Miguel has zero clue anything’s up, but he’s not stupid, so he’s wondering what the surprise is. I sit at a workbench and gesture for him to do the same, across from me, so he does. “What’d you wanna show me?” he asks.

  I drop my smile.

  I can feel my eyes, my whole face going hard, and it’s like I’ve already left the room. It’s like I can hear my voice coming from my mouth but it’s not in my ears. That’s the only way I can describe it.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.

  I say to him, “Miguel, do you remember a man named Lester Tomkins?”

  Now it’s time for Miguel to drop his smile. “What is this?”

  “So you do remember him, that’s good. You arrested Lester Tomkins five years ago, right? Arrested him with one hundred kilos of hash and 200 grand in cash, yeah? A huge bust for a uniform, one that got you a commendation and a temporary assignment to Narcotics.

  “There was one problem though. Rumors started to go around that there were a lot more drugs and money in that stash house than were reported. Your partner, Edgemont? He retired and disappeared off the grid. Maybe when you divvied up your cut, he was smart enough to vamoose to South America, but you stayed here to grind because you had a new wife and new stepkids.

  “Lester Tomkins squawked to everyone that he had a million in cash there, but it was his word against yours and Edgemont’s, and that was never gonna work out too good for Lester Tomkins, was it? Plus you planted two guns that matched two unsolved homicides so Lester got life in prison instead of the ten to twenty he would’ve gotten for distribution. You made sure he went away for good. And because of the missing money, he got a severe beat down for a solid year in Folsom. All the time he’s getting pummeled, he’s seeing your face, thinking about what he’s gonna do to you if he ever sees you again.”

  Miguel turns the color of brick and looks like he’s going to explode. He leans forward . . . “Are you IA? Is that what this is? You ratting on your own father?”

  “I’m not IA,” I say in a steady voice. “And you’re not my father.”

  “Now you listen here. This is fiction. This is bullshit. I don’t know what you think you’re—”

  But I stop him with, “Who cut up my mother’s face?”

  It’s the oldest trick in the interrogator’s playbook, keep your opponent off-balance and hit him with a hook he never sees coming.

  “What?” he stammers.

  “I know you set up my father. I know he never raised a hand to my mother. I know you made sure your partner was compromised during the call. I know you were dating my mom while she was married to my dad. I know either you or she took that knife from his candy shop. The only thing I don’t know is which one of you chopped her face to sell it. Did you do it or did she? Either way, it’s sick. Either way, my dad isn’t getting out of jail until he’s an old man. I just wanna hear you have the balls to tell me. Whose idea was it? Hers or yours?”

  “That’s it,” Miguel says and stands. “I’ve heard enough.”

  He charges to the door, but the handle is locked. Funny thing about jails is the doors only work from the outside. He turns toward me, his mouth pinched, furious. “What the fuck is this?”

  “Let me try.” I stand and slowly move toward the door. He steps out of the way so I can put my hand on the handle, but then I turn to him. “On the other side of this door is Lester Tomkins.”

  Miguel runs a dry tongue over his cracked lips. His eyes dart around. “What?”

  “I had him transferred to this jail on a bogus FL-2. Right now, my sheriff’s officer friend positioned him alone in the corridor, without restraints, armed only with the knowledge that officer Miguel Gutierrez—the man who cost him his life—is in here, unarmed. And when I knock like this . . . and I hit the door, tap-ta-tap-tap-tap . . . he’ll unlock the door.”

  Miguel looks at the spot where I’m holding the handle, then back at my face. Sweat begins to trickle down his forehead.

  “You’re full of shit,” he says, but he’s not sure now.

  I start to turn the door handle and he cries out, “Wait.”

  “Who cut her face, Miguel?”

  “Come on now, Peyton. I looked after you.”

  “Who cut her face?!”

  “I did!” he roars. “I did! But it was her idea, I swear it. Now what good is that gonna do you, huh?” His eyes roll like a rabid dog’s. Saliva flies from his mouth. “Huh? What good is it gonna do you? You want me to go to jail? Your mom? Is that what you want? Because if I go down for this, then she—”

  “No, Miguel, no,” I say calmly. “That’s not what I want. I want much, much worse.”

  And with that, I open the door.

  She stops and grins. We stand at the path that leads to the house, about thirty yards from the front door.

  “That’s it?” I ask, though I know the answer.

  “That’s it.”

  “What happened to Miguel?”

  “You can google it,” she says, as a rental car crests the bend and pulls up the drive, Archie at the wheel.

  “And your mother?”

  “You know how police officers notify the relatives after a homicide? Since I was on the job, they told me first what happened to Miguel. Professional courtesy. I volunteered to pass the news on to my mother,” Peyton says, seeing it. “My sergeant denied my request, said they had grief counselors for that, but I insisted. Said it was family and I could handle it. I don’t remember if he agreed to my offer or just quit opposing it. The department had enough problems trying to figure out how to keep the press at bay regarding the murder of an LAPD officer in their jailhouse.

  “So I went to my mother’s house and told her the news. She didn’t cry or ask more questions or run upstairs and shut her door. She just looked at me, stone-faced, like she foresaw this moment, me standing in her foyer telling her that her husband was dead.”

  “She suspected your involvement?”

  “I left out any doubt. We fell out of contact after that.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “A story for another time.”

  I nod and wave at Archie as he parks.

  “All of what you said is true?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I need to access this side of you.”

  6

  Boone and the kids eat lunch at the dining table with Peyton. Laughter rises and dissipates in waves, like screams from a distant roller coaster. I glimpse Peyton as she moves around the table to reach for a paper-towel roll. She says something funny as she pats the younger boy, Josh, on the head with the cardboard tube, and he squeaks laughter. Her face brims with mirth and mischief.

  Archie catches me looking, doesn’t say anything. We stand in the yard.


  “What do you got?

  “A start. I talked to a dude I trust and he said the job went through one of two fences in Los Angeles. A guy named Ezra Loeb or a cat named Wilson Wilson. You know them?”

  I shake my head.

  “Don’t matter. I got you a couple of addresses should get you started. What’s the word on sister love?” He tosses his head toward the dining room.

  “I think she might be one of us.”

  “You figure that out while I was running around?”

  “Call it a gut feeling. She might need some guidance, but she’s got instincts.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “It is what it is.”

  “I’ll feel her out while you’s in Los Angeles.”

  “What if the real hit man cometh?”

  “You can’t be in two places at once, so we’ll just have to see. But you got a gut feeling about this girl . . . so what’s the worst that could happen?”

  He lights up a cigarette and shows his teeth.

  I narrow my eyes and stuff my hands in my pockets.

  “You look good,” he comments, appraising me. “Healthy. No joke. Straight up.”

  “I know what you’re doing.”

  “Ahhh, shit. Just take the compliment.”

  He squints and lets the smoke out so it can join the cloud ceiling above us.

  I fly into Los Angeles the next morning, rent a car, and drive to a house next to the airport to pick up a bag of guns. If I can get to the correct fence from the two choices Archie gave me, maybe I can persuade him to call the hit back or give me the name of the contract killer so I can persuade him directly. Sometimes persuasion and killing are interchangeable.

  It feels good to finally go on offense. During my time in Portland, I’ve been out of my element, off my game, like a racehorse who suddenly finds himself pulling a wagon. As I take a bag off a bed in the back room of this drop house in a quiet street in Long Beach, my senses awaken.

  The bag is in the backseat of my rental sedan as I head up the 405 toward the San Fernando Valley, where Ezra Loeb works out of a building behind a paint store. According to Archie, he’s been doing this work for thirty-plus years, surviving and thriving, so the most I can hope for is a meeting through proper channels. The middlemen, the fences, are in dangerous positions, standing between clients and killers, and as such, are vulnerable to information seekers like me. The ones who survive for decades know how to defend themselves, shore up their vulnerabilities.