Blazer: Return of the Troubles: A Cop Thriller

by G. C. Harmon

  Steve shrugged. “Yeah, well, it’s getting hard to see things as positive these days. Please, let’s discuss happier topics. How’s mom doing?”

  Steve awoke with a start. Some small out-of-place noise had worked its way into his subconscious and driven him awake. He thought for a moment, and remembered his Dad was out in the living room on his couch. After their late dinner, they’d reminisced about Steve’s childhood for what seemed like hours. Nearing midnight, Steve had pulled out spare blankets, and his dad laid out on the couch and dozed off. Steve had done a little report writing on a laptop in his bedroom before turning in himself.

  Steve threw his covers off, wearing only a pair of gym shorts as his sleepwear. He walked quietly out to the living room. Across in the kitchen, his microwave clock said it was after seven-thirty.

  The couch was empty, his Dad missing. He glanced at the door and saw that it was unlocked. Not having a key, he had decided to risk leaving it unsecured when he left. He then saw the short note left on top of the neatly folded blanket. It consisted of just a short sentence. I will call you soon.

  Steve growled to himself, “When am I going to get a straight answer out of him?” With a sigh, he decided to shower, breakfast and head in to work.

  Just before nine a.m., he pulled his black SUV into the garage underneath the Hall of Justice. As he boarded the closest elevators, his phone vibrated. He grabbed the phone, thinking his dad might be calling, but instead found Suzy calling him. He tapped the screen. “Good morning.”

  “Hey. Are you in your office?”

  “Just pulled in the parking garage. Why?”

  “You’ll never guess who is in the lobby right now.”

  “It’s not my dad, is it?”

  “You should come find out.”

  Having already pushed the button for the seventh floor, Steve now punched the lobby button, and the car stopped there seconds later. He stepped out and walked around the corner into the lobby proper, searching.

  He spotted Suzy just to his left, and she nodded him over. Other voices suddenly raised over the echo of the lobby. A woman shouted, “Why will no one help me?”

  Another officer was attempting to speak with the woman. As Steve approached, he recognized the woman. Twenty-four hours ago, in the alley behind the church, she had quoted scripture to them as she left, taking home with her a drug addicted transient to help her out. Steve could already tell what the situation was. She looked frazzled, her blonde hair unkempt. He also saw that she was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. She had gone to the front desk to frantically ask for an officer’s assistance, and now she was tired of waiting.

  Suzy was standing with Officer Lee Norris, a buddy of Blazer’s from his patrol days. He glanced back at Blazer. “Remember her, Sarge?”

  “Oh, yeah. And I already know what this is about.”

  There were a couple other people waiting at the police desk, and they all were staring at the woman causing a scene. One female security officer was trying to reason with the woman and making no headway. “Ma’am, if you’ll just be patient, an officer will—”

  “I can’t be patient, my life is in danger!”

  Norris shook his head and stepped forward. He motioned to the security officer, and she backed off. “Ma’am, I’m Officer Norris. What’s your name?”

  She heaved a sigh of relief. “My name is Astrid Helfer.”

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  Helfer seemed almost taken aback that she was finally getting some attention. “I’ll tell you what the problem is. I have people in my home that won’t leave.”

  “Can you explain the situation to me?” Norris said, knowing exactly what she’d say.

  “Yesterday, I brought a young woman home to try and help her out…”

  “Did you know this woman?”

  She was flustered. Listening from a few yards away, Steve could tell she was making up some of her story.

  “No, she was…” she lowered her voice, as if ashamed to say it. “She’s homeless.”

  “A transient?”

  The interruption flustered her even more, something that gave Norris a little bit of satisfaction, which he kept off his countenance.

  “Yes, she’s homeless. I brought her home, you know, just to help her out. I let her shower, and I went out for a little while to buy us some food so I could cook dinner. I wasn’t gone more than forty-five minutes. When I returned, she had invited in her boyfriend. They had brought in a bunch of their clothes. They were…they were getting ready to inject drugs right in front of me!”

  “So you invited her in, and now you can’t get rid of her?”

  “Yes! I need an officer to come to my apartment and get her out.”

  “Ma’am, there’s a problem there. Since they’ve moved in a bunch of their clothes, a case could be made that they have established residency there. As of now, they could be considered squatters. If these people are at all familiar with the law, they would be able to sue you for denying them access to their home. If an officer were to speak with them and try to eject them, and they knew of this right, that officer would have no choice but to back off and leave them there. And that would put you in the position of having to legally evict them. It’s a long drawn out process that takes weeks, even months, to go through the courts. If you own your home, they may destroy it by the time it’s all done, and you would have a major cleanup on your hands. If you rent, well, you’ll likely get evicted and destroy your credit in the process. In the meantime, a bunch of criminals have a free place to stay, if only for a while.”

  Hearing all this was an obvious shock. The woman was in tears.

  “Typically, if one really wants to help someone like this, it’s better to donate money, food, clothing, blankets, even your time, to one of the shelters in town. There are specific charities set up to help these people get off drugs and off the streets, and preferably into a job. Giving them money on the street corner just feeds their drug habit and keeps them in their situation. And it’s never a good idea to just bring them home like this.”

  He paused to let this sink in. “You may not remember, but I was there yesterday when you invited this woman home with you. I seem to remember giving you a little bit of her history. I busted her for heroin possession a few days ago.”

  Helfer blinked away her tears, trying to remember his face from yesterday. “Then why isn’t she in jail?”

  “Times have changed. In California, no one goes to jail anymore for a little bit of dope. The people of California have voted to take away those penalties.”

  “It sounds so cynical,” she shook her head.

  “Perhaps. It may not be politically correct, but those of us who work the streets see these people for what they really are. The majority of transients are alcoholics, addicts, and yes, some mentally ill. Most of them choose to live on the streets because that’s where their drugs are. Those hard luck cases that some people get so indignant about are few and far between.”

  Helfer was back to sobbing. “This is a nightmare.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Norris then said. “Give me your address. I can go talk with them and at least try to get them out. Who knows, they may not be aware of their squatter’s rights. If they are, I have to warn you, I won’t be able to do anything. But just maybe I’ll be able to talk them out.”

  Her tears renewed, now from relief. “Thank you.”

  Norris fished a notepad from his pocket and took down her address and phone number. They made a quick arrangement to meet there a short time later, and she would wait across the street until police were finished inside. When she walked away, she was breathing heavily to try and control her crying.

  “Well said,” Steve said when Norris rejoined them.

  “How many times have we seen that shit, partner?”

  “Too many.”

  Norris looked at Suzy. “Our deposition is done, you want to head over there with me?”

  “Yeah. I can’t wait to
meet this pair.”

  “You guys watch yourselves,” Steve said, then looked Suzy in the eye. “Especially you.”

  Norris smiled at him. “I’m feeling ignored over here. Come on, Blazer, where’s the love?”

  Steve grinned back, and then headed for the elevator.

  Upstairs, he made his way toward the Homicide squad room, then entered the Special Forces office. He was the last one to arrive. “Alright, everyone look busy, the boss is here,” Steve announced.

  They were busy. His team was going over crime scene photos and witness statements from the Cathedral. Most of them grinned at his joke, but barely looked up from their work.

  Steve sat down at his desk and fired up his laptop. He said to Scot, “We dropped that shell casing at the ballistics lab last night, any word from them?”

  “They called a few minutes ago. Check your email.”

  Steve worked his keyboard and mousepad and brought up his email. He found the post sent by the ballistics lab and glanced over it. It included a picture of the comparison of the casings. “It’s a match, high percent certainty.”

  Scot wheeled his chair over, glanced at the side by side picture. “So the guy trying to kill this priest is the same guy who took a shot at us last night.”

  “That’s what it looks like,” Steve said. He found a second email, clicked it and read it. He clicked on a link included. “This is interesting,” he announced to the room. “We got a hit off the prints on the beer bottle. One belonged to the bartender, no surprise. The second was not in any criminal database, but they expanded their search and got hit off a Customs database. Apparently, our mysterious old man who sicced the hooligans on us is one Liam Hallahan. He owns a small-time shipping company and had to get fingerprinted for a Customs bond. Someone made a note in here that this guy should be investigated for any ties to Irish Mobsters back east.” Steve thought for a moment. “How easy would it be for someone like Mr. Hallahan to have a pipeline of money, or even guns, between here and Northern Ireland?”

  “Puts a whole new spin on everything, and brings up a lot more questions,” Scot said.

  “We need to find these guys. You hang here with me, I want to write up a warrant for a phone dump for that bar. Maybe we can find out who some of these Irish ex-pats are. Then maybe we can get an address on this shipping company and check them out.” To the room, he said, “Why don’t the rest of you head back over to the cathedral and the transient camp and do a recanvas. Maybe there are some new characters who came out of hiding.”

  Three sets of eyes rolled at the prospect, and there were a few muttered curses as Dave, Brian and A.J. grabbed their coats to head out.

  Captain Stanson stepped quietly into the office. Steve saw him and stood to meet him.

  “This damn missing priest thing is starting to blow up into an international incident. You and I have been invited to meet with a team from the State Department at the Federal Building.”

  Steve’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “What the hell is going on? Wait, are they about to yank us off the case? Or worse, are we in trouble for something they’re about to blindside us with?”

  “I guess we’ll find out. I’ll drive, and I’ll brief you on my conversation on the way.”

  Steve glanced at his team. “Scot, I think you should accompany us. The rest of you, start on that recanvas until you hear from me.” There was another chorus of groans, but he ignored them. He left with Stanson and Black.

  8

  It was a short four block drive up 7th Street to the Federal building at 7th and Mission. It took only minutes to drive, and Stanson related his conversation with someone named Agent Bauman, State Department. I understand you are searching for a missing priest, Bauman had asked him. I’d like to take a meeting about this man with you and your lead investigator, I think his name is Blazer. Is there any information you would like to provide us for the investigation? No, Bauman said, just get here as soon as possible. Top floor, ask for me by name. Steve agreed with his mentor that this was mysterious and could spell trouble for them.

  Stanson found a place to park along Mission Street, and the three of them made their way across to the plaza outside the building. Steve looked up to examine the building. It was eighteen stories tall, long and narrow, like a slab of concrete standing on its side. The upper portion of the building was covered by some kind of metal mesh. It was part of the building’s “green” design, and Steve couldn’t fathom how this was functional for anything.

  They entered the plaza, which was partially covered by a structure that sported glass panels. They walked past concrete benches and a decorative water fountain that took up a large area. The door opened automatically, and Stanson led them up to a security station, a round well of a desk with several uniformed officers and multiple computer terminals visible. One of the guards met Stanson’s gaze, and the Captain strode boldly up to him. “Captain John Stanson, SFPD. I’m supposed to meet with a Mr. Bauman.”

  “Captain Stanson?” a new voice asked. The three turned to find a tall black man approaching, having heard his announcement. He was Blazer’s height, light skinned black, and well-spoken. “I’m Agent Birdsong, State Department. I was sent by Agent Bauman to meet you and bring you upstairs.” He glanced at the other two.

  “That’s fine,” John said. “These are my lead investigators, Sergeant Blazer and Inspector Black.”

  “Blazer?” said Birdsong as he extended his hand.

  “Yes, sir,” Steve said, shaking. He got the feeling there was something else behind the man’s repeating his name.

  He shook Scot’s hand as well. “Right this way, gentleman.”

  Birdsong led them across the lobby to an elevator bank, and he hit the up button. The car was there instantly, and they boarded. The car whisked them up but stopped at the third floor. Birdsong stepped off, and they followed him down the row of elevator doors until he pushed another up button.

  “Do these things not work right?” Scot asked.

  “Actually, they work too well,” Birdsong chuckled. “This is supposed to be one of the greenest buildings in this city. The elevators are designed to go only three floors at a time to encourage everyone who works here to take the stairs once in a while for exercise. It’s become quite the bone of contention.”

  They stepped into another car and started up. “This place is supposed to be designed to take advantage of natural lighting. The windows are supposed to be special to assist with natural air flow and air conditioning. Problem is, most of the time it doesn’t work. Everyone who works here hates it.”

  “Yet another epic fail in the name of climate change,” Steve said. “Better be careful how you talk. This is a “woke” building, and if they hear you talking trash, the cancel culture might pounce on you.”

  Birdsong gave him a knowing smile. “You may not be off the mark.”

  They had to change cars at least thrice more before Birdsong led them out onto the eighteenth floor. They soon saw what he meant about the natural light. The strange mesh structure outside did not let enough light in. Birdsong almost had trouble finding the room number he wanted, but he soon pushed through a gray-painted door into an outer office. There was no office title on the door, just a number, 1818.

  As soon as they walked in, they could hear shouting beyond a large oak double-door inside. A young woman sat at a desk just outside the double doors. She had an amused and amazed look on her face, and they could tell she’d been listening in on the shouting match. Birdsong muttered a curse as he hurried to the double door and pushed them open.

  “It’s been over twenty years, don’t blame me,” they heard someone shout. There was an accent to the voice, and Steve flashed on a moment of familiarity.

  “Gentlemen,” Birdsong announced, “our friends from the SFPD are here.”

  The argument settled down as the police entered what turned out to be a conference room. In an instant, Steve scanned the faces of everyone there, a group of eight. But he froze when on
e man facing away turned around.

  He found himself face to face with Andrew Declan Blazer.

  “Dad? What the—” The first thing that popped into his mind was, “Did you cause an international incident?”

  Steve was deadly serious, but the remark drew a couple of smiles from the men before him. Someone muttered, “That’s one way to put it.”

  “Good morning, son. Actually, I used to work with these gentleman.”

  Despite the confusion of seeing his Dad here in the federal building, he had a sudden flash of realization. “This is why you’re suddenly visiting San Francisco, patronizing Irish pubs and why you’re so interested in my case.”

  An older man in a brown suit stepped forward. He looked like he was long past retirement age. His hair was thin, but he kept it long and swept back. His skin was pale and saggy, like he’d smoked as a younger man. “You must be the hot shot cop.” When Steve shot him a dirty look, he went on, “Your father asked that we brief you into this incident, as you are already neck deep in it. He thought you might be able to help us out. I’m Special Agent in Charge Charles Bauman.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Steve said. “Somebody want to tell me what the hell is going on here?”

  “Actually, lads,” Drew spoke up, “Maybe I should have a few minutes alone with my son before we start the briefing. I think it is time I clear up some mysteries.” He glanced at Steve and nodded toward the door.

  Drew led his son to the outer office and into a far corner. They barely acknowledged the Administrative Assistant as they walked by. In the corner, Steve said just above a whisper, “I think I’m starting to get the drift of what’s going on here, but why don’t you fill me in. Finally.”

  “Alright. For starters, I used to work for the State Department, specifically the INR.”

  This was a surprise. “Intelligence? Damn, so you are James Bond?”

  Drew smiled. “Office of Intelligence and Research. I’ve been there most of my career, since college. I’m sure you know, I’ve maintained my dual citizenship between the US and Scotland. This has of course helped me in my work with State.”