Code Four

by Colin Conway

  “I’m not stopping shit.”

  Farrell’s mouth hung open in mid-speech. He slammed it shut in anger and glared at Clint. Clint stared back, implacable. The battle of wills went on for thirty seconds, before Farrell spoke again. He enunciated his words clearly and emphatically.

  “You will stand down, Detective. That’s an order. Do you understand me?”

  Clint nodded. “I understand. But like I told you once before, we’re way past rank having anything to do with our situation anymore. Once we drop the hammer on Garrett, we’ll both have our roles to play. You’ll be the captain and I’ll be the detective. Until then, I’m going to do what I need to do to finish this. I suggest you stop rubbing your hands together like a nervous old lady and get with the program.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Clint walked away, heading for the west doors. He was through them and several steps down the hallway when Farrell arrived at his side.

  “Do not fuck this up for us both,” Farrell snarled, his voice still barely above a whisper.

  Clint didn’t break stride. “I’d say you’ve already done that.”

  Farrell didn’t have a reply. He walked next to Clint, seemingly in stunned surprise. Clint welcomed the silence. So far, all Farrell had brought to this investigation were demands and missteps. If the captain wanted to stand down while DOJ was present, that was fine with him. But Clint wasn’t going to give Garrett any breathing room.

  When they reached the entrance to the Investigative Division, Clint stopped. He gave Farrell a cold stare. “We’re finishing this,” he said simply.

  Farrell stared back, his previous fury replaced with the look of a man lost.

  Clint didn’t care. He left him there and went back into Investigations. Before going back to his desk, he stopped by the mailboxes outside of Lieutenant Flowers’s office. He shuffled through the small stack of papers in his slot but found nothing from the lab.

  “That figures,” he muttered, and headed to his desk to get to work.

  Chapter 3

  “You’re on SWAT,” the woman said. “Isn’t that right?”

  Irma Eddy smiled at Tyler Garrett with bright, watery eyes. Her hands shook slightly as she dabbed a bit of egg from her lower lip. She wore a black pantsuit with a red blouse.

  “I was,” Garrett said. “I left the team a while back.”

  When Irma leaned toward Garrett, her cloying perfume overwhelmed the smell of his own plate of eggs, bacon, and hash browns. She nodded as she said, “My husband was one of the founding members.”

  “Really?”

  “He was really handsome in his uniform.” She patted his arm. “Like you.”

  Gayla Stewart, a silver-haired woman seated next to Irma, bent toward her husband and loudly asked, “What’s SWAT?”

  Her husband, Bernard, rolled his eyes and whispered into her ear. He kept his gaze on Garrett as he spoke. Bernard was a pale, bald man with jowly cheeks that jumped and jiggled as he spoke. He wore a red Make Spokane Great Again pin on his gray suit jacket.

  To Garrett, the Make Spokane Great Again folks were just a local spin on the national movement with a similar name. The intent was clear—return our town to the 1950s. In other words, make us white again.

  When Bernard’s explanation to his wife didn’t get the desired result, he said a bit louder, “It’s their group of tough guys.”

  “Oh!” she said and turned back to Garrett with wide eyes.

  “High-risk entries,” Garrett said. “Armed suspects. That type of thing.”

  Irma nodded knowingly to Gayla.

  They were in the Greenwood Retirement Home’s banquet room for its monthly civic meeting. About a decade ago, the retirees formed an ad hoc committee in response to the growing political divide in the country. They hosted speakers on a plethora of topics. Almost everyone accepted their invitation for two important facts—these people voted, and they spoke to their adult children about it.

  This wasn’t a city level event that required the monthly attendance of the mayor, a council member, the chief of police, or even a department command staff member. However, the civic activity group carried a certain amount of political weight, so the police department sent someone whenever the committee requested a guest speaker.

  Along with Garrett, there were seven people seated at the table with him. Irma Eddy, Bernard and Gayla Stewart, and four other silver-haired women. Those four women were quiet, though, often tutting amongst themselves, but never engaging directly with Garrett. He’d randomly picked this table to sit at as he didn’t know anyone staying at the home.

  “And you’re on patrol?” Irma asked. She rested an age-spotted hand on his bare arm. He was in his short-sleeved uniform.

  Garrett nodded. “Day shift. Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good for you. Patrol is the backbone of the department. My husband spent his entire career on graveyard.”

  “That’s where I wanted to be, but they moved me to days following my shooting.”

  “That’s too bad,” Irma said. “My husband wouldn’t have stood for that. He was a tough man.” She patted his arm once more then removed her hand to pick up her fork. “I’m sure things are different now.”

  He wasn’t sure if she were referring to the times being different or the fortitude of the officers. Garrett chose to ignore either assertion for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was the environment. He lifted his head and looked about.

  There were twenty tables. At each table were eight place settings and almost all the seats were filled. That meant a potential for one hundred sixty attendees. In all fairness, there were a few empty seats, so he estimated ten folks missing. In a room of nearly one hundred fifty people, there were only six people of color in the room—counting himself.

  There were two elderly Asian women at different tables. They sat almost uncomfortably close to equally elderly white men. In the middle of the room was a Hispanic male who seemed especially animated while he talked with the patrons at his table.

  Then there was the elderly black man who poured coffee to a table full of whites. None of them bothered to acknowledge his existence.

  Nearby, a young ebony woman reached for what she thought was an empty plate. A frail elderly woman with a fake blonde wig and a pinched face scolded her. The young woman smiled politely and hurried away.

  Bernard Stewart asked something that Garrett didn’t catch.

  “Excuse me?”

  When he spoke again, bits of food danced in Bernard’s mouth. “I said, what’s your topic?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “You don’t?”

  Garrett shrugged. “I was asked to come and give a patrol officer’s perspective on the city.”

  Bernard waved his fork in small circles as he spoke. Bits of hash browns fell off as he did so. “That’s what we asked for, sure, but you’ve got to have a message. Otherwise, you’ll just ramble for thirty minutes.”

  Garrett’s eyes traveled around the table, meeting the eager eyes of those sitting with him. Captain Dana Hatcher tasked him with this assignment. She told him he was the highest-profile patrol officer she had and believed him more than suited for this task. Some ladder climber in the department would have seen it as an honor, but sitting here amongst these monied socialites, the duty irked him.

  Garrett felt tired and the several cups of coffee he already consumed were not giving him the jolt he needed. Perhaps something else would. A mischievous smile spread across Garrett’s lips. “How about this for a message? We’re the best paid garbagemen in the city.”

  Bernard blinked several times and the women remained silent.

  Garrett immediately regretted the remark. “I’m kidding.”

  “If you don’t think this is serious,” Bernard said, “if you don’t think this meeting is serious, you don’t have to be here.” The elderly man waved his hand in a motion indicating the room. “We consider our meetings important and that is why we invited your department to partici
pate.”

  The women at the table paid rapt attention to Bernard now. He was not the head of the civic committee nor was he responsible for the department’s invitation, but it was clear he held some charm amongst the ladies. When he had surveyed the room earlier, Garrett noticed the distinct imbalance when it came to women. A man, even an insufferable bore like Bernard Stewart, would carry some sway in a place like this.

  “It was a joke,” Garrett said.

  “I asked a question about your topic and you respond with a wisecrack? Is that how most officers treat the citizenry?”

  Garrett didn’t like the man’s tone nor the manner he was being spoken to, yet he managed to say, “I apologize.”

  The elderly man with the coffee carafe now stood nearby, but it seemed only Garrett took notice. The man’s eyes had been on Garrett during this exchange and they took on a sudden sadness, an almost disappointment.

  “Then I ask again,” Bernard said, “what’s the general message of your presentation?”

  Garrett looked away from the server and down to his plate. The eggs had grown cold and he hadn’t touched the sausage. When he looked up, Bernard Stewart glowered back with a power the old man had no right to feel.

  He chose his words carefully. “I guess my message would be…”

  Garrett wanted to tell the table full of elderly whites that there was no point to it all. That law enforcement was simply an exercise in futility—an endless treadmill of arrests and re-arrests. If any of those arrestees ever were charged with an actual crime, most pleaded to a lesser offense to avoid any jail time. Or if they decided to go before a judge, they would get a jury of their peers, which meant mostly unemployed or underemployed citizens who weren’t smart enough to figure a way out of their civic responsibility. The system was rigged against the cops and everyone was in on the scam—including the cops.

  Instead, he said, “…that we’ve got a pretty good city here.”

  His tablemates seem to breathe a little easier at that. The server next to him clucked his tongue, though.

  Irma absently held her coffee out for a refill and said, “But there’s been so many shootings.”

  “All cities have shootings,” Garrett said. He watched the server pour the black coffee into the white porcelain cup. The server shook his head and stole a glance at Garrett.

  “I mean shootings with officers,” Irma said. “And one of ours was killed.”

  “That was my partner.”

  “He was your partner?” Bernard said. His hand rested on the table now, a fist wrapped around his fork.

  Garrett nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” Bernard said, and he appeared genuinely remorseful.

  Many of the women muttered their condolences.

  “It was over drugs, right?” Bernard asked. His eyes moved about the table. “That’s what the newspaper said.”

  “We don’t know why he was shot,” Garrett said. “The detectives are still investigating.”

  The elderly server moved about the table now, offering refills of coffee. Several of the women dismissed him with irritated waves.

  “But you have to suspect…” Bernard said.

  Garrett knew the role he was supposed to play and after his earlier attempt at levity, he wasn’t about to do that again. Bernard wanted him to say something to feed his agenda, so he gave it to him.

  “I believe it was over drugs. The man who shot him was a junkie.”

  “A junkie,” Gayla muttered.

  “A person addicted to drugs,” Bernard said.

  “I know what a junkie is, Bernie.”

  He rolled his eyes and returned his attention to Garrett. “And you still think we have a good city?”

  “I do.”

  “What do we need to do better?”

  “More police officers,” Garrett said.

  The elderly server harrumphed and walked away from their table.

  “We’re severely understaffed for a city of our size,” Garrett continued.

  It was a tired argument, often trotted out by the department brass at budget times, but Garrett was looking for something safe that wouldn’t offend these people. Besides, it was true enough.

  “I’ve often said that.” Irma patted his arm and glanced around the table. “We need more police, especially as Spokane has changed.”

  Not changed, he thought. Darkened.

  “Anything else?” Irma asked.

  “Directed policing.”

  Bernard licked his lips. “What does that mean?”

  “Using analytics to go after the criminals before they have a chance to commit more crimes.”

  “Is that a real thing?” Irma asked.

  “We had an Anti-Crime Team—”

  “The officer who was shot was part of that,” Bernard said.

  Garrett nodded. “Just because there was a casualty doesn’t mean the war wasn’t righteous.”

  The table fell silent and several utensils hovered in front of open mouths.

  “That team,” Garrett said, “was making a real difference. We were going after active criminals, the ones who were the real problem, in the worst neighborhoods. The chief shut it down after Officer Stone’s death.”

  “And you think that was a mistake?” Bernard asked.

  Garrett didn’t really care, but he nodded, nonetheless.

  “What can we do to help?” Bernard said.

  “Yes,” Gayla chimed in, “what can we do?”

  “Talk to your city councilman.” Garrett caught the eyes of several of the women at the table and corrected himself. “Councilperson.” The ladies nodded appreciatively. “Make your voice heard. Tell them we need that team back on the street.”

  Bernard tapped the table then pointed to Garrett. “That’s your message. You tell that message up there and our group will definitely be in the ear of the city council. That’ll give us something to get excited about.”

  An elderly woman stepped to the podium at the front of the room. She tapped a finger against the microphone, the resulting booms quieted the chattering crowd.

  “Good morning, everyone,” she said before inviting up their special guest and that morning’s speaker—Spokane Police Officer Tyler Garrett.

  Chapter 4

  The GMC Denali rocked then swayed as it moved into the furthest left lane of Interstate-90. Édelie Durand gripped the file spread across her lap and looked up.

  Behind the wheel, Esteban Curado’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. “Sorry about that.”

  “What happened?”

  Curado thumbed toward the car on the right. “Guy jammed his brakes.”

  Durand lifted her eyebrows, grunted an affirmation, and returned her gaze to the file.

  From the passenger seat, Danielle Watson said, “You should have let me drive, Esteban.”

  “Steve,” he said flatly. “You know I prefer Steve.”

  They were silent for a couple moments before Curado asked, “And why should I have let you drive?”

  “Because you’re too busy sightseeing.”

  “And you wouldn’t be?” he asked.

  “I went to law school here,” she said and waved toward the windshield. “I had enough of this podunk town by the time I finished. Couldn’t wait to get away.”

  Durand glanced up from her file. Even though the city of Spokane neared, her thoughts were on the opposite side of the country and her two-story brick home in the Washington, D.C. neighborhood of Kingman Park. It’s where her husband Roland was, as he dealt with—

  “What’s wrong, Edie?”

  Her eyes slid over to meet Watson’s who had now turned in her seat to look back at Durand. Danielle Watson was an attractive woman with tanned skin, short hair, natural eyebrows, and expensive eyelashes.

  “Huh?”

  “You look upset. Find something in the file we didn’t cover?”

  Durand ignored Watson’s question and lowered her head. What had her face betrayed? No one in the division knew what she a
nd her husband were going through and she had no intentions of sharing her personal life with her staff.

  She did her best to remove any emotions from her face. “We’re going straight to the department this morning. Get your bearings as soon as you can.” When she looked up, Durand caught a brief exchange of glances between her subordinates. Pretending not to have noticed, she continued, “Three days is all we’ve got.”

  “We know,” Watson said. “We went over this back at the—”

  “So?” Durand snapped. “We’re going over it again.”

  Watson stared at her and blinked repeatedly.

  Curado’s head turned slightly away. His eyes remained on the road ahead, but his peripheral vision would no longer able to pick up what was occurring inside the vehicle.

  Durand refused to look away from her subordinates, though. If she showed any weakness now, they would know something was wrong. She’d rather they just thought she was a bitch.

  Watson finally said, “Yeah, okay.”

  Esteban Curado’s head returned to its normal position and he studied the road straight ahead.

  Durand inhaled a long, slow breath through her nose before calmly saying, “We’re out of here Friday morning and back home. Our recommendations need to be ready by Monday morning.”

  With a gentle, almost apologetic tone, Watson asked, “We’re working the weekend?”

  “If we have to. Otherwise, we work on the flight. We work at the hotel. Everything is work for the next seventy-two hours. Is there a problem with that?”

  Watson frowned, shook her head, then faced forward in her seat.

  Durand dropped her gaze back to the file.

  There were plenty of attorneys on staff and she appreciated most of them. Curado and Watson weren’t any more special than the next. They were expedient for this assignment and she wasn’t about to coddle them. Nothing in this world was more important than the man back home and if she had a choice, she would have stayed there. However, a depleted savings account, a mortgage to pay, and ever-rising medical costs demanded she work. Her best course of action was to do her job quickly and effectively then get out of Spokane. The truth was, there had been too many Spokanes lately and she didn’t know how many more she could take.