Whorl

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Whorl Page 29

by James Tarr


  “David Anderson. Working as a private investigator.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m working the Warren Avenue case. The one where the guy two weeks ago killed three officers. Shot two, then when we chased him down he shot four more. Three dead, and two more that I don’t think are ever going to come back to the job.” It was the single worst police loss in city history. Ringo had attended the triple-funeral, but he didn’t know which detectives had actually been assigned to the case.

  “You still working the case? It’s not closed? I thought he was killed.”

  “I’m still working the case because the shooter had fake ID. We know it was fake because when his prints finally came back, they came back to a name completely different than the Ohio driver’s license or the credit cards in his wallet. Shooter was Ralph Marsh, Army veteran. Did several combat tours, then got out, and as far as I can tell he just disappeared, at least until he showed up two weeks ago with fake ID and shot our boys.”

  “That’s…..weird. That’s some weird shit right there, Bill.”

  “It gets weirder. Don’t know if you heard, but we didn’t kill him. A P.I. on a surveillance witnessed the initial shooting, and followed Marsh. When Marsh started ramming cars and shooting again, it was the P.I. who put him down. With a rifle.”

  “Anderson? Anderson killed him?”

  “No. His boss. His same boss that gave him the surveillance he was working today, John Phault. But Anderson was there. On my case. Hundred feet away. It was a two-man surveillance. I interviewed the kid myself. He said he didn’t see anything, but he was close enough to hear it, and he tried to do first aid on Ferguson and Gutierrez. You a big fan of coincidence?”

  Ringo didn’t say anything for a good long time. “What the hell?” he finally wondered aloud. “We need to talk.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Dave rubbed at his left eyebrow, trying to massage away the headache deep in his skull as the deputy walked away. His cell phone was back in his possession for the first time in……he looked around, tried to find a window. Shit, maybe it was tomorrow already. He checked the clock on his phone. No, still the same day, just late. Seemed like the shooting had happened days ago.

  He saw he’d received twenty-four calls since the last time he’d seen his phone, and had sixteen voicemails. Aaron had called more than anyone else. He’d also gotten calls from Gina, two of the guys he shot with at matches, and a number of numbers he didn’t recognize. He couldn’t bear the thought of listening to all those voicemails, and instead just called Aaron. As he listened to it ring he idly wondered if the cops had browsed through his phone, looking for something incriminating. The only thing on his phone he knew they’d want to look at were the pictures. He’d taken quite a few of Gina wearing almost nothing and less, and she’d taken a few of herself as well, for his enjoyment. Some of the ones she’d taken could best be described as “action photos”.

  “Dude, what the fuck? Was that you they were talking about on the news?” Aaron said as soon as he answered. That was the problem with having a common name like David Anderson. There’d actually been another Dave Anderson in his graduating class in high school, as well as a Dan Anderson.

  “Yeah,” Dave said tiredly.

  “Are you okay? You didn’t get shot, did you?”

  “I’m fine. Just tired. Been talking to cops all day. They’re trying to figure out if they should arrest me, charge me with murder.” Currently the consensus seemed to be, Maybe not right now, but…..

  “For what? What the fuck happened? You actually gun down three fucking cops at the range? Every channel is saying something a little bit different—”

  “Aaron. Aaron!” Dave interrupted his friend. “I’m too burnt to talk. Just wanted to call and let you know I was still alive. I don’t know what they’re saying on the news.”

  “Why would they charge you with murder? Wasn’t it self-defense? Reporters were talking to an old bag in Troy, she said some dude just walked up and started blasting at you, then chased you out of there.”

  “Pretty much what happened. But cops never believe anybody.” He was also pretty sure part of the problem was they weren’t used to dealing with good guys with guns. Only bad guys—or cops—shot people in their world. And he’d shot—wait for it—three cops. When he’d found that out he’d almost cried. He’d killed three cops? He’d stayed all wrapped up in that news for a few minutes, before he moved on to the logical question—why the hell had they tried to kill him? Because that sure was hell was what they’d seemed to be doing. And so far he’d come up with nothing on that. Which really had him worried. “Can you do me a favor? Can you call Joe at Absolute? You have his cell phone or something? I don’t think I’m going to make it in to work on Monday.”

  Aaron laughed. “Dude, I don’t think you should come in to work on Monday.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Coming to work in Detroit?” Aaron laughed again. “You didn’t kill people, you killed four Detroit cops. Black guys. And somebody dug up the fact that you got into that gunfight a few years ago, those bank robbers you told me about. The fact they were all black? News channels can’t decide if you’re a racist serial killer or just a racist murderer, but they’re willing to talk about both them possibilities for hours.”

  “Shit, really? Shit. But dammit, I only killed three guys, the deputy killed the fourth. And I didn’t give a fuck that they were black, only that they were trying to kill me.” He thought back, trying to remember if the fact that any of them was black even registered on him at the time. Mostly he was just trying to shoot them before they shot him. And had everyone forgotten these cops were the same ones arrested by the FBI? What that had to do with him he had no idea, but at least he hadn’t gunned down true-blue heroes, the guys after him apparently were bad guys with badges. But again, why?

  Aaron laughed again, mirthlessly. “It’s the news, dude. They’re not interested in the actual truth. Ain’t nobody got time for that.”

  Dave saw his attorney and John, his boss, come out of the big meeting with half a dozen detectives from at least three jurisdictions, plus a guy he was pretty sure was an FBI agent. “Gotta go. Will call you when I can. Don’t forget to call Joe.” He disconnected and put the phone away. Maybe if they didn’t see he had it back they wouldn’t take it away again. Apart from the few words he’d spoken to the Oakland County Undersheriff, he hadn’t actually talked to the cops at all. He hadn’t even said all that much to his attorney. How many different ways could you say, “I was just minding my own business when…..”?

  Dave didn’t really have an attorney, but John did, and that’s who he’d called. The two of them stopped in front of him. “Time to go home,” John told him.

  “I’m not being arrested?” Dave croaked. He felt like lying down on the hard bench, but was pretty sure if he did that he’d fall right asleep.

  “For what?” the attorney said. “The most clear-cut case of self-defense anybody in there has ever seen? We’ve got witnesses at both ends of the car chase saying they attacked and started shooting at you first, without provocation, and one of them tried killing an Oakland County deputy to boot.”

  John smiled thinly. “Cops just don’t like it when citizens kill people,” he told Dave, then said everything the young man had been thinking. “They think that’s their job. Plus, all the guys you killed are cops. That’s got a few of them more than a bit twisted up. Having a hard time seeing past that.”

  “Crooked cops out on bail,” the attorney felt obliged to point out. “They seem to grudgingly admit that it looks like self-defense, the thing that’s bugging them is why. Why did four Detroit cops out on bail head up here and apparently try to kill you.” He looked over his shoulder, and lowered his voice. “You sure you don’t….” His eyebrows went up.

  Dave shook his head. “Not a fucking clue. Seriously. Wish I did.”

  The attorney in his sharp, dark blue suit looked down at him for a few seconds, then shrug
ged his shoulders. “Whatever. I guess we’ll find out. The ‘what happened’ seems pretty clear, but they really wanted to keep you locked up until they could figure out the why. That’s what we’ve been arguing about for the past four hours. But you’re a fine upstanding citizen without so much as a speeding ticket, and even though they were cops they were dirty cops out on bail. And the FBI seemed to take my side.”

  “Which was weird,” John said.

  The attorney nodded. “You’re right about that. It was downright bizarre, but I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Just imagine what they’ve got going on over at the McNamara Building right now, agents scrambling trying to figure out if they screwed up. What they missed in their investigation that would make those officers do…whatever the hell they were trying to do.”

  “You’re going to get your face all over the news no matter how this plays,” John said to his lawyer with a smile.

  The lawyer smiled back. “You’re damn right I am. And after being your lawyer for all these years I’ve got Massad Ayoob on speed dial. I just hope we don’t need him for this one.” Dave recognized the name—in addition to being a well-known gun writer, Ayoob was the preeminent expert court witness on firearms and shootings. Heck, he’d practically invented the job.

  The lawyer checked his watch. “They—meaning the FBI, Sheriff’s Department, Troy Police Department, and representatives of every other agency involved in this thing—have requested that you not speak to the media. And for God’s sake, don’t ever talk to them without me present. We don’t have anything scheduled, but assume that within a day or two they’re going to want you to come in again, answer some more questions. I’ll be there for that. Part of the agreement to not arrest you was that you’d cooperate, stay close. Not go on any surprise trips to countries without extradition.” The attorney smiled at his own joke.

  “Well, if I’m not under arrest, they can go fuck themselves, I’m going to go wherever the hell I want,” Dave said with sudden vehemence. “This is America, and I didn’t do anything wrong. I was minding my own fucking business.” Not that he had any plans to go anywhere, but he was tired of being their punching bag. All he’d been trying to do was earn a few extra bucks on a surveillance. All he’d done was defend himself. “They’ve got my cell phone number.”

  John held out his hands in a calming manner. He understood Dave’s attitude completely. “Just……call me if you think you’re not going to be immediately reachable.”

  “Fuck. Whatever,” Dave said defeatedly.

  The attorney looked at John. “I’ll keep in touch.” He shook both their hands, then headed out of the station.

  “How much does that asshole cost an hour?” Dave mumbled.

  “Don’t you worry about that, I’ll pay for him. You were working for me when it happened. Hell, with as much as his face is going to be on TV after this you should charge him.” He smiled and looked over, then saw how Dave was nearly asleep sitting up, and checked his watch. “Jesus, it’s almost midnight. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

  “No, I’m good,” Dave said, blinking bleary eyes.

  “Yeah, you’re so good you forgot you don’t have a car to drive home. The Mustang’s evidence, remember? It’s got about twenty bullet holes in it. You’ll be lucky to get it back next year. C’mon, don’t make me carry you.”

  John dropped him off at his house just after 12:30 a.m. Dave was half-expecting news trucks to be parked in front of the house, but either none of the cops had given up his address (unlikely) or they’d gone home once it got late. Someone said the satellite trucks left the police station not long after the reporters did their live remotes for the 11 o’clock news, but Dave never saw them.

  “You okay?” John asked him as they sat in his SUV idling in the driveway. “You in shock or anything?” He liked the kid, and knew what he was going through.

  Dave looked at him with bleary eyes. “No. I don’t think so. Maybe I should be in shock, but I’m just numb. Anybody in that big meeting, FBI or whoever, even give a hint about whey they thought those guys were after me?”

  John shook his head. “I heard twenty different theories, about half of which painted you as the bad guy, but they don’t have any evidence of anything. They’re turning those guys’ lives upside down right now, even more than after their arrest, trying to figure out what the hell they were doing in Troy. But nobody knows anything more than you.” He looked at Dave, saw he was about to fall asleep.

  “Get what sleep you can,” John told him. “Give me a call tomorrow. You may not want to talk to anybody, but you’re going to have to.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like your insurance company, for one thing. To let them know about the car they insure. Their adjuster probably won’t be given access to it for a couple of weeks, but they still need to know.” John leaned forward. “Just so you know, since your car wasn’t in an ‘accident’ per se, there’s a good chance they’re not going to cover the damages to it. Or at least try to deny the claim. Find a copy of your policy and look it over, and if I need to, I’ll have my lawyer talk to the adjuster. This thing is so high profile, we can give them huge negative publicity with just one word to the press.”

  This was not what Dave wanted to hear. He just wanted everything to go away, to be left alone; the thought of fighting with his insurance company over the damage to the Mustang drained whatever energy he had left.

  “Okay,” he said dully.

  He trudged up the driveway to the front door. John waited in the driveway until he got in, and Dave used the glow from his headlights to get the key in the lock. He hadn’t left any lights on, and the house was completely dark. Once he got the door open he gave a wave over his shoulder and headed in. He turned on the porch light, then the light in the foyer, and then trudged into the dark kitchen. Hungry; he needed to eat something before he went to bed, all he’d had to eat all day was a pre-made sandwich one of the deputies had brought him, probably bought at a gas station.

  Blinking in the light of the fluorescents, Dave was reaching for the refrigerator door when someone said, in a very tired voice, “Please don’t shoot me.”

  Dave spun, his hand already on his hip, touching his empty holster, but of course he wasn’t wearing a gun. The cops had taken it for evidence, as they had his rifle and his car. Peering below the cupboards, he saw someone sitting at his kitchen table. A skinny guy, sitting awkwardly in the chair. His hands were out in front of him, flat on the table. He wore a t-shirt and a dark windbreaker and looked like he hadn’t slept in a couple of days.

  Moving with his hand still on his hip, trying to give the impression there was a gun in the holster, Dave moved to the side so he could get a better view of the trespasser. “Who the fuck are you?” He assumed the guy was some hungry young reporter who’d broken into his house, trying to get a scoop.

  “Michael Mitchell,” the man said, sounding as tired as Dave felt. “FBI…..shit. Sort of. You can call me Mickey.”

  “What’s the ‘sort of FBI’?” Dave demanded.

  “I was with the FBI before they killed me,” he said with an odd sad smile. “Now I’m just with me. And, I guess, since they’re trying to kill you too, I’m with you.”

  The pain as Boehmer shot him made Mickey clench up, his mouth going wide in shock. Then, without even thinking about it, forgetting the pain, he lunged for the man who’d ended his life as he knew it, and fought for the gun. It was dark in the back of the car, and he couldn’t see anything. Then Boehmer fired again, and again. Mickey went weak, and Boehmer shoved him backward, against the door.

  Mickey reached behind himself, trying desperately to find a way out, and somehow, unexpectedly, got the door open. He was falling backward out the opening door as Boehmer’s gun flashed again, and he felt a burning pain in his neck. Then he hit the moving pavement hard, rolled once, and lay there, his ears ringing.

  Face down on the gritty surface, he heard the car accelerating away, but the sound see
med distant. His ears were pulsing from the gunfire inside the back of the Lincoln. His neck was on fire, and searing pain shot through his body with every ragged breath. His body was curled into a ball, eyes clenched shut from the pain. Did death hurt this much? Seemed pretty unfair.

  Gradually the night sounds of the city returned. The constant hum of traffic, isolated tweets of birds, the occasional distant shout. Then voices that weren’t so distant, and the hum of a different kind of tire.

  “Shit, man, I told you I heard a gunshot. Somebody just smoked a dude. Lookit that.”

  “Is that a dead guy? Why’d they leave him in the middle of the street? Probably just a dummy.”

  Mickey wheezed and rolled half onto his back, and the two boys yelped in surprise. He was able to crack his eyes and saw them sitting on their bicycles about fifteen feet away. “Not dead yet,” he said with a groan. There was enough light to see the boys were maybe eight or ten, their arms and legs nearly as skinny as the frames on their bikes.

  “You get shot? What are you doing in the street?”

  “D’you get jacked, man?” the other boy asked. “Somebody take your ride?”

  “Somebody took my life,” Mickey said. Grunting with the effort, he slid a hand up to his neck and gasped with the pain. There was a big chunk taken out of his neck muscle, and his hand felt wet. He couldn’t tell if it was still bleeding, but thought it probably was. He knew he should put pressure on the wound, but didn’t have the strength. That was probably a bad sign.

  “You gonna die?” one of the kids asked him. They both still sat on their bike seats and stared at him like he was an interesting exhibit at the zoo. Kids.

  Mickey looked at the kids, then at the darkness beyond them. “Isn’t it past your bedtimes?” he said wearily.

 

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