Never the Crime

by Colin Conway

  He turned back to the case. If it was Garrett, why kill Sonya Meyer? To protect Hahn? What did Garrett get from that?

  The newspaper article bothered Clint, too. Whoever leaked that story knew everything, or damn near. That made for a short list of suspects. Him, Farrell, Baumgartner, Stone, and Garrett. He didn’t leak it. Baumgartner certainly wouldn’t do it. He doubted Farrell would, either. The captain was too loyal to Baumgartner. Far too loyal, as Clint saw it, but that was a matter for him to dissect another time.

  That left Stone or Garrett.

  Probably not Stone, he decided. That cake-eater didn’t have the balls, for one thing. Even if he was motivated to do it for some crazy reason—revenge, maybe?—leaking all the details seemed against his own self-interest.

  So it was Garrett.

  But that didn’t make sense, either. Garrett had been working for Hahn. Or working the man somehow. Either way, going to the paper and outing him after putting in all that effort to pull his chestnuts out of the fire didn’t make sense.

  Unless Garrett simply brought the whole thing down as a “fuck you” to the city and the police department.

  Would he do that?

  What good would that do? How did it serve his agenda?

  Did Garrett even have an agenda, or was he freewheeling this?

  Clint pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. He had too many questions, and too little data, too little evidence. He needed to start eliminating some possibilities. Finding out if Garrett was the leak would be a good start. That would tend to indicate that he wasn’t working for Hahn but blackmailing him. If Hahn refused to give in, going to the newspaper would be Garrett’s response. But was he doing this for his own purposes, or working for the chief?

  What about Farrell? Was he in league with Baumgartner, or could Clint still trust him?

  And what if—

  “Hey, Wardell?” A voice broke into his thoughts.

  Clint’s eyes snapped open. Officer Ray Zielinski, in uniform, stood next to his desk. “What do you want? I’m busy.”

  Zielinski seemed unperturbed by his brusqueness. “You’re working the dead girl, right? Sonya Meyer?”

  Clint gave him a questioning look. “That’s my case, yes. Why?”

  “According to the news, Dennis Hahn’s a suspect.”

  Clint didn’t answer, waiting for Zielinski to continue.

  “Is that true?” Zielinski asked. “About the councilman?”

  “Sharing of investigative details is on a strict need-to-know basis,” Clint said. “You don’t qualify.”

  Zielinski shook his head. “Always the hard ass, huh? You know that no one likes you, Wardell, right? Some people, like me, try to like you but no one really does.”

  Clint shrugged. “I don’t give a shit.”

  “Yeah, I know. Honey Badger, right? Only I don’t buy it. I think you’re just like the rest of us, Wardell. I think you do care.”

  “Why are you here?” Clint asked. “I’ve got work to do, and since you appear to be on shift, so do you.”

  “I am working,” Zielinski said. “I’m trying to pass on some information to you, but you have to make everything hard.”

  Clint was tempted to tell the officer to put his information in an additional report and he’d read it when he got the opportunity, which might happen if people ever quit interrupting his work. But the prospect of something helpful on the Meyer case won out. “What’s your information?”

  “I took Hahn to Sacred Heart earlier this morning on an MHD hold.”

  Clint hadn’t heard that yet. The news was interesting but hardly evidentiary. “Why?”

  “He tried to off himself.”

  “How?”

  “Carbon monoxide. Started up his car and never left the garage. A friend found him while he was still half conscious.”

  Clint considered the information. Then he asked, “Did he make some kind of admission to you about Sonya Meyer?”

  “No,” Zielinski said, “but on the way to the hospital, he talked about some cop who was supposed to help him.”

  “Who?”

  “He wasn’t specific. Mostly, he accused me of being in on it somehow. Code of silence stuff.”

  “Is that it?”

  Zielinski looked slightly disappointed. “You don’t think that’s important? He was banging your victim, and now he’s talking about some cop who was supposed help him out somehow?”

  Clint didn’t respond. He gave Zielinski a flat stare.

  Zielinski waited several seconds. Then he shrugged. “It’s your case. I figure the cop was Stone, and that you might want to know.”

  “Stone?”

  “Yeah, you know, the Chief’s Bitch?”

  “I know who he is. Why do you think it was him? Did Hahn allude to him?”

  “No,” Zielinski said. “I figured since he was down at city hall, he’d be the one playing footsie with the politicians.”

  Clint fell silent, running the idea through his mind. Had he underestimated Stone? He didn’t think so. Running interference for a councilman was one thing, but there was no way Stone would commit murder for him. Besides, it was Stone who discovered the body…

  He frowned. Discovering the body meant getting his DNA all over the crime scene in a legitimate way, didn’t it? Just like what Garrett did. Finding Stone’s DNA now, or Garrett’s, wouldn’t prove anything other than they were both there, and both with a legitimate reason.

  And he’d never examined Stone’s hands like he had Garrett’s.

  Stone, Stone, Stone…was it possible?

  Of course, it was. But was it likely?

  Another possibility occurred to him. Zielinski had worked with Garrett for several years. They were friends. He’d been the backup officer on Garrett’s shooting. He could be in collusion with Garrett right now. Or being manipulated by the officer, sent here to give Clint a red herring to chase down.

  “Anyway,” Zielinski said, “I did my part by telling you. I didn’t mention any of this in my report about the mental health referral. You want me to write an additional report on what he said?”

  Clint gave Zielinski a discerning look. Where did the veteran officer stand? He’d come to him recently with concerns about Garrett. Were those legitimate, or was he playing double agent, trying to get a read on how much Clint knew? And this information on Hahn, and his speculation about Stone, was he being straight about it, or was it designed to send Clint on a wild goose chase?

  All of this could be easily Garrett throwing up chaff, trying to elude detection.

  “Wardell?” Zielinski was looking at him askance. “You want me to cut you an additional report or what?”

  Clint shook his head. “No. I’ll put it in my notes.”

  “Okay.”

  Zielinski didn’t leave immediately, and Clint realized he was expecting a thank you. Clint turned back to his notes without a word. After a few seconds, Zielinski let out a small, grunting sigh, and left.

  I need to interview Hahn. Figure out what his relationship with Garrett truly was. Maybe the answer to Sonya Meyer’s death lies with that.

  Clint stared down at his notes, which were full of many more questions than answers.

  CHAPTER 68

  Captain Tom Farrell pulled up to a stop in front of the house. His conversation with Chief Baumgartner still rang in his ears.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with him?” the chief had asked. “I can’t have him out on patrol. It’s too much exposure. I can’t risk firing him, and besides, he’s been a good officer. He deserves some loyalty, but I have to tuck him away somewhere out of sight.”

  It was Farrell who gave him the answer. “Give him to me. I’ll put him on my street crimes squad.”

  Baumgartner had looked at him in surprise. “You sure that’s a fit?”

  “It’ll be a perfect fit. Trust me.”

  The chief thought it over, then agree
d. “Street crimes, then. Is that what you’re calling the unit?”

  “No,” Farrell told him. “I don’t have a name yet.”

  “Make it something catchy,” the chief said. “But stay away from military references.”

  “I’ll figure it out,” Farrell promised.

  Now, sitting in front of the officer’s house, he prepared himself for his pitch. Sure, he could just assign the man, if he wanted to. The chief had the authority to make special assignments at his discretion. But Farrell had a greater need than just the chief’s directive to cut into the crime rate. He had a second, deeper purpose and that required commitment from the officers on the team, not merely involvement. There was a world of difference between the two, and Farrell knew it. One of his mentors had stressed how important it was, and that to understand the difference, he didn’t have to look any further than a ham and egg omelet. The chicken was involved, but the pig? The pig was committed.

  So how to get this officer to commit?

  Farrell thought it over for a few more minutes, then got out of his car and went to the officer’s door. He knocked and waited. After what seemed like a long while, the door opened. A disheveled version of Officer Gary Stone looked at Farrell in mild confusion.

  “Captain?” Stone asked.

  To Farrell’s eye, Stone looked beaten, like chewed up bubble gum dragged across the floor of a cigarette factory. He wondered for a moment if that would work to his advantage or not.

  “Hello, Gary,” Farrell said, realizing that this was the first time he’d ever called Stone by his given name. “Can we talk?”

  Stone swallowed hard, thinking about the request. “Do I need my union rep or something?”

  Farrell gave him a smile he didn’t entirely feel. “Nothing like that. I just want to talk to you for a minute.”

  The younger man hesitated a little longer, then opened the door to let him in.

  The remains of a pizza and several empty beer bottles were on the kitchen counter, and a blanket was in disarray on the couch. The muted television showed some kind of romantic comedy Farrell vaguely remembered seeing with his wife.

  Stone closed the door and snapped off the TV. “You want to sit down?”

  “Sure.”

  He tossed the blanket to one end of the couch, where he plopped down. Farrell took the other end. They sat in awkward silence for a few seconds before Farrell spoke.

  “I know this has been hard,” he began, but Stone interrupted him with a bark of humorless laughter.

  “Hard? My career is ruined.”

  “It’s not ruined. This is just a setback.”

  “A setback?” Stone looked at him in disbelief. “Captain, I was kicked out of city hall. The mayor had security escort me out like some kind of trespasser. It was humiliating. And then the newspaper—”

  “The newspaper is a rag. There’s a reason people call it The Socialist Review.”

  “Cops and hardcore conservatives call it that,” Stone said. “No one else does.” He hung his head miserably. “Everyone I know has read that article. My name is shit now.”

  “You’re right,” Farrell said.

  Stone looked up. “Huh?”

  “I said, you’re right. At this very moment, your name is shit. But like all things, that’s temporary.”

  “It feels permanent.”

  “It feels that way, sure. But let me tell you a couple things I’ve learned in my long career, Gary. I’ve learned that the public is fickle, and that most people have the attention span of a gnat. Today, your name is shit. Next week, no one will remember you. The week after that, they’ll be singing you praises for some heroic action.”

  Stone seemed doubtful, but then a curious expression crossed his features. “Like how they treated Garrett, you mean?”

  Farrell tried not to react. There’d be time to tell Stone everything he needed to know about Garrett later. Now, he just needed to get him to take a first step. To commit. “Like him and a hundred other cops over my career,” he said. “You can’t worry about what the newspaper says about you or what the public thinks on any given day. It’s all transitory.”

  Stone took a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. “Even if that’s true, Captain, the chief is mad at me. And the mayor hates me. Neither one is going to forget about it. I know both of them well enough to be sure of that.”

  “You’re right,” Farrell conceded. “Neither one will forget. But the chief’s not mad. He’s proud of you.”

  “Proud?”

  Farrell shrugged. “Proud…and a little mad. But I’ve worked with Chief Baumgartner my entire career. He doesn’t hold a grudge against good cops.”

  Stone stared at him, soaking in the words.

  “And the thing about mayors,” Farrell continued, “is that they come and they go. Sikes is gone in three years, and someone new will be on the seventh floor. We’ll all still be here. Even if this mayor tries to go after you before then, the chief can protect you.”

  “He shouldn’t have to protect me,” Stone said, lowering his gaze again.”

  “I know, Gary. Sometimes that’s not enough. Sometimes we have to find the higher good.”

  “I don’t think there is one,” Stone said.

  Farrell studied Stone. It was clear the man was trying to come to terms with something. “Is there something you want to ask me, Gary?”

  Stone nodded. “Yeah. Why did he do this?”

  “Who?”

  “Garrett.”

  Farrell’s mouth began to drop, so he quickly clenched his teeth and remained quiet.

  “He said he was looking out for me. I mean, I thought we were friends, but I don’t see how this helps. Maybe he wasn’t the one who leaked everything to the press, but if not him, who?”

  Farrell let the moment hang while he considered his reply. What could he say at that moment that would not be too much and reveal what Clint and he had been working on for going on two years? He couldn’t take Stone into his confidence, not this soon. Not only would Clint blow a gasket, it was foolish. He didn’t truly know how Stone would stand up in a pinch. He needed to bring him along slowly. However, knowing that he believed Garrett might be behind his removal from city hall was suddenly an ace up his sleeve that he didn’t have before.

  In the end, Farrell remained quiet and only shrugged in response to Stone’s question.

  Tears filled the younger man’s eyes then. “I think I’m done.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m going to turn in my gun and quit. Go find something else that doesn’t make me feel so…dirty. I thought this was something special, but it’s not at all what I thought.”

  “Welcome to adulthood,” Farrell said, his voice slightly stern. “The world is a much grayer place than most people realize.”

  “Not the whole world,” Stone said. “Just this one. I don’t think I can be a part of it anymore.”

  “Don’t quit, at least not yet.”

  “It’s for the best.”

  “Why’d you become a cop, Gary?” Farrell asked. “And I’m not asking for your hiring board answer that you want to help people. I want your real reason.”

  “I…I really did want to help people.”

  “And?”

  “And make a difference,” Stone said.

  “And what else?”

  Stone shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You do know. You already said it.” Farrell leaned forward slightly. “You wanted to be part of something special, something bigger than yourself. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” Stone admitted. “But it doesn’t really matter now. It’s over.”

  “No, it isn’t over. I came here especially for you.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Gary, you’re the best communicator we have in the department. Maybe it’s that marketing background, it gives you something special. I need someone like that for what I’m envisi
oning.”

  “What’s that?” Stone asked.

  “It’s a chance to do it all,” Farrell said. “Help people, make a difference, and be part of something meaningful. A chance for you to stop being a politician, and to be a cop again.”

  Stone looked at him, his expression difficult to read. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about a special team,” Farrell said. “A special team, with a special purpose.”

  CHAPTER 69

  Detective Clint found Kelly Davis at Atticus Coffee, her usual haunt. He’d known about her long-standing afternoon habit for years, and the piece of knowledge served him well on those few occasions he needed to speak to the veteran reporter.

  She didn’t notice him tucked away in a corner while she ordered her cappuccino. He waited until she had her small cup and moved outside before following her. She’d settled into a small table in the sunshine when she spotted Clint. To her credit, her expression barely changed.

  “Detective,” she greeted him, motioning to the chair across from her. “Care to join me?”

  Clint knew this conversation could be handled briefly while he remained standing. But he also knew that social customs seemed to matter a lot to some people, and he believed Davis was one of those people.

  He took a seat.

  “What are you drinking?” she asked amiably.

  “I’m fine,” Clint said. “I need to talk to you.”

  “I assume that’s why you’re here.” Davis sipped her cappuccino and waited for him to proceed.

  “Your article on the Hahn conspiracy,” Clint said. “I need to know—”

  “Conspiracy?” Davis shook her head. “I don’t think I used that word in my article.”

  “You intimated it.”

  “I reported it. It is up to the reader to form her own conclusions.”

  Clint ground his teeth. He didn’t care about bullshit journalistic semantics. He just wanted an answer to a simple question. With an effort, he kept his tone neutral. “You clearly had a source for the article.”