by Frank Zafiro
Norris conducted an easy but thorough search of my clothing, his motions practiced and efficient. He limited his comments to direct instructions of when to bend or turn to facilitate the search. When it was over, he lifted the plastic covered seat cushion in the back seat and peered underneath it.
In that moment, I had a terrible vision of him finding some kind of planted evidence, most likely dope, and charging me with it. That thought was immediately followed with the realization that Hunter put him up to it.
But Norris didn’t find anything because nothing was there, and he didn’t plant anything, either. He simply replaced the cushion, then guided me into the seat.
“Watch your head,” he said, as I got in, then he shut the door.
As he walked around the front of the car toward the driver’s seat, I saw Sergeant Hunter approaching again. He called to Norris, who paused and waited. Hunter waved him over, and Norris dutifully trudged up the driveway to speak with him. They talked for less than a minute, looking my way several times. Then Norris nodded, turned away and came to the car.
I didn’t like the exchange one bit, but there was nothing I could do but wait to see what came of it.
Norris started the car and typed something into the mobile data terminal. It beeped at him. He frowned and typed again. It beeped at him again.
“Then the hell with you, you piece of junk,” he muttered, and reached for the radio. “Charlie-153?”
“Charlie-153, go ahead.”
The voice of the dispatcher sounded familiar. I thought for a split second it might be the same one I’d talked to on the phone, but this one was male.
“I’ll be en route to the investigative division with one from the scene here on King Pigeon Lane. My mileage is reset.”
“Copy,” came the clipped response. “Your terminal broken?”
Norris held the mike in front of his mouth. “Screw you, you lazy bastard,” he snapped into it. Then he very deliberately pressed the mike button. “Negative. Your fingers broken?”
The dispatcher didn’t reply.
Norris glanced up at me in the rear-view mirror, and shrugged. “They hire them already lazy and then everyone is shocked when they just get lazier.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I gave him a slight nod.
Norris put the cruiser into gear and did a relaxed but expert three-point turn. When we reached the end of the driveway, he slowed to a stop. Crime scene tape was drawn from one fence post to the mailbox on the other side. The patrol officer stationed there approached the driver’s window. I didn’t recognize him.
Norris lowered his window. “You want to lift that shit for me, Cavender?”
“You want to blow me, Norris?”
Norris flashed him a grin. “Sure. Just lift the tape first, and I will. Promise.”
Cavender put his hands on the outside of the car and leaned down into the window. “Yeah, you probably would, you sick bastard.”
“What’s sick about loving your fellow man?”
“The fact I gotta answer that question for you is the whole problem.”
Norris shrugged, still smiling. “See, I was only joking. But now you’re starting to sound a little defensive. Makes me wonder some about the true nature of your orientation.”
“More like makes you fantasize,” Cavender said.
The ease of their banter, combined with its inappropriateness, struck me in an odd way. Irritation tickled my nerves, but so did a strange, jealous, bittersweet sense of loss and longing. Maybe it was the job, but more likely, it was the camaraderie I missed.
Cavender looked into the back seat, spotting me. If he was worried about me having overheard his exchange with Norris, his face didn’t show it. A veil of distaste dropped over his features. He turned back to Norris and jerked a thumb toward me. “He a collar?”
Norris shrugged. “Sarge wants him taken to the dicks’ office. I just do what I’m told.”
Cavender let out an evil chuckle. “Since when?”
Norris spread his hands out in a benevolent gesture. “I’m merely a public servant, doing as he’s bade.”
“Whatever,” Cavender replied, shaking his head. “You ask me, you oughta be careful on the ride in. Lots of stray cats between here and the dicks.”
I clenched my jaw but said nothing. I knew what he meant. In the back seat with handcuffs on, if Norris slammed on his brakes suddenly for a cat in the roadway that wasn’t really there, I’d fly face-first into the clear plastic shield that separated the front seat compartment from the prisoner compartment. It was an old graveyard tactic.
Norris didn’t answer. A moment of uncomfortable silence followed. Cavender broke it by tapping the top of the cruiser with his hands. “All right. Let’s get you on the way, huh?”
“That’d be nice.”
Cavender turned to walk away. When he made it about three steps, Norris called out to him. Cavender turned around. “What?”
Norris beckoned him back to the car window. Cavender returned and assumed his previous stance, leaning into the window.
“You walk like you’re in the Gay Pride Parade, Cavvie.”
“Fuck you.”
“Just thought you should know, is all.”
“Like you weren’t watching my ass.”
Norris shrugged. “It pretty much blocks the view of anything else.”
“Well, then just go ahead and kiss it, because –”
A news van hurtled around the corner and came screeching to a halt just on the other side of yellow crime scene tape. The passenger door burst open. A leggy, perfectly coiffed female news reporter scrambled out, already calling directions to someone I couldn’t see. A moment later, a camera operator appeared from the rear of the van, shouldering his bulky video cam.
“Roll, roll, roll!” the reporter yelled to him.
“Shit,” Norris muttered.
Cavender stood transfixed, watching the scene play out. “Damn,” he muttered. Then he turned to Norris. “She looks hotter in person, don’t you think?”
“Raise the tape,” Norris barked at him.
“Oh. Yeah.” Cavender turned and trotted to the yellow tape, lifting it straight up.
Norris nudged the patrol car forward, edging underneath the arch of the crime scene tape. The camera man trained the lens on the car. A blinking red light told me he was rolling. I stared at that black lens, wondering why Norris was still barely creeping along. He was effectively giving the news reporter a drive-by version of a perp walk.
I glanced at him, but he was focused on his side mirror. His gaze was more intense than before. “C’mon, Cavvie,” he muttered.
I turned to see Cavender bending the patrol cruiser’s radio whip antenna below the yellow tape. He released it, sending it snapping out of sight.
Norris gunned the engine, swinging wide of the two newsies and speeding down King Pigeon Lane.
We rode in silence for a minute or two before Norris met my gaze in the rear-view mirror. “You all right?”
“Fine.”
He nodded slightly, and returned to driving. I adjusted my position slightly to avoid putting pressure on my cuffed wrists.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked.
He glanced into the mirror. “Do I need my lawyer present?”
I shook my head. “Funny, but no.”
“Go ahead, then.”
“You know me, right?”
He gave a measured nod. “Yeah. We worked together on graveyard shift a long time ago.”
“A very long time ago, yeah. A lot has happened since then.”
“I know.”
“Then you know that pretty much everyone at RCPD hates me, right?”
He thought about it for a second, then conceded, “That’s probably not far from the truth.”
“Every time I run into someone on the department, they either know me or they’ve heard of me, and so they treat me like shit.”
“Your point?”
“Why not you?�
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Norris considered my question while he drove. Then he said, “Truth is, I always liked you, Kopriva. You had balls.” He paused, then added, “And I guess I think you got something of a bad rap.”
“That’s it?”
He shrugged. “I’m not saying you didn’t fuck up. Maybe I just understand how a thing like that could happen to anyone.”
I sat and thought about his answer. After a mile or so, I asked, “What was your fuck up?”
His eyes flicked to mine in the mirror. “Doesn’t matter,” he said gruffly.
I left it alone. Maybe he was right, and maybe he was wrong, but I had enough people pissed off at me. I didn’t need to convert anyone.
51
I sat in the interview room with a cup of coffee long gone cold, staring into the black liquid and waiting. Norris passed me off to the rookie who’d transported either Jeni or Marie, and he stood guard on the trio of rooms. When I asked to use the restroom, he appeared torn.
“Relax,” I said. “I’m a witness. And where am I gonna go?”
He hesitated, then pointed at a short hallway. “Men’s room is there.”
I already knew that and headed toward it. After I finished and washed my hands, I stood at the towel dispenser, drying them off. The door to the bathroom swung open. A heavyset, weathered detective stepped through the doorway. I recognized him immediately.
Jack Stone.
He stared at me in surprise as recognition set in. “Kopriva? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Waiting for an interview,” I said evenly. Then I added, “I’m a witness.”
He snorted. “Not likely.”
I tossed the paper towel into the garbage. I didn’t really care what he thought.
“Come with me,” he said brusquely.
“Go to hell.”
He scowled. “This is a secure area. You can’t just walk around.”
I looked at him. He’d gained weight since the last time we crossed paths. His face was more heavily lined, too, and his skin had a wispy, unhealthy pallor. I wondered briefly if he had some kind of cancer in play.
“I’m not,” I said quietly. “I was taking a leak. And now I’m going back to wait for the detective to interview me.”
“Come with me,” he repeated.
I let it go. It just wasn’t worth the fight. I wanted to jab at him, maybe get some measure of payback for the way he treated me during the Kris Sinderling case, but that was years ago now. What did it matter?
I didn’t wait for him to escort me. I simply brushed past him and headed for the door.
He moved fast, especially for someone old and overweight. His hard grasp encircled my wrist while his other hand clutched at my shoulder. I tried to shift my weight, but he already had leverage on me. My chest and cheek slammed against the bathroom wall, causing me to grunt in pain.
“You little prick,” Stone growled. “You think you can just waltz around here after all the shit you’ve pulled?”
I didn’t answer. He had me pinned, and fighting would only have made it worse.
We stood motionless for a moment. Stone’s raspy, wheezing breath was close to my ear. I could smell whatever fetid meat he had for lunch on his breath.
“Let. Me. Go,” I said in a low voice.
Stone didn’t react to my demand. Instead, he leaned his weight into me a little more, pressing me to the wall. “You’re no hero,” he said. “You could have saved Karl Winter. I don’t care what anybody says. You stood there and let him die. And you sure as shit killed that little girl.”
“I know,” I said, but he didn’t seem to hear me.
“I oughta drown you in that fucking toilet,” he rasped. “You piece of shit.”
I didn’t answer. I just waited for him to decide what his move was going to be, and to make it. One thing I knew for sure, though. There was no way he was putting my face in the toilet. No way in hell.
We stood there for another minute that seemed like an hour, his loud breathing the only sound echoing throughout the bathroom. Then the door swung open again. I didn’t see who entered but I could feel the surprise.
“Jack? What the hell?”
Stone seemed to sigh. “Hold the door for me,” he growled in resignation.
A moment later, he propelled me through the door. We walked back toward the interview rooms. I had to shuffle my feet quickly to keep up with Stone’s longer, more powerful strides. My knee sang out in protest with every step.
“Slow down,” I told him. “And let me go.”
He didn’t answer. As we approached the interview rooms, the rookie patrol cop’s eyes went wide. “Uh…”
Stone ignored him, thrusting me through the open door. I stumbled into the small table in the center of the interview room, catching the edge with my hands to brace against a fall. Behind me, I heard Stone snap, “You’ve got one fucking job, kid. To watch the prisoner. So do it!”
“I—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Do your job!”
“Yes, sir,” the officer said meekly.
I met Stone’s gaze. Disgust was plain on his face, along with barely controlled anger. He took a deep breath and shook his head at me. “Kopriva, you’re nothing but a total waste of –”
Before he could finish his sentence, I reached out and swung the door to the interview room shut. It closed with a satisfying slam, drowning out whatever Stone had to say.
52
I didn’t know the detective who eventually interviewed me. “I’m Detective Strodtz,” he said, all business.
Strodtz had red hair, cropped almost short enough to hide the color. Throughout the interview, he was brisk but polite. He didn’t try to use any interrogation techniques on me, but simply asked his questions. When I answered, he made notes on his pad of paper. Occasionally, he repeated a question or asked for clarification.
The whole process took less than forty minutes once we finally got started. Strodtz never mentioned Stone or my interaction with him. When he finished with his questions, he asked me if I had any for him.
“Am I free to go?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I nodded. He started to gather his notes, when I asked, “You hear about what Stone did?”
He stopped and gave me a frank, even stare but didn’t answer.
“Of course you did,” I said.
He blinked, then reached up and scratched his cheek. “Why are you asking?”
“I’m trying to figure out if I should file an IA complaint on the son of a bitch,” I said.
Strodtz watched me, his demeanor flat. “Should I call over to Internal Affairs for you?”
“Lieutenant Hart still there?”
“Yes.” Even in his even tone, the unspoken word was loud.
Unfortunately.
“I bet he’d enjoy climbing up Stone’s ass over this. What could he charge? Demeanor, excessive force? It’d be a banner day in IA.”
Strodtz scratched his cheek again. “You could. But you used to be a cop, right?”
“A long time ago.”
“Still, you know the drill, right?”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that Stone is soundly into the KMA zone of his career.”
“KMA?”
“Kiss My Ass,” Strodtz explained. “He’s got his time in. Anything happens that is too heavy, he simply puts in his papers and retires.”
I considered his words. “So he’s untouchable.”
“Short of something criminal, yes.”
“Last time I checked, using excessive force under the color of authority was a violation of federal law,” I said.
“You know what I meant.”
I did. Stone’s use of force with me may or may not have been legal but I’d be hard pressed to prove it was excessive. There were no injuries to point to. I didn’t know what he’d tell investigators, but whatever it was, they’d believe that account a lot more readily than mine. In all likelihood, so would a
jury, if things went that route.
I shook my head. “It’s not worth the trouble.”
“Probably not.” Strodtz finished gathering his notes and rose in his chair. “As I said, you’re free to go,” he said, and turned to head to the door.
“Hey,” I said.
Strodtz stopped, and turned to look over his shoulder at me.
“Maybe it’s nothing,” I said, “but for what it’s worth, even though Stone’s an asshole, I never really considered going formal against him.”
Strodtz thought about that briefly, then said, “You’re right. It’s not worth much.”
53
There was no way to know who drove my car from the Brassart’s to the investigative division, but whoever it was, it had been somebody tall and inconsiderate. I figured out the tall part because he had to ratchet my driver’s seat way back to the furthest notch in order to drive it. The inconsiderate part was obvious because the seat was still there.
I adjusted the seat forward and started the car. The drive home was a short one. As I rolled up the street, though, I spotted the vans for two different TV stations parked right in front of my apartment.
“Damn,” I muttered.
One of them was the same station that had arrived at the Brassart’s as I was leaving in the back of Norris’ police cruiser. After my experience with Stone, and to a lesser degree, with Strodtz, I definitely didn’t want to deal with the media on top of everything else.
I cruised past the parked vans. The driver’s door of one was propped open slightly while a bored cameraman smoked a cigarette and blew the smoke through the opening. In the passenger seat, a male reporter primped in the visor mirror.
Near the main entrance, the same cameraman and female reporter loitered. The large camera sat on the porch next to the cameraman. The reporter glanced at her watch while a microphone dangled from her other hand.
I slid past in my battered Toyota Celica without any of them noticing me.
Clell’s place was in a part of town everyone used to call “short north.” It wasn’t too accurate anymore, with all the northward urban sprawl, unless someone wanted to start calling it “shorter north.” He had a little two bedroom house on a nice block just north of the West Central neighborhood. His neighbors were pretty good, but they were all held hostage to the vagaries of the people who lived one block in either direction. Mostly poor whites who were either working or looking for work, there were a few who preyed upon their neighbors. Clell has been lucky enough to escape being victimized but we both knew that as long he lived on Spofford, it was only a matter of time.
