Whorl

by James Tarr

  “What?”

  “The call I got said this was a high speed chase, with multiple fatalities. There was a shooting?” Well damn, there went his Saturday. “What the hell happened?”

  “Anderson drove off at a high rate of speed, followed by two vehicles. Headed up Dequindre. Blew by Jim Bonniker who was parked at the Mobil at M-59, and ended up here.” He saw the Undersheriff looking at the Charger and Bonniker’s unit, then looking around for the other vehicles.

  “The other vehicles are around the side of the hill, closer to the range. You can go up on the hill no problem, just stay off the road. Not sure if the techs are treating the whole road as a crime scene, or if they’re considering this two separate ones here, but we’re figuring everything between the cars off limits until we’re told otherwise. Anyway, triple digit speeds, Bonniker estimates. That Charger and a Monte Carlo chased Anderson here. He stopped in the middle of the road, and according to the witnesses the men in the other cars started shooting at him. There were four men between the two cars. Anderson grabbed a rifle out of the trunk of his car and fired back, killing three of the men. The fourth drove away in the Charger, and rammed Bonniker’s unit. When he got out of the Charger he pointed a pistol at Bonniker, and Bonniker shot him.”

  “Holy hell.” Marx thought for a second. “Did Bonniker identify himself as a police officer?”

  Leven bit back what he wanted to say to a commanding officer asking a very stupid question and instead observed, “I don’t know, but he’s in uniform, and his unit’s pretty damn well marked.” He turned his head and pointedly looked at the damaged cruiser.

  “Okay, I’m probably going to assign two detectives to this. I think Linklater and Cashman are on call this weekend. Leven, get dispatch to call them to the scene. Is this kid, Anderson, talking?”

  “Oh, I forgot. The witnesses know Anderson, he’s a club member. At least one of them thought that he worked as a security guard of private investigator or something, so that’s some sort of confirmation.”

  “Anybody talk to Anderson yet?”

  “No, and he hasn’t been read his Miranda rights yet, either. Bonniker cuffed him, and I stuffed him in the back of my unit. He told Bonniker that this started in Troy, and he had no idea who the other guys were, but that’s it.”

  Marx pointed at the Troy officer standing in the group. “What do you have at your scene?”

  Taylor shrugged. “Tire marks where he accelerated away, maybe some window glass. Plus half a dozen nine millimeter cases. The witness insists Anderson was just sitting in his car when a black male walked up behind his car and shot at him. Shot at him while he was driving away, too, then ran back to his car and gave chase. We’ve got an evidence tech who just arrived at our scene, and a detective’s been assigned, but that’s about as far as we’ve gotten.”

  “Black male? Is Anderson black?”

  “No,” Taylor told the Undersheriff. “White kid, lives about a quarter mile from where the shooting took place. Somebody ran him, and he’s got no record, he’s clean—nothing criminal, not even anything on his driving record. He’s got a CPL. I guess he even had a pistol on him, but he didn’t use it.”

  “Oh, shit,” one of the assembled deputies said loudly. It got the attention of everybody. The young deputy was staring at his smartphone.

  “What?” Marx asked him.

  “Sir, I was the first unit on scene—after Bonniker. I checked the bodies for vitals, just to make sure, but I didn’t check them for ID or anything else after I verified they were dead. I didn’t want to disturb the bodies. But I did run the plates on the Charger and the Monte. The Charger is registered to a Paul Wilson, and the Monte Carlo to Eddie Mitchell, both out of Detroit. Their names sounded slightly familiar, so I just Googled them.” The deputy turned his phone around, and showed the screen to the Undersheriff. It was a several-week-old Detroit Free Press Headline, “Detroit SWAT Officers Arrested for Strip Club Robberies”. The deputy pulled the phone back, and announced, “’The four officers arrested were Randy Parker, Eddie Mitchell, Paul Wilson, and Gabriel Kilpatrick.’”

  Marx just stared at him for a second. His peripheral vision got gray, almost as if he was about to pass out. He liked being Undersheriff because he got a title, more money in the paycheck, and never had to do anything more difficult than shake a few hands and pose for some pictures. He never had to make any of the tough decisions, and almost never had to get involved in the political in-fighting that took place at the highest levels of county government. That job fell to the Sheriff. Except…the Sheriff was out of town. He shook his head and said, “Find an EMT, tell him to check the bodies for ID. Tell him to do it right now.”

  The officer ran off. He was back less than two minutes later. “It’s them,” he said, panting. It sounded like he could hardly believe it.

  “Oh shit,” someone murmured. They’d all heard of the case of course, it had been huge news for quite some time. Crooked cops, then the officers dying in the huge shootout they had a few weeks back….the Detroit Police Department was having a really bad summer. As for which one was worse, well, police work was a dangerous business. Occasionally, cops got shot. But having a whole armed robbery crew be active members of a major metropolitan SWAT team? That was a first. Detroit already had such a bad reputation, and that had to happen. Maybe it was better that it had happened in Detroit. Bad cops made all cops look bad, but Detroit was in such sad shape anyway, had such a bad public image, maybe the public would just ignore one more outrage from the Motor City.

  Marx stood there thinking. This was going to be a jurisdictional nightmare. “You need to call your Chief,” he told the Troy officer. “Started in Troy, ended in Oakland County, involving DPD officers, arrested by the FBI? He and I are going to need to talk.” Sheriff Brooks had said not to call him when he was on vacation unless “Jesus reappears or the dead start walking the earth”, but Marx figured this was big enough to count. There was a good chance Brooks would cut his vacation short, especially with this case involving the FBI. Brooks knew just how much his Undersheriff hated the feds.

  “Uhhh….” One of the other Oakland County deputies began, then asked, “Any of you guys looked at a map recently? We’re on the east side of Dequindre. This is Macomb County. Shelby Township.”

  Marx looked around, then shook his head. His man was right. “Shit. Anybody call them yet?” He heard a sound, and lifted his head. There it was, the first news helicopter.

  As he was en route John called his young employee twice to find out what he’d found at the house, or if there was any activity, but got no answer. The second time, he left a voicemail. “Don’t know if you’re busy following him, or filming, but give me a call as soon as you get this.” While there was always a chance that Dave had overslept, he figured the chances were much greater that Dave was busy in some way working the case. When John turned onto the street at five minutes to nine, he felt a cold rush up his spine. Six Troy cop cars, including an SUV belonging to an evidence tech, crime scene tape everywhere, two news vans, plus at least twenty residents standing on their front lawns watching the activity. When he saw no sign of Dave’s Mustang, he breathed a little easier, but he was still concerned.

  John parked as close as he could to the yellow tape blocking off the street and got the attention of an officer. “What’s going on?” He hadn’t had the radio on at all during the drive over, so if there’d been announcement of a big incident he’d missed it. He stared at the two cameramen from the local TV stations filming the cops, who seemed to be searching the street for something. One plainclothes guy, so it looked like there was already a detective on scene.

  “We’re in the middle of investigating a crime scene, sir. If you live on the block you’re going to have to park there and walk to your house, the street’s going to be roped off for a while.”

  “What happened?”

  He could see the officer was tired of answering questions. “I’m not really at liberty to say, sir.”


  “I’m a private investigator. I had an employee doing a surveillance on this street early this morning. He’s not answering his phone, and I don’t see his car. Can you give me any idea what happened?”

  The officer looked at him, for the first time seeing him as something other than an annoyance. “What kind of car does he drive?”

  “A green Cherokee,” John said. He saw the cop relax a bit. “He also has a black Mustang,” he added. The cop immediately pointed a finger at him.

  “Stay right there,” he told John, and turned away. He got on his radio, but John couldn’t hear what he said.

  “Is he okay?” John asked. Jesus, what the hell had happened? Had Dave been carjacked?

  Marx opened the rear door of the squad car and looked down at Dave. “Mr. Anderson, I’m Raymond Marx, the Undersheriff with Oakland County.”

  Anderson looked tired, and maybe a little bored. What he didn’t look like was someone who’d just killed three people. He didn’t look like someone who thought he was going to be going to jail for murder. He looked almost….defiant. “Undersheriff?” he said. “Sorry, I don’t think I’ve heard the term before. So you’re the number two guy?”

  “Yes.” Marx was treading very lightly here. Whether or not Anderson was guilty of a crime was yet to be proven, but he had just killed several people, so questioning him without reading him his Miranda rights was a very bad idea. But….. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ve talked to your boss, John Phault. He confirmed that you were doing surveillance for him, on a domestic case. He’s talking to a Troy detective. I’ve let him know that you’re okay, but at the moment in our custody.”

  “Thank you.”

  Marx pursed his lips. “I’m…I’m wondering if there’s anything you can tell us that would help in our investigation. We’re at a bit of a loss to explain what happened. Or rather why.”

  Dave’s mouth curled into a half smile as he stared at the seatback in front of him. “I’ve got a CJ degree, done an internship with Warren P.D., and I’ve been working as a P.I. for three years,” he told Marx. “So I know that the only thing I should be saying to you is that I want to speak to a lawyer.” He turned his head to look directly at the Undersheriff. “But the truth is I have no fucking clue who those guys were or why they were chasing and shooting at me. I’ve been sitting here this whole time, trying to remember if any of them looked familiar from a case, but….” He just shook his head, then took a deep breath. “I was in fear for my life,” he said very clearly and slowly. It was obvious he’d decided to make a statement. “They shot at me first. Both here and there.” He pursed his lips. “And now I don’t think I want to say anything else until I talk to a lawyer. But then I’ll be happy to make a statement.”

  If he was waiting for Marx to get mad, that wasn’t going to happen. Marx just nodded. “Fair enough. But you’re uninjured? You’re not hurt?”

  “My ears are ringing, but that’s about it. I think I might have some glass inside my shirt.” Dave was actually surprised at how calm he felt, but as soon as he had made the decision to stand and fight….the fear had left him. For whatever reason. He remembered the last time, in Warren, and expected that he’d get the shakes soon enough, and nightmares and trembling flashbacks for weeks or months, but right then all he felt was tired. Adrenaline dumps really wore you out. But still….he’d just been in a car chase and gunfight with four guys. Shouldn’t he be just a little freaked out? The fact that he wasn’t was weirding him out a little bit. Who was calm after a shootout?

  The Undersheriff pulled out his phone and looked at it. “You don’t have to answer of course, I heard you when you asked for a lawyer, but I’m wondering, do any of these names sound familiar to you? Randy Parker, Eddie Mitchell, Paul Wilson, Gabriel Kilpatrick?”

  “No.” Dave looked out the window toward where the bodies were, not that he could see them. “Is that them?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think I’ve heard the names. But….I’ve done a lot of surveillances, I’d have to go back and check my records to make sure.”

  “Okay. Sit tight. I’ll have a paramedic look you over, and we’ll get you back to the station in a little bit.”

  When Marx walked back to his car, Sergeant Leven asked him, “So when’s the FBI going to show up and start throwing their weight around?”

  Marx shrugged. “I made the call. We’ll see. Brian, I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Yes sir?”

  “We’ve got a, what, twenty-five year old kid sitting in that car over there? What question pops into your head first?”

  “Why’d four Detroit cops just try to kill him?”

  “Mmmm. You know what question pops into my head? How many people do you know who could get into a gunfight with four highly-trained SWAT cops, kill three of them, scare the fourth off, walk away without a scratch, and sit there looking bored?”

  Leven scratched his head, and looked back at the squad car, where the top of Anderson’ head was visible. “What, you think he’s not who he says he is? That he’s….undercover FBI or something?”

  “It sure seems like something else is going on here, that’s all. Bonniker’s a lot more shook up than that kid. I’ll be curious to see how hard the FBI will fight to take over the investigation.”

  Hartman wiped dampness off his forehead and put the phone back against his ear. The phone felt hot, but maybe it was just him. He was sweating freely beneath his clean white shirt and tie. “I’m heading to the scene right now.”

  “What exactly happened?” Boehmer asked him.

  “I don’t have much, just a few details over the phone and what I’ve been hearing on the news. They’re all dead, Wilson and his whole crew. Apparently there was some sort of gunfight involving an Oakland County deputy.”

  “Jesus Christ. And the kid?”

  “It sounds like he was there. I believe he’s still alive, but I’ll be able to give you more details when I get there.”

  Hartman listened to profanity for a while, then Boehmer said, “What’s our exposure on this? What’s worse case scenario?”

  Worst case scenario is we all go to prison for life is what he thought, but what Hartman said was, “Zero. We’re covered. There’s no way to tie us to this….in that way. The only thing we have to do if at all possible is make sure nobody prints this kid but us. We need to make it clear that we believe it was obvious self-defense. Put all the focus somewhere other than on him. As to motive, well, maybe we can work on that. Maybe we can come up with something.” He’d made sure there was nothing tying the FBI to this attempt on the kid’s life, if that’s what it was—and he had to assume. The flash drive he’d given Wilson had been generic, and the information on it had been sanitized. There was no way to tell which computer it had come from, or that the info had come from FBI files.

  “We need to corral this. Lock down the investigation.” Boehmer was thinking out loud. They both were. “I don’t know if we’ll be able—well, shit. We can’t fight too hard, even though my first instinct is to threaten to stomp on their necks with the full weight, power, and authority of the United States government. If we can’t find an excuse to take over the investigation, we need to do our best to direct it. Head up the task force, if there is one. We have to make them look at something other than the kid. We need to give them a motive that doesn’t involve him. Case of mistaken identity, something. You got any ideas?”

  Hartman sighed. “Not yet. We’re going to get questions, like why weren’t they under surveillance? And if they were, how they slipped away. Well, I checked into that, I checked the records from the SSG surveillance guys. It looks like Wilson pulled the GPS off his car, and so did Mitchell. No matter how they got away from us, we can say that these were highly trained SWAT officers, and they didn’t become stupid when they decided to start breaking the law. They’ve done surveillance, and knew what to look for. We’ll spin it so that we don’t look too bad. I think the judge who gave them bail will look wo
rse than us. In fact, maybe we can put the onus on her with a comment or two.”

  “And you’re sure there’s no way to tie this to us.”

  Hartman thought back on his meeting with Wilson. He’d spoken to his wife in a public place, very briefly, and it hadn’t been pre-arranged, he’d surprised her. He’d only met Wilson the one time, and they’d checked each other over thoroughly for recording devices. The only thing he’d given the man was the flash drive, and if that ever turned up, it wouldn’t be a problem for them. If it was found, maybe make it look like someone had hired them to take out the kid for other reasons? No, they couldn’t do anything to put any more attention on Anderson. Shit.

  “Hartman?”

  “Sorry, sir, just thinking. No, there is no way to tie this to us.”

  “John George.”

  “Ringo? It’s Bill Rochester, from the Northwestern Precinct. We’ve met, but I’m not sure if you remember me.”

  “Sure, Bill, I know you. What’s up?”

  “Sorry for calling you on a Saturday afternoon. Got your cell from command. Have you, uh, been watching the news today?”

  Ringo sighed. “I thought that might be what you were calling about. Yeah, I got a call a few hours ago, and I’ve been on the phone since then with Oakland County, Troy, and the FBI, not that they’re saying shit.” In fact, he was standing in front of his big screen, which currently was showing an overhead view of the crime scene from the Channel 7 news ‘copter. The first time he’d seen the shot he’d immediately picked out Paul Wilson’s Charger. “What’s your interest?”

  “You hear the name of the guy they were reportedly chasing?”

  “Yeah, somebody Anderson.” The name hadn’t meant anything to him. He wasn’t actually sure how reliable that identification was, as no police agency would officially release it this early. He supposed a reporter somewhere had been owed a favor. The TV switched to a ground-level view of the scene. All he could see was cop cars with flashing lights and ambulances, officers milling about, and yellow crime scene tape.