Never the Crime

by Colin Conway

  “I don’t think that’s it,” Thomas said, glancing around to see if anyone heard Zielinski’s words.

  “Then what? He’s SWAT and I’m not? Or nobody died, is that it? Somebody has to die for me to be a hero? Otherwise, I’m just some kind of code-four cowboy.”

  Zielinski noticed a pair of women staring at him in disapproval from across the small coffee shop. They had the privileged look of women who might star in Housewives of Spokane, if the reality show ever deigned to come to someplace as low rent as the Lilac City. He should have known better than to agree to meet Thomas on the South Hill. He should have stayed north, in his own district, and made the union president sit down in a greasy spoon somewhere in the rough-and-tumble Hillyard neighborhood instead.

  The women kept looking at him, so he stared back until both broke eye contact, and went back to talking quietly between themselves.

  “Great,” he muttered. “Everyone else in the world gets a coffee break and no one thinks twice about it. But let a cop in uniform take one, and everyone stares like he’s lazy or something.”

  “They were looking over here because you were getting loud,” Thomas said.

  “Whatever. The way my luck is going, they’ll probably file a complaint.” He turned back to Thomas. “That’s the other thing I’m concerned about. If this officer safety buzz reaches Internal Affairs, I could end up getting jammed up over it.”

  “I don’t think that’s likely.”

  Zielinski ignored his comment. “Plus, there’s that social worker, Lindsay Wagner. They could blame me for him being shot, too.”

  “You saved his life.”

  “Like that will matter.”

  “Ray, take a breath.”

  “I am breathing.”

  “No,” Thomas said. “Take a breath. A deep one. And tell me what song is playing right now.”

  Zielinski hesitated, but did as Thomas suggested. He drew in deep breath and let it out. Then he concentrated on the music being piped throughout the coffee shop. A violin played what should be a guitar riff over the background of synthesizer chords. After a few seconds, he recognized the tune.

  “It’s a shitty elevator music version of ‘Sunshine of Your Love.’”

  “It is pretty terrible.”

  “Ought to be illegal.”

  Thomas smiled. Then he said, “Look, Ray, I’m not going to try to tell you that progressive discipline isn’t a potential problem for us if they start piling on complaints. But let’s not start buttering the toast while the dough is still rising, huh?”

  Zielinski raised an eyebrow. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that there isn’t a problem yet. All you’ve got is two pending issues. One is likely going to be dumped because the complainant isn’t interested enough to cooperate. And the other complainant is still alive because of you, so there’s a good chance he changes his mind, too.” Thomas spread his hands. “Then, voila. You’re in the clear. No worries.”

  Zielinski thought about his unreported collision. “Things happen,” he said. “You know they’d do me if they get the chance.”

  “Sure. Look what they tried to do to Garrett.”

  Garrett. The name made Zielinski’s stomach hurt.

  “You okay, Ray?”

  Before Zielinski could answer, his radio chirped. “Baker one twenty-three, can you clear for a call?”

  He brought the radio to his mouth. “Twenty-three, go ahead.”

  “Possible suicidal subject,” the dispatcher said, reciting a nearby address. “Complainant is on scene with the victim, waiting for police arrival.”

  “Method?” Zielinski asked. The last thing he wanted was to walk into another shooting.

  “Asphyxiation,” the dispatcher answered. “Victim is calm, according to complainant.”

  “Copy,” Zielinski said. Asphyxiation? What the hell did that mean? Then he looked at Thomas. “See? I get all the crazies.”

  “Stay safe,” Thomas said. “We’ll talk again tomorrow, okay?”

  “Sure.” Zielinski stood and walked out of the café to his car. The drive to the address took less than minute, making it obvious to him why the dispatcher had tagged him for the call. Plus, he stuck out like a sore thumb with a Baker designator sitting in the middle of Charlie sector.

  Serves me right.

  When he turned onto the block, he was surprised to see a news van in front of the target address. Since when did a suicidal person merit a media response? The news reporter noticed his car and pointed. The camera man swung the lens in his direction.

  Zielinski frowned. He punched a key on his MDC, putting himself on scene. Then he pressed another key, bringing up the call. He scanned the text and almost immediately saw what the dispatcher had avoided putting out over the air. The victim’s name was Dennis Hahn, the councilman.

  “Shit,” he muttered. “Thanks for the warning.” The dispatcher should have asked him to call in to radio for this additional information, instead of letting him fly in blind.

  He took a moment to prepare himself, then exited his patrol car. As he approached the house, the news reporter angled to cut him off.

  “Officer, are you here to arrest the councilman?” She thrust the microphone in his direction.

  Zielinski didn’t answer.

  “Officer, can you answer the question?”

  He kept walking, not even looking her way.

  She kept pace with him, continuing to fire questions his way until they neared the porch.

  Zielinski stopped and gave her a sharp look. “You’re trespassing,” he said. “And interfering with police business.”

  She gave him a sour look. “Have you heard of freedom of the press?”

  “Have you heard of haul your asses back to the sidewalk?”

  Her eyes widened slightly, then a sly grin spread across her face. She turned to the cameraman. “You get that?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  The two of them returned to the sidewalk, although the cameraman shuffled backward, keeping the lens trained on Zielinski. The officer found himself hoping the cameraman’s heel caught a break in the walkway and sent him toppling over, but knew it was unlikely. He was in the rich part of town, where walkways were always smooth.

  Once the news media was out of earshot, he knocked on the door. A man opened it immediately and held it open wider for him.

  “Come in, please.”

  He stepped inside, and the man closed the door. He was a forty-ish-year-old black man, carefully groomed, wearing a dark blue Gonzaga Bulldogs sweatshirt that looked like he’d bought it five minutes ago.

  “Thanks for coming so quickly.” The man held out his hand. “I’m Anderson Simmonds.”

  Zielinski shook his hand. “What’s going on?”

  Simmonds shook his head sadly. “I came over to check on Dennis. I’ve done his taxes for years, and we’re friends. When I read the paper this morning, I knew he might need someone to talk to. So I came by, and no one was home. I checked to see if his car was in the garage, and it was. When I looked a little closer, I saw that it was running and Dennis was in the driver’s seat.”

  Ah. Asphyxiation.

  “I pounded on the garage doors, but he either didn’t hear me or was ignoring me,” Simmonds continued. “So I ran around to the rear of the house, and thank God the sliding door was unlocked. I ran through the house to the garage, shut off the car engine, and got him into the living room.”

  “Was he conscious?”

  Simmonds nodded. “A little woozy. He’d obviously been doing some drinking beforehand.”

  “Sounds like you saved his life,” Zielinski said. “Where is he now?”

  “This way.”

  Simmonds led him down a hallway toward what Zielinski expected would be the living room. He rested his hand on his pistol, just in case. If Hahn really wanted to die, he might try to salv
age this failed attempt by doing something to force Zielinski to shoot him. He hoped not, but he wasn’t going to get killed by not being prepared for the worst.

  The hallway led to the living room, just as he’d thought. Dennis Hahn sat on the expensive couch, his head buried in his hands. His usually perfect hair was in disarray. A bottle of scotch and a glass with two fingers of the amber liquid was on the table in front of him. The pungent smell of car exhaust hung in the air.

  “Denny?” Simmonds said. “The police are here.”

  Hahn looked up. When he saw Zielinski, his lip curled. “The last thing I need is the fucking cops, Andy. Thanks a lot.”

  “He’s here to help you.”

  “Ha!” Hahn snorted. He reached for his drink. “I’m sure he is.”

  Zielinski stepped forward. “Can you put that glass down, sir?”

  Hahn hesitated, glancing at the glass midway to his mouth. “I suppose I can,” he said, his words slurring. Then he tossed back the entire balance of the scotch in the glass, swallowed hard, and slammed the glass down onto the dark wood coffee table. “Happy?”

  He decided battling with him over a glass tumbler wasn’t worth it. As weapons went, it wasn’t the most dangerous. Instead, he focused on keeping his expression neutral, and asked, “What’s going on here today?”

  “I’m having a drink. You want one?” Hahn let out a rueful chuckle and reached for the bottle.

  Simmonds moved quicker, snatching the bottle by the neck and pulling it away. “Let’s lay off the booze for a little while, maybe?”

  “Fuck you, Andy. You’re a shitty friend.”

  “It sounds to me like he’s a pretty good friend,” Zielinski said.

  Hahn turned toward him, his expression venomous. “How would you know?”

  “He saved your life.”

  “Like I said,” Hahn sneered. “A shitty friend.”

  “What should he have done?”

  “Let me be, that’s what.”

  “If he’d done that, you’d be dead.”

  Hahn glared back up at him, saying nothing.

  “Was that your intent, Mr. Hahn?” Zielinski asked. “To die?”

  “That’s Councilman Hahn,” Hahn replied haughtily.

  Not for much longer, I’m guessing.

  “Was that your intent, Councilman? To die?”

  Hahn shrugged. “You’re so smart, you figure it out.” He snapped his fingers. “Goddamn it, Anderson. Pour me a drink.”

  Simmonds shook his head and strode away toward the kitchen with the bottle of scotch.

  The councilman sighed. “Oh, sure. Desert me, just like everyone else. My wife and daughters bailed this morning, as soon as they saw the article online. Now my supposed best friend is stealing my best scotch.” He turned back to Zielinski. “You ever get the feeling everyone is looking to screw you over?”

  “Sometimes,” Zielinski admitted. “Look, Councilman, I’m going to be straight with you. Based on your actions this morning, I have to take you to Sacred Heart Hospital for a mental health evaluation.”

  “To hell with that,” Hahn said. “I’m not going.”

  “Refusing is one option,” Zielinski said, “but let me tell you what that looks like.” He stepped closer to Hahn. “I don’t have a choice in this situation. It’s my duty. So if you refuse, I have to take you into custody for an involuntary mental health hold. That means handcuffs. It means walking you out the front door, past those news cameras, into the back of my police car, all of it. Then, at the hospital, you’re on a mandatory seventy-two-hour hold. That’s three days in the psych ward.”

  Hahn blanched. “Three days?”

  Zielinski nodded.

  Hahn reached for his glass, then noticed it was empty and set it down. “Those jackals have been out front since earlier this morning. They kept calling my cell phone to get me to come out and give a statement. I had to shut off my phone. I can’t even call my daughters.”

  “Walking out in handcuffs certainly gives them a statement,” Zielinski said.

  The councilman shook his head. “I don’t want that. I won’t do it.”

  “If you refuse, that is exactly what will happen. But there is another option.”

  Hahn looked up, suspicious and hopeful in the same glance. “What is it?”

  “You ask me to give you a ride to Sacred Heart for a voluntary mental health referral,” Zielinski explained. “A self-referral. I drive you there, and once you see a doctor for an evaluation, you’re free to decide how long you want to stay.”

  What he’d said wasn’t entirely true, especially if the evaluating doctor decided he needed to be held longer, but it represented the best-case scenario. For Zielinski, it was true enough to get the job done.

  Hahn stared at him. Zielinski could see he was considering. He didn’t worry about being able to subdue Hahn if it came to it, and he doubted that Simmonds would intervene. That said, fighting with a councilman, even a disgraced soon-to-be former councilman, didn’t seem like a great idea to him.

  He tapped his handcuff case, sweetening the deal. “A voluntary referral means no handcuffs.”

  Hahn thought it over a little longer, but Zielinski could see he’d already decided and now was just making a show of it.

  “All right,” Hahn agreed. “That’s what I’ll do.”

  “Good decision,” Zielinski said. “I need you to stand up.”

  “We’re going now?”

  Zielinski nodded.

  “But I…I need to call my daughters. And—”

  “You can figure all of that out from the hospital,” Zielinski said. “We have to go now. Please stand up.”

  Hahn struggled to his feet. Zielinski reached out and helped him stand, then patted him down quickly. Hahn’s pockets were empty.

  “You want your wallet or something?”

  Hahn nodded. “It’s on my bedroom table.”

  “I’ll get it,” Simmonds said, and headed down the hallway.

  “Do you have a coat?” Zielinski asked.

  “By the door.”

  They walked down the hallway. By the time they reached the door, Simmonds joined them. He extended the wallet toward Hahn, but Zielinski took it.

  “That’s mine,” Hahn objected.

  “I’ll give it to you at the hospital.”

  Hahn frowned.

  “I’ll lock up the house, Denny,” Simmonds told him. “Don’t worry.”

  Hahn didn’t answer. He reached for a coat from the rack, but Zielinski took it first. He checked the pockets, then handed it to Hahn, who looked at him in disgust. “Jeez. Paranoid much?”

  Zielinski ignored his comment. He gave Simmonds a nod and a muttered “thanks” before putting his hand on the door.

  “I’d recommend saying nothing to the reporters,” Zielinski said.

  “Please,” Hahn scoffed. “I know how to handle the media.”

  “Either way, we’re not stopping. This is a courtesy transport, not a press conference. We keep on walking. You get me?”

  “I understand, Officer. Let’s get this over with.”

  Zielinski opened the door, and let Hahn step out first, following after. The councilman started down the walkway, and Zielinski stayed close. As he expected, the news reporter moved to intercept them.

  “Officer, is the councilman under arrest? What’s the charge?”

  He ignored her and kept walking.

  Hahn raised his hands up so that she could see his bare wrists. “Do you see any handcuffs, Serena?”

  “No,” the reporter answered. “Are you saying this isn’t an arrest?”

  “It’s definitely not. I’ve done nothing to merit an arrest.”

  “Are you responsible for the deaths of Bethany Rabe and Sonya Meyer?” she shot back.

  “I have no comment on those ugly accusations,” Hahn said as he walked toward Zielinski’s car.

  “If you’re not under
arrest, why are the police here?”

  “The mission of the police isn’t just to arrest people,” Hahn said. “They serve and protect. Right now, this officer is escorting me to a crucial meeting.”

  “That sounds like a personal taxi service, Councilman.”

  Zielinski clenched his jaw, wishing Hahn would shut up.

  “You people have me under siege in my own home. This was the only option.”

  When they reached the police car, Hahn started toward the front passenger door. “Wait,” Zielinski said. He opened the driver’s door and popped open the door to the backseat.

  “The back seat?” Hahn said, his voice low and disbelieving.

  “My gear is in the front seat.”

  “So move it.”

  Zielinski shook his head.

  Hahn stared at him, engaged in a brief battle of wills. If they’d still been in the councilman’s living room, Zielinski had no doubt it would have taken handcuffs to end the situation. But out here, with cameras rolling, Hahn quickly relented. He came around to the rear door and slid into the back seat.

  “Thanks a lot,” he said sarcastically.

  Zielinski closed the back door and got into the car. As he started the engine, he glanced into the rearview mirror and caught Hahn glaring at him. “Don’t make me regret the no cuffs part,” he warned. “You won’t like it if you do.”

  Hahn looked away.

  He waited for the MDC to boot up, then updated his status. He typed One in Custody, voluntary MHD, en route SHMC.

  “Why are you just sitting here?” Hahn complained. “You’re giving them more of a photo op.”

  Zielinski said nothing. He pressed SEND and waited until the system confirmed his message. Only then did he put the car in gear and headed toward Sacred Heart Medical Center.

  The two of them rode in silence for over a minute, before Hahn muttered, “He was supposed to help me.”

  Zielinski stopped for a red light. He studied Hahn in the rearview mirror. The councilman was staring out the window, looking forlorn.

  “Who?” Zielinski asked. “Who was supposed to help you?”

  Hahn turned to meet Zielinski’s gaze. Then he shook his head slowly. “You’re all the same. You all protect each other.”

  “Who was supposed to protect you?”