Lovely, Dark, and Deep

by Frank Zafiro

“And being a former police officer, may I assume you understood those rights?”

  “I did.”

  “Would you like me to read them again?”

  “No.”

  “And since you asked for me, may I also assume that you agree to waive those rights and answer my questions?”

  “I do.”

  He opened the file, took a pen from inside his jacket and scratched on a three by five card. Then he looked at his watch and wrote the time before pushing the card and the pen across the table to me.

  I didn’t need to look down. I knew what it was. I was signing an acknowledgement of my rights and a waiver. I didn’t care. I could invoke any of my constitutional rights at any time. This was a formality.

  I signed and pushed both back across the table to him.

  Browning put his pen away and attached the card to the inside of the file with a paper clip. Then he closed the file and placed a small digital recorder between us. He raised his eyebrows at me, his finger poised over the red button.

  I shrugged that I didn’t care.

  Browning pressed the button. The small red light winked on. “This is Detective Ray Browning, badge number one zero three. I’m with Mr. Stefan Kopriva. Mr. Kopriva, do I have your permission to record this interview?”

  “You do,” I said.

  Browning folded his hands and looked at me. “We have a bit of a problem here tonight,” he said.

  “We do.”

  “What do you want to tell me?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Browning paused, watching me. “You asked for me. Why?”

  “Because Katie wouldn’t listen to me. Maybe you will.”

  “Yes, but why me?”

  I thought about telling him it was because of how he’d treated me way back when I was on the job and recovering from being shot. A young patrol cop working light duty for investigators is pretty low on the totem pole in cop land. But Browning was kind to me and he even tried to tutor me some.

  The problem was, even though that was true, he would know it wasn’t the reason I asked for him.

  “I think we’re working the same case,” I said instead.

  His eyebrows went up slightly. “You’re a private detective now?”

  “No, not really. But I do some freelance work once in a while. Nothing official.”

  “And what case are you working now?”

  “One of yours. Councilman Tate’s suicide.”

  His eyebrows went up even further. “For whom?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t say. Someone who cared about him.”

  “The wife?” he asked. “Mrs. Tate?”

  I snorted. “I said someone who cared about him.”

  “So you’ve talked to her.”

  “Yes.”

  “And who else?”

  “A few other people.”

  “Including Lyle Beurkens.”

  “Yes.”

  Browning leaned back and regarded me, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. Then he said, “Why would you talk to Beurkens in connection with the councilman’s death?”

  “He was one of three contractors bidding for the development deal by the river. Tate was the chair of the contracts committee. And he was probably dirty.”

  “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

  I smiled tightly. “I may not have all of the resources you do, Ray, but I do have a library card.”

  “And the ability to trample all over an official investigation,” Browning added. “Did you talk to all three contractors?”

  “Yes.”

  “And was that what you were doing inside Lyle Beurkens’ house at one o’clock in the morning?”

  I shook my head. “Take a look in the plastic bag that patrol put my stuff into. You’ll see a mini-recorder.”

  “I saw it.”

  “So my intent was to get Beurkens talking about the Tate situation, maybe admit to the bribe.”

  “A bribe for which there is no evidence.”

  I thought about sharing what Paula Tate saw in their safe, but my gut told me to hold onto that information a little while longer. “He didn’t know that. I could have used a ruse.”

  “So what exactly is your theory here? That Lyle Beurkens bribed the councilman?”

  “I think he did, yes.”

  “To what end?”

  “The obvious one. To get the high bid, and Tate’s support in the committee.”

  “But then the councilman commits suicide.”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but Browning cut me off.

  “And while the police are looking into his death and his dealings, you step all over things in an unsanctioned, freelance operation that somehow puts you in a man’s house at one o’clock in the morning while he’s hanging dead in his garage.” His voice lowered as he spoke, and for the first time, I heard an edge in it.

  “I told you why I was there,” I said quietly.

  “Do you have any idea what time Lyle Beurkens died?” Browning asked me.

  “From the look of him, not long before I got there.”

  Browning shrugged. “Time of death is an inexact science when it comes to minutes. Best estimates are plus or minus an hour or more. So I guess it could have been shortly before you arrived. Or it could have been after.”

  “It was before.”

  Browning nodded and stroked his goatee again. “Forensics is still processing the scene,” he said, “but I’d like to share with you one thing that we’ve found.”

  “All right.”

  “Gwen Jackson found residual amounts of adhesive and fibers from duct tape on both of his wrists.” Browning watched me as he spoke. “He didn’t kill himself. Someone bound his wrists with duct tape and faked the suicide. This was a murder.”

  Shit.

  “And you were right there,” Browning finished.

  Shit.

  I swallowed. “I’ll take a lawyer now.”

  Browning nodded. “I’ll bet.”

  36

  Joel Harrity arrived over an hour later. He was dressed even more impeccably than Ray Browning, which gave me a curious sense of optimism. I’d sat sipping a cup of coffee that Browning brought in for me, and wondered how I was going to unsnarl this mess.

  Harrity waited until the uniform cop closed the door behind him before speaking. “Good morning,” he said, putting his briefcase on the table and sitting across from me. He pointed at the coffee and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “What? The detective gave it to me.”

  He nodded. “The cops keep getting smarter,” he said. “It used to be they’d only provide a beverage to entice a statement. Now they bring you coffee when you don’t say a word and call your lawyer right away.”

  I frowned. “Uh…”

  Harrity smiled humorlessly. “I thought not.” He opened his briefcase, took out a digital recorder, pressed a button and put it on the table in front of me. “Tell me everything.”

  So I did.

  When I was finished, my Styrofoam coffee cup was empty and so was my head. Harrity had listened attentively, only interrupting to clarify a small point or two. He made no notes, but I guess that’s what the recorder was for.

  He snapped off the recorder and put it back in the briefcase with a sigh.

  “I know,” I said. “It’s a mess.”

  He looked at me. “A big one.”

  “So what do I do?”

  Harrity leaned back and crossed his arms. “As I see it, you have two separate problems. The police and Mr. Bracco. I can help you with the first problem, but not the second.”

  “Why not? Couldn’t you—”

  “No.” He shook his head. “The only way I intend to ever cross paths with Dominic Bracco is if he calls me to defend him after an arrest. You’re on your own with that situation.”

  “What if I told the cops everything?” I asked. “Shoot for witness relocation? If Bracco is really connect to the New Jersey mob, the feds might be
interested.”

  “Possibly,” Harrity allowed, his tone doubtful.

  “But…?”

  “A lot has to happen.”

  I knew he was right. “You mean the cops have to believe me.”

  “For starters, yes.” Harrity drummed his fingers on his briefcase. “And then they would have to know who this thug is.”

  “That’s easy enough. I’m sure they have a file on Bracco and his associates, even if they’re not high on the RCPD radar.”

  “You’d have to identify him, too,” Harrity said.

  I shrugged. I expected that. “That’s no problem. I won’t blow the ID.”

  Harrity didn’t reply right away. My mind whirred through the rest of the cards that had to fall.

  “The detective has to buy my story.”

  “Which, I am assuming, is the truth?”

  “It is,” I said. “But getting him to believe it might not be easy. And then he’s got to take it to his boss and convince him.”

  “Lieutenant Crawford, in this case.”

  I frowned. Crawford was a legendary asshole. “Yeah, that could be a problem.”

  “Even if it isn’t, both of them would have to be willing to take it to a prosecutor, who would likewise have to believe your version of events. That could take a few days, at best.”

  He was right. The wheels of justice did not turn swiftly. “And while all of this is going on, my shit is in the wind.”

  “You would likely be in protective custody if things reached that point. Or simply booked on the probable cause and kept separate at jail, which amounts to the same thing.”

  “How long?”

  Harrity shrugged. “Who can say? The prosecutor would have to contact his colleagues on the federal level. Those prosecutors would have to care enough about Dominic Bracco on a national level to even consider taking on the case.”

  “That’s if they believe me.”

  “Correct.”

  “And then I’d be in federal protective custody.”

  “Most likely, yes. You’d remain there while they conduct their investigation and during trial. If all of that goes satisfactorily, then the federal prosecutor would have to agree to place you into the witness protection and relocation program.”

  “That’s a lot of things that have to go right.”

  “It is,” Harrity agreed. “We can try it, but all of those things must go our way for it to work out. Only of those things has to go wrong for it not to work. The odds are very poor.”

  “But it would solve both problems.”

  “It would. It is something of an all or nothing proposition, though. If you take the problems separately, you might be able to solve them both through separate means.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I will do what I can on the criminal side. You need to figure out how to deal with the other side. If you mix the two, your exposure is greater for both problems. Your odds of going to prison for life or being sentenced to death go up. And I don’t have to tell you what could happen on the other thing.”

  I sat back in my chair and let out a long sigh. “This is a nightmare.”

  “First things first,” he said. “Here’s how we handle the murder charge.”

  He told me, and I didn’t like it, but there wasn’t much choice.

  37

  Browning listened to Harrity’s explanation and our request with a placid expression, so there was no way to know what he was thinking. After Harrity finished, he sat in thought for a time. Finally, he said, “It’s not up to me to decide if your client is a flight risk, counselor. That’s a judge’s decision.”

  Harrity nodded. “Sure, it is. If you make an arrest and book someone. But it is your discretion whether or not to make that arrest.”

  “This is a murder investigation.”

  “I am aware of the allegation that Mr. Beurkens was murdered, although it sounds like it may have possibly been a suicide as well. Even so, you have no real evidence against my client.”

  Browning smirked in slight annoyance. “We caught him at the scene within minutes of the man’s death. That is pretty powerful evidence.”

  “Mr. Kopriva has explained that,” Harrity said. “He saw a man leave prior to his own entry into the Beurkens residence. That individual may be the culprit.”

  “A man with no name,” Browning observed.

  “My client provided you with his first name,” Harrity said. “And a criminal associate. I have every confidence in your investigative skills in finding out the rest, detective.”

  “And you can pick him out of a photo montage?” Browning asked me.

  “He can,” Harrity answered before I could say a word.

  “And say definitively that he was who you saw exit the Beurkens home?”

  “Yes,” said Harrity. “As I described to you already.”

  Browning shook his head. “On the one hand, I’ve got your client’s testimony that it was someone else and he’s the only witness to that. Not very strong evidence. And then, on the other hand, I have your client captured dead to rights inside the victim’s residence contemporaneous to the man’s murder. My witnesses there are police officers, and his own admission. That’s pretty compelling evidence.”

  “It is circumstantial evidence, detective, and you know it. If you ever tried to charge off that piece alone, I’d get the case dismissed upon summary judgment for lack of evidence. What’s more, my client would have a malicious prosecution lawsuit readymade.”

  “Malicious prosecution?” Browning shook his head. “Only a defense attorney could come into the police station in a case like this and make a threat like that.”

  “I’m not threatening anyone,” Harrity said. “I’m stating the facts.”

  “The fact is that your client was apprehended at the scene of a murder within minutes of the murder.”

  “Mere presence does not prove guilt. Do you have his fingerprints on any pieces of evidence. Any DNA evidence linking him to the victim? Witnesses?”

  Browning didn’t answer.

  “You don’t,” Harrity said, “and you won’t, because the only thing my client did was show up at that house with noble intentions and at very much the wrong time.”

  “Quite a coincidence,” Browning said.

  “The universe abounds with them,” Harrity answered.

  “Juries don’t like them.”

  “Maybe not, but juries do like me,” Harrity said. “And we both know that as the evidence stands, I will destroy this case before it even gets to a jury.”

  “How do I know he won’t run?”

  “I won’t,” I said. “I—”

  Harrity raised his hand to stop me. Then he turned back to Browning. “One, because he’s not guilty. Two, because I am telling you he won’t.”

  “A judge would require bail.”

  “Which my client would surely raise and get out anyway, benefitting no one but the bail bondsman. Detective, I realize you don’t care for me, and I fully understand the reason why that is. I represent scum, at least by the estimation of most officers of the law. But if you stop to think about it, you will recognize that I am, and have always been, honest about it.”

  Browning didn’t reply.

  “So,” Harrity went on, “release my client on the terms we discussed. You can always charge him later if your investigation leads to it.”

  Browning sat for another minute, looking first at Harrity, then at me. Then he stood and left the room without a word.

  I turned to Harrity. “What do you think that means?”

  “Wait. He’ll be back.”

  He was. Fifteen minutes later, he walked in with a full page photo that he placed in front of me without a word. I looked down at the face. The flat nose and fish hook scar were unmistakable.

  “That’s the guy,” I said.

  “Joe Bassen,” Browning said. “Former professional boxer. Minor league criminal since he came back to River City. Associate of Dominic Bracco
, according to our crime intelligence analysts.” He cast me a quick glance. “Like you said.”

  “He’s the muscle.”

  Browning shrugged. “Maybe. All you’ve given me is a name and an accusation. I don’t have any proof this man was anywhere near the crime scene.”

  “You have my word. And he did this.” I pointed at my bruised eye.

  “That could have come from anywhere,” Browning said. “But I have you at the crime scene, with cops as witnesses. Way more compelling evidence.”

  “You haven’t even finished processing the scene yet,” I told him. “You might find something that links him there.”

  “If he works for a mobster, I’m guessing he’s smart enough to wear gloves and take other precautions.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “You’ve got me chasing ghosts here, Stef. And all to clear your own name.” Browning pressed his lips together and shook his head. “It looks shaky to me.”

  It was the first time he’d used my name since he walked into the interview room hours ago. I took it for a good sign.

  “Have you ever known me not to carry my own water, Ray? Even back when I was on the job? Karl Winter? Or Amy Dugger? Did I try to pass off any of those things onto anyone else?”

  Browning shrugged. “Let’s say I believe you. Without evidence, the only way I get anywhere with the suspect you’re talking about is from a confession. And for that, I need a lever.”

  I felt myself actually smile. “That I got.”

  38

  Monique was awake when we got there. She listened to me explain the situation while Browning waited outside. Harrity had excused himself after getting assurances from Browning that I wouldn’t be booked if she cooperated.

  When I’d finished, she swallowed hard and nodded. “I’ll do it.”

  I went out to get Browning. “She’s tired,” I told him. “So go easy.”

  Browning nodded his understanding. We went into Monique’s room and I introduced him to her. Browning wasted no time putting the photo montage in front of her. She took all of two seconds to identify Joe Bassen.

  “That’s the man,” she told Browning. “That’s the man who assaulted me.”