Then I turned off my cell phone and adjusted myself in the seat, stretching and scooting, leaning into the wind like a thirsty dog. My eyelids were heavy—dropping slowly and rebounding quickly—the radio news my only companion as I navigated north through the county. The reporter spoke of a police shooting in the evening hours yesterday, stating the cops executed an Asian man armed with only a pellet gun. I switched to FM as the reporter said the detectives investigating the shooting had refused to provide details on the incident.
Four hours of sleep felt like twelve as I woke to a quiet house, the patter of rain against windowpanes, the only sound at all. I made my way to the kitchen, my usual routine, to find a note and mug next to a readied coffee pot. I switched it on and read the note as the brew dripped into the carafe.
Hi honey,
You must be exhausted! Your snoring gives it away. Any chance you can get a break, take some time off? Call me at the office when you have a chance, I have an idea about this weekend if you think you can swing it.
Val
I walked briskly through the hallway of our office toward the kitchen where coffee brews twenty-four hours a day, supplying caffeine to the weary and worn out detectives of Homicide Bureau, the support staff, and all of our guests. Before I could make it there, Captain Stover intercepted me, calling out from behind his desk as I passed his office. I cringed, knowing this would likely be just another bitch session. He would ask why we were spending all this time—not to mention money—on a piece of shit prostitute murder, or maybe he would ask if I knew how much it cost him to repair the cars me and that idiot I work with destroyed in the last ten days. It could be anything other than to say he appreciated our hard work, or to ask how our case was going, or to see if there was anything we needed, anything that would maybe improve the overall morale of the troops or functionality of the bureau. No, it wouldn’t be any of those inquiries because this captain had the leadership skills of a caboose.
“What’s up, Captain?” I said, stepping into his office.
He sat behind a cherry-wood desk with a blotter framing photographs of the captain posing with various department executives. Then there were the executive portraits hanging on the wall behind him: the sheriff with five gold stars on each collar, a big smile for the camera; the undersheriff with his comb-over job; both assistant sheriffs appearing bored. And, as with all department executives and Mexican generals, no office would be complete without the display of various awards routinely bestowed to one another for any absurd so-called accomplishment one could claim. On Captain Stover’s wall hung the Exemplary Service Award, this particular one awarded for implementing an inmate feeding procedure while commanding the men’s jail, an Award of Meritorious Conduct, received for “overseeing” the investigation of a murdered deputy—meaning he occupied the position of captain at the time the unfortunate homicide occurred, and as captain he would occasionally ask the hard-working detectives to brief him on their progress so he could inform the sheriff—and the Community Service Award, given to him for his dedicated attendance of community meetings. And there were others, all framed and encased with blue and gold ribbons, all paid for through the department’s budget, or rather, taxpayer money.
He said, “Sit down, Richard.”
I slid one of two dark leather chairs on rollers from the front of his desk and took a seat with a view of his I love me wall. I glanced at my watch, wondering if he had any idea how many hours we’d put in, how busy we were, how many other things I could be doing rather than having this little chat with arguably the worst captain for whom I had ever worked. Then I braced for the lecture, reminding myself to just listen, don’t argue. Hear him out, let him rant, agree, thank him, and leave. Try not to shoot him or flip his cherry-wood desk over on his skinny ass.
He leaned back and gently rocked his chair, studying me while holding a gold pen to his chin, the pen matching his cufflinks accentuating a crisp white shirt. He glanced toward the interior office window with a view of the hallway where a steady stream of detectives passed by, the faint sounds of greetings and laughter muffled from inside. The captain leaned forward to address me and said, “I’m moving you to another team.”
“What?”
“I need you on Team Three. They’re short on bodies right now, and they’re weak.”
“Splitting me and Floyd up?”
“You can take a new guy,” he said, “break him in. We’re getting four new bodies the first of the month. It’d be good for everyone, good for the bureau.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no? It’s not a request.”
I thought for a moment, my head spinning as I replayed his words in my head, thinking this seemed surreal, it couldn’t be the case. Why would he move me? Homicide partners didn’t get split up for no reason, and without good cause. We weren’t the type to put up with it. We were all seasoned veterans who had worked hard to get to where we were. We were also almost all A-type personalities, the type to fight when it was time and not put up with much bullshit. In the academy and throughout the first few stages of one’s career there remained a regimented rank structure and its attendant expectation of respect and protocols. But at this level, the rules were very different, and the relationships much more casual. Lieutenants and captains were addressed by first names by most of the detectives, for the most part. Very seldom did a detective receive discipline, nor did he expect to be treated like a child. Most would simply not tolerate it, and I certainly topped that list of the intolerant.
“Just what I said, no. I’m not going to do it. You split me and Floyd up, I’m out of here. I’m tired of busting my balls around here for nothing anyway. I’m sure as hell not breaking in a new guy.” I pushed the chair back and rose to my feet. “I’m serious, Captain. I’ll put the transfer in today if you move me to another team. This is bullshit and you know it.”
“Where’re you going to go?” he asked, rhetorically. “Patrol? You couldn’t afford the cut in pay, not to mention you’re too damned old to be pushing a radio car.”
“Maybe I’ll go to Surveillance,” I said, “make some of that overtime, not deal with all this bullshit. I’m pretty sure I can move anywhere I want in Detective Division without too much trouble. Maybe I’ll go to Arson-Explosives, investigate burned up cars and buildings for a living, occasionally put the bomb suit on and cut a wire or two.”
“Good luck with that.”
Just like that, the captain called my bluff. Or maybe he was trying to see how far I’d take it before giving in, saying okay, whatever’s best for the bureau.
We sat staring at each other like the only two poker players left in a hand, one of the two bluffing, the other holding aces. Did he have all the cards? I knew I didn’t, but I also felt the need to push back. I was tired of folding hands to this man with the awards on his wall.
The captain before him had the respect of the troops by and large. He had earned that respect by being a great cop before promoting, and then as a captain, he was thought of as an advocate for the men and women who served under his command. All too often executives were promoted for reasons other than that they had been good cops, or that they would make good leaders, and the department had suffered greatly for it.
If it were almost anyone other than Stover, my tone would have been very different, and I would have been more reasonable. But if it had been anyone other than Stover, I wouldn’t have been sitting in his office having this conversation. The truth of it is, I just had no respect for the man, and that set the tone of all of our interaction.
“You’re serious?”
“My mind is made up,” he said. “Effective first of next month.”
“That’s two weeks.”
“Yeah.”
“We have cases—”
“Split them up. He keeps half, you keep half. Happens all the time. Partners promote, transfer, retire, die . . . You’ll figure it out.”
With that I turned and walked to the door, paused for a
moment, but reminded myself to stick to the game plan. Be cool, don’t let him get under your skin. So all of the thoughts running through my head, the things I wanted to say, the fight I felt compelled to continue or maybe finish, went by the wayside. I stepped through the threshold without looking back and rejoined the men and women who made this place work in spite of these executive types. Men and women who worked tirelessly to solve their cases and bring justice to the loved ones of our victims, and not for the captain or the sheriff or the awards on the wall.
“I swear to God that asshole’s going to wish he never knew me,” I said to Floyd at the coffee pot.
Floyd stood with his cup out as I poured him the bottom of a pot. I pulled the filter out and dumped it in the trash. Floyd stepped over and began filling the plastic water container as I scooped fresh grounds into a new filter, stepping right in with the team work. Best partner I ever had, and we were about to be divorced against our wills.
Floyd said, “What’re you going to do, Dickie?”
I sighed. “I don’t know, but I’ll think of something.”
“He can move you around in the bureau however he wants, nothing you can do about it. Nothing the union can do about it. It’s not a demotion or discipline. It’s his discretion to put you where he wants, partner you with whoever he feels like partnering you with.”
“I’ll make life hell for him.”
“How?” he asked.
“You don’t care?”
“Hell yes I care, Dickie. I just don’t see how we can do anything about it. And I don’t want you blowing a gasket over it, stroking out in the kitchen for Christ’s sake.”
“Maybe I’ll get him dirty, bust his balls for him.”
“How’re you going to do that?”
“He’s a drunk,” I said. “That son-of-a-bitch has gotten away with lots of shit. When he wrecked his county car a while back, he was drunk off his ass. Everyone here knew it but of course that was swept under the rug. Then that time he shot at the guy breaking into his car behind a bar. I’m sure he was drunk then too, the idiot. Turned out the poor bastard was just taking a leak, ended up losing a kidney in the deal. My point is, he’ll screw up again, and when he does, we’ll make it our business, get some dirt on the bastard.”
Floyd shook his head. “If you or I did any of that shit, they’d give us a month on the bricks and take away our cars for good. Probably send us to Sex Crimes or Fraud.”
The two of us stood griping, conspiring, watching a fresh pot fill to the brim. We waited patiently though in piss-poor moods now. One of the very few simple pleasures and perks of the job, the endless supply of coffee, ruined this morning by an administrative power play.
“Who do we know that drinks at Nichol’s?”
Floyd thought for a moment. “Few guys: Davey, Steve, sometimes Rudy . . . Why?”
“He goes there three, four times a week. I bet those guys have some shit on him.”
“Like that waitress he’s supposed to be sweet on? You heard about that, right?”
“No! Are you shitting me?”
“See, that’s your problem, Dickie. You don’t socialize enough, always too busy working. Yeah, dickhead, he’s got a little something on the side, from what I hear. A chubby little Mexican girl who works at the lounge.”
“That’s exactly what we need,” I said, excited now with the new information.
I picked up the fresh pot in one hand, my cup in the other. Floyd thrust his cup ahead of mine, expecting a refill first.
“Only we get it on tape,” I continued. “The jackwad and his plump little Mexican girl in the county car, or maybe checking into a motel room somewhere.”
“You’re serious.”
“Hell yeah, I’m serious. I’m pissed! I’m tired of laying down for that asshole just because he’s the captain. That prick talked to me like that in a bar—if we were just a couple construction workers, not cops—I’d hand him his ass. You hear from Dwight yet today?”
“No,” Floyd said over his shoulder, now leading the way back down the hall. “You?”
“No. Hey, what’s the deal with you and him anyway? Seems to be a bit of tension.”
Floyd stopped and turned to face me, the grin coming back. “You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“Dwight used to work the training bureau back when you and I worked patrol. There was that training class, the one they were going to teach us how to box, remember?”
“Vaguely.”
“I’d made some smart-assed comment—”
“How rare.”
“—and he decides to choose me for his demonstration, make an example of me. Tried to nail me a few times with a weak jab, slow hook, but doing it like he wanted to make a point. I mean, he tried to hit me, but he just didn’t have the speed.”
“Yeah?”
“So I knocked him on his ass in front of the class. You don’t remember that? Jesus, he was pissed.”
“I think I remember hearing about it, don’t think I was in that class. I’d probably remember that.”
“He came back up and another instructor stepped in, seeing he was out of control. I just grinned, which really pissed him off. Few years later, we get to talking during a search warrant operation, standing around a command post and he hits me up. Before, I’d see him and we’d just give each other the eye. This time, he comes up, acts all cool and says, ‘Hey Floyd, I hear you’re into martial arts.’ Which is funny, you know, that he’s been asking around about me ever since. I mean, this is what, two, three years later? Well, you know me, how I can be a dick—”
“Do I.”
“—I say, ‘I used to mess around a little bit,’ left it at that,” Floyd said and paused, maybe waiting for a reaction. He continued, “Then Dwight tells me he studies Tae Kwon Do, like that’s going to impress me. Jesus, everyone knows Tae Kwon Do’s for girls. Anyway, so then he starts telling me how important the elements of discipline and control are, in this art he practices, how you stay centered, focused, never lose your cool. You know, all that grasshopper shit. My take on it is he’s trying to justify not getting up that day and stomping my ass, or pussing out. So I say, ‘Most of my training is in Muay Thai kickboxing. You’ve heard of it, right? Very combative,’ I said. ‘Our idea of control is putting your opponent on his ass.’”
I shook my head and chuckled, then we started walking again, past the captain’s office and into the squad room. I said, “So what’d he say to that?”
“Not much,” Floyd said, grinning now, enjoying the memory more than likely. “We’re okay though, me and D. I don’t think he wants to mix it up again. Shit, he acts like we’re old homeboys every time I see him.”
“Did ya see that prick in there, giving us the eye as we passed?”
“I saw it,” Floyd said. “In fact, I smiled at him.”
“You had any hair on your ass,” I told him, “you’d walk in there and knock him out of his chair, show me how tough you are.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Tempt you? Hell, I’d pay you.”
I sat at my desk with a headache after less than an hour or so at the office, sipping coffee while listening to voicemail messages. Floyd sat next to me, looking at the screen of his notebook computer, his shirt already darkened by sweat beneath the arms. I half-listened to the attorney on my voicemail asking about his discovery motion, wondering when he could expect to receive the requested material. Saying it had been over a week and he hoped to hear from me soon. Saying it in that lawyerly tone I had quickly grown to despise. I jotted a note to look into it as I thought about my impending transfer.
The next message took my mind off of the transfer, the captain, and my partner sitting next to me sweating. It was a message from the fugitive task force saying they had located James Scott in Phoenix, Arizona.
When I shared the message with Floyd, he broke into an ear to ear grin. He loved to travel and always had a bag packed and ready to go. He’d leave on a moment�
�s notice without a second thought or care in the world, and with the excitement and intensity of a puppy with its head out the window. The destination mattered not; Floyd loved everywhere. He loved going. He especially loved going on the county dime.
Floyd said, “Jesus, Dickie, that’s great news. We love Phoenix.”
22
WE WERE TOLD James Scott had been picked up in Phoenix just before boarding an airplane that would have brought him to Los Angeles via Las Vegas. I wondered why they hadn’t held off arresting him until he landed at LAX; it wasn’t like he could pull a D.B. Cooper and disappear mid-flight. Or at least it wasn’t likely. Then I thought about how it would irritate the captain to see us spending his money, traveling on this damned prostitute murder case again, and thought, What the hell? I grinned at the idea of pissing him off.
It was this newfound contempt for the captain and the bureau that spurred me to call a contact at Arson/Explosives to see if they were taking applications. In addition to blowing things up, the bomb squad investigates fires, hence the title. As is the case with homicide detectives, Arson/Explosives detectives receive Bonus II pay, the highest salary of detectives on the sheriff’s department. Plus they get hazard pay for playing with bombs, which is good unless they cut the wrong wire, and then it doesn’t really matter. Maybe to the widow.
My contact at Arson asked if I was claustrophobic, telling me it isn’t easy moving around in an eighty-pound bomb suit. Some guys, he said, panic when the final piece of equipment, the helmet, is applied to the suit. I told him I could handle it, the protection from accidental detonations would be worth the discomfort, I supposed. A bomb goes off, he said, the suit keeps the parts together, but that’s about it. Makes it easier for cleanup and probably burial, he said.
They weren’t taking applications at Arson at the moment, but he could let me know if anything changed. I told him it was okay, he didn’t have to worry about it.
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