Nickel Package

by David Chill

  "Hey, damn it, put your hands down. And I mean now."

  I lowered my hands to shoulder height. "Well, I wish you'd make up your mind. If it's not a stickup, then what do you want?"

  The gangly man rolled his eyes in exasperation. As if on cue, the burly man took a few steps forward and grabbed my left elbow with his right hand. Which was exactly what I'd hoped he'd do. Slamming my fist deep into his abdomen, he grunted as I grabbed his right arm, ducked underneath it and twisted it behind his back in one motion. I applied sharp pressure to his wrist and yanked his arm halfway up his back with my left hand. With my right, I reached into my holster and drew my .38.

  It was a risky move, but the gangly man wasn't expecting it. If he were, he might have fired immediately at me. Now it was more complicated. The burly man grimaced and let out a painful yelp. I placed my pistol against the side of his head and fingered the trigger.

  "Drop your weapon!" I ordered. "Now!"

  He didn't drop his weapon. In fact, he didn't quite know what to do about this suddenly murky situation. He raised his gun in a shaky manner and pointed it at us. I moved my body behind the burly man, using him as a human shield. And I stopped pointing the gun at the side of his head. That wasn't working. The gangly man certainly wasn't thinking about dropping his pistol. If anything, he was searching to see if he could get off a clear shot at me.

  "You're going to get your friend killed!" I yelled at him.

  "Friend?! What friend?! I barely fucking know him!"

  The gangly man was moving around, stepping gingerly to his left, trying to draw a bead on me. I positioned my body more fully behind the burly man, who kept jostling his arm, trying to break free. I jerked his arm upward again, but this time he screamed and doubled over in pain, leaving me exposed. The gangly man saw the opening, just like I saw it. He raised his gun, and I let go of my human shield. I plunged quickly to the ground. There was an orange flash and the explosive bang of a gunshot. I pulled myself quickly up on one knee. There was no time to think, only time to respond. I didn't know if I'd been hit. I extended my right arm and aimed for the middle of his body.

  In my years as an officer on the LAPD, I had discharged my weapon twice. Both times I had been fired upon, and both times my response had been deadly. This was the first shooting I had been involved in as a Private Investigator, but my eye was still good. The shot hit the gangly man in the chest and he fell right over and sprawled on his back. He did not move.

  Time stood still for a moment as I struggled to make sense of what had just happened. My pulse was racing and I breathed deeply. My body gravitated back against a car. I was not paying much attention to the burly man who had stumbled a few feet and was quickly surveying the scene. He glanced at me and suddenly began to sprint away. I wheeled and aimed my gun at the fleeing man. In the background though, I was sure I saw someone walking. It distracted me, but it also provided a prescient reminder that there were bystanders nearby. I didn't know the man running away, and he certainly didn't pose a threat to me at this stage. I lowered my gun and watched him flee. The only noise I heard was the man's sneakers hitting the pavement softly. The sound grew more and more distant, until there was only an eerie silence.

  *

  The paramedics were the first responders, but there was no real need for them. The gangly man was dead before he'd hit the ground. I managed to leave Juan Saavedra a cryptic message on his voice mail before Building Security came over and ordered me to stay where I was. I had already holstered my .38 and didn't bother to tell them anything other than the obvious, that the dead man had indeed been shot. I spent the next few minutes leaning against the maroon van, pondering the meaning of life and waiting for the real cops to arrive.

  The Santa Monica Police made it to the crime scene before the LAPD. Local law enforcement often works this way, especially when an incident happens on the border of two cities. The smaller the department, the quicker they can actually respond. Santa Monica P.D. didn't have anywhere near as much physical turf to cover. A pair of uniforms relieved me of my weapon, handcuffed my arms behind my back, and grilled me with the usual staple of questions. I told them I was a licensed Private Investigator and had a permit to carry the gun. They were duly unimpressed, so I figured I'd wait for the LAPD's Robbery-Homicide detectives to arrive before saying anything further. This wouldn't earn me any new friendships with the locals, but I had bigger priorities.

  I didn't know the first pair of LAPD detectives who interviewed me; they were fairly young. They read me my Miranda rights, and I gave them my statement. For criminals wanting to avoid convictions, keeping quiet is the best protocol. Experienced felons have learned that the burden of proof is on law enforcement, and not much good can come from talking without an attorney present. Having been on both sides of the interrogation process, however, I'd learned that an innocent party can move the process along quicker by talking straight with cops. Usually, that is.

  The complication I was ensnared in was as unexpected as the shooting itself. The gun being waved around by the gangly man was nowhere to be found. Maybe the burly man had grabbed it as he ran away, the events had transpired at lightning-quick speed. So at first blush, this scene had all the earmarks of a cold-blooded murder, an innocent victim gunned down by a trigger-happy former cop. Without any witnesses or evidence that the gangly man was armed, my airtight story was now sounding very squishy.

  After a while, LAPD loaded me into a cruiser and we drove over to the Purdue Division. It was not the first time I had been paraded through a police station in handcuffs. It was, however, the first time I had been suspected of committing a homicide. And the facts were clear that I did kill someone today. Proving self-defense was another matter entirely. I took advantage of my one phone call, got through to Gail, and hastily explained the situation. She said she'd be on it, but certain things came first. Carla had gone home and Gail needed to find someone to look after Marcus. Getting her husband off of a murder rap would have to wait. Oddly, I understood.

  "Let's go over this again," said the detective, a nicely dressed Asian man named Danny Lee. He wore a dark gray shirt and a dark blue tie. A Beretta M9 handgun was clipped to his belt.

  "How many times do you need to hear my story?" I asked, knowing the answer would be as many times as he felt like. This was standard procedure. The goal was to find any inconsistency in what the suspect was saying. The more times a suspect told the story, the more opportunities would spring up for finding holes. And the better the chance for getting at the real truth.

  "I just want to understand this. You got a voice mail message from a woman you'd never heard from before, calling from a blocked number, telling you to go to Laputa headquarters to meet the President of the Company."

  "Not the President, he's the CEO. Apparently President isn't the highest rank anymore in corporate America."

  "Sure. But there really was no meeting, was there? It was a ruse, right?"

  "Yes. Apparently someone wanted to liven up my Wednesday afternoon."

  "Uh-huh. And then a man you've never seen before pulls a gun on you and orders you into his van."

  "Two men. One burly, one gangly."

  "Oh, right. A pair of men. So the two of them lead you to the van, but you go and beat up one of them. The big, burly one, of course. Then what happened?"

  "I had him in a hammer lock and used him to shield my body in case the gangly man discharged his weapon."

  "Oh. But then he did discharge his weapon, didn't he? Even though his friend was in the line of fire."

  "Not exactly," I replied. "The gangly man said the other one wasn't really his friend."

  "Of course not," the detective replied, clearly relishing the growing absurdity of my story. "Go on."

  "So after the gangly man fired his weapon, I returned fire and took him down. The burly man ran off. There were passersby, so I couldn't risk discharging my weapon again."

  "No, you wouldn't want to shoot an innocent person now, would you? That
would be wrong."

  "Uh, look, detective," I said, rubbing my face. "I understand that without his weapon, this story might appear to have a couple of pieces missing."

  "A couple?!" Detective Lee exploded. "Burnside, your story has more holes than a hunk of Swiss cheese! There are more missing pieces in your alibi than any half-witted goon could ever dream up. None of this holds water. Why don't you do yourself a favor and tell me what really happened."

  "Unfortunately, I have. Honest Injun."

  "Then how come we can't find the man's gun? His name, by the way, was Mike Black. Name ring a bell?"

  "No. Did you run the plates on the maroon van?"

  "Of course we did. And yes, he does own it. That doesn't mean he was trying to kidnap you at gunpoint."

  "Why would I shoot an innocent man?" I asked.

  "That's what I'd like to know," he said. "I've worked Robbery-Homicide for five years now. I've seen people get shot over a parking space. Or because someone's dog pees on their lawn. Or because they were cheering for the wrong team at a ballgame. Nothing surprises me anymore."

  I kept quiet. Detective Lee was correct, there were countless inane reasons for murdering someone. But there was always an explanation, no matter how petty or stupid or pathetic that reason might be. In my case, there was only confusion, a hazy mist of what happened, and with critically important evidence missing.

  A female detective walked into the interrogation room and handed Detective Lee a sheet of paper. He glanced at it and then glanced at me. The woman shot me a look that made me feel slightly lower than a cockroach, and then she exited the room.

  "Well, this is interesting," Danny mused. "It says here that Mike Black, the guy you shot, is one of your compadres."

  "I don't have compadres," I said. "Not anymore."

  "Sure you do. Says here Mike Black is a Private Investigator. Works out of Tarzana. "

  I shrugged. "Never heard of him. But I haven't been to many club meetings."

  "It also says he has a rap sheet. Man, you P.I.s are something else. To think some people actually call you detectives. You're closer to being criminals. This guy Black has been picked up for, let's see here, burglary, assault, breaking and entering, arson. At least he wasn't a former cop. I don't know how some of you clowns get licensed. Quite a brotherhood you've got there, Burnside."

  "Like I said, I'm not exactly on the same side as him."

  "Uh-huh. The other guy's named Chucky Flange. That name ring a bell?"

  "Nope. But I'm very impressed with your ability to find this stuff out quickly."

  "You think we just sit around eating doughnuts all day?" he sneered.

  I looked up at the ceiling as if I were in deep thought and decided not to go forward with another smart remark. Danny Lee took a deep breath. It was a long day for him, too. He looked back down at the piece of paper and told me my attorney had arrived. A minute later, Gail Pepper entered the room and quietly sat down next to me.

  "I'd like a moment alone with my client, please, Detective," she said softly.

  "Sure, counselor. You working the other side of the street these days?"

  "No," she replied. "Just slumming."

  Danny Lee chuckled. "Nice to see you again," he said as he walked out of the room.

  "Colleague?" I asked.

  "We worked a couple of cases last year."

  The two of us sat there for a minute and said nothing. The silence spoke volumes. Gail was still dressed in a cream-colored business suit, a color that brought out the richness in her chestnut brown hair. But her gray eyes, the prettiest eyes I had ever gazed into, now looked sad. Sad in a way that bespoke disappointment. I might have preferred having her visibly upset. Seeing her in such a somber mood pulled at my heartstrings.

  I told her what had happened. Gail listened carefully and asked a few questions. She had me state, in a very careful way, exactly what I had told the police. Finally, she started to tell me what she had learned.

  "We're going to review video evidence. There are some cameras situated in the garage, although not necessarily close to where you were. I've asked one of my investigators to comb through the crime scene carefully, to see if there was any possible place the gun could be. The other person, this Chucky Flange, had a permit to carry a weapon also, so it's possible he was armed. The fact that both of them had criminal records plays in your favor, too."

  "I can't believe Mike Black was a P.I."

  "His license had been suspended. But yes, it is interesting how he got one in the first place."

  "So what do we do now?" I asked.

  "It's not what we do, it's what I do," she told me, her voice terse and withdrawn. "And how the City Attorney responds. He can't show favoritism just because I work in his office."

  "I understand."

  "Juan's here," she said. "I'm going to talk with him."

  "Okay. Where's Marcus?"

  "The neighbors are watching him. The Parkers. He'll be fine."

  Gail got up and walked out of the room. The police had taken my phone and there were no windows in the office. I was left to ponder my thoughts. By my estimation, it was close to 10:00 pm. I yawned and closed my eyes. Just as I was drifting off, the door opened again, and in walked Gail, followed by Danny Lee and Juan Saavedra.

  "Captain," I said, my voice a little slurred from a too-brief slumber. "It's great to see you working the night shift. I'm sure the good citizens of West Los Angeles will rest easier knowing you're on the job."

  "Can you ever shut up with the wise cracks?" he snarled. "They really do get old."

  "I'm not sure what else I can offer at this point."

  "Look," Juan sighed, "believe it or not, I'm trying to help you here."

  "Sorry. It's been a long day."

  "It has. A long couple of days actually. Two homicides in two days, and you've managed to be involved in both of them. What am I supposed to think here?"

  I wasn't entirely sure what I thought about all this myself, so keeping quiet felt like a darned good idea. Juan took a seat across from me. Danny Lee stood behind him, and Gail stood next to me.

  "Here's where we're at," Juan began. "Ballistics went through the garage. They didn't find Mike Black's gun. But they did find a bullet hole in a far wall, about 150 feet away. The opening was fresh, had to have been recent. They dug out a .25 slug. There was also a casing nearby."

  "It looked like a cheap gun. Saturday Night Special," I commented.

  "Yeah. Lucky for you. They're notorious for being inaccurate," Juan continued. "Black had a license to carry a gun, but there's no .25 registered under his name."

  No wonder, I thought. I'd be embarrassed to reveal I was carrying a piece of junk like that. Although the more likely scenario was that he used a pistol that couldn't be traced. "So you can establish a gun was fired at me today."

  "We can establish a gun was fired in the garage recently. Beyond that we have to use our judgment," he said, emphasizing the last word.

  "Okay."

  "And the other news I need to impart is we picked up Chucky Flange. Mike Black's partner. Yes, he was burly, wearing a black t-shirt. Just like you described."

  "You were pretty quick."

  "Technology," Juan said. "Couple that with stupidity and that's how we catch a lot of crooks these days. That guy Flange? What a knucklehead. After he left the garage, he tried to order a car from Uber. Only thing is, his credit card's expired. So he called five different taxi services to pick him up. I guess he figured if he called enough of them, one would show up quickly."

  "Sounds like a real thinker."

  "Yeah. Of course, he probably didn't figure that the cabbies cooperate with the police. Not a lot of taxi requests come out of the Laputa building, most employees drive or bike or take the bus to work. It took us like five minutes to get Flange's cell phone number and then track down his address. Lives up in Van Nuys. When we brought him in here, we did a scan on his phone. He was at Laputa this afternoon and the taxi calls were
from him. Most everything you said checks out. "

  "Most everything I said?" I asked, peering at Juan.

  "Yeah, there was a slight discrepancy in your stories, though. He said that he and his colleague were unarmed and minding their own business. You made a few smart cracks and they told you to shut up. At that point, you drew your weapon and shot Mike Black on the spot. Said Black didn't have a gun. Anything you care to change in your story?"

  Chapter 8

  Having been a former police officer, I have some credibility with local law enforcement. But when that's overshadowed by having been kicked off the force, the credibility starts to wane. And while neither Mike Black nor Chucky Flange were upstanding members of the community, one of them was dead and there was a gaping hole in my story. I was a person of interest because, with Mike Black's gun absent from the scene, there was no direct proof he was armed when he accosted me. Weapons used in a deadly altercation do not simply vanish into thin air. And as much as I tried to replay the scene in my mind, I kept coming back to the same stultifying conclusion. Once I shot Mike Black, the gun came out of his hand, and then it seemingly disappeared. It did not disappear, of course. The question was where did it end up. That was a question without an answer. For now, though, Captain Juan Saavedra was willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. He did advise me not to leave town.

  I was released around midnight. Gail was painfully quiet on our drive home and I did not consider this a good sign. We picked up a sleeping Marcus from our neighbors and transported him to his own bed. Gail went to sleep quickly, barely saying goodnight and leaving me with the impression this day could not end soon enough. My nerves were still jangled, so I dug out a bottle of Jack Daniels and managed to throw down two fingers of Tennessee whiskey. I finally crawled into bed but slept fitfully, dozing off for good at about 5:00 a.m., and barely hearing Gail leave for work. I woke up right before noon, just as Carla was taking Marcus to Burger King for lunch, a detail I didn't think she'd be sharing with Gail. I gave Marcus a big, long hug and told him that I loved him. He told me he wanted french fries. I declined Carla's offer to bring me back something. No part of my body was feeling in tip-top shape right now, least of all my stomach. They left, and I plopped down on the living room sofa, wanting desperately to stop thinking about last night, but knowing that wasn't about to happen.