by Colin Conway
“No,” he answered firmly. “I’m not.”
“If the county gave up on that angle, why didn’t we pick it up? Once the question of Garrett’s shooting was deemed as justified, there shouldn’t have been a conflict of interest anymore.”
Farrell considered the question. The real answer was that he and Clint had done exactly that, but all of it off-book. Once the mayor dictated the official history of events in that meeting, the threshold to prove a different truth rose significantly.
Baumgartner was looking at him with a slightly confused expression. Flummoxed, Farrell struggled for an answer. His hesitation seemed to irritate the chief.
“Are you telling me that we have no one looking into who those shooters were? No one looking at the attempted assassination of one of our own?”
Farrell swallowed. Sweat had beaded on his brow, and now streamed down his temple. “No, sir.”
“I have to say, Tom…I think you dropped the ball.”
Farrell didn’t reply. Couldn’t. The cognitive dissonance of being reprimanded for not doing what he secretly was doing made his head hurt. That he may still have bobbled the ball in that effort wasn’t lost on him, either.
“Though I suppose I did, too,” Baumgartner said, his tone conciliatory. “We’ll need to regroup and get on this, as soon as DOJ is out of our house.”
“Yes, sir.”
The chief leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “I don’t know, Tom. What do you think?”
Farrell cleared his throat again. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific, Chief. Which part?”
Baumgartner scowled, then sighed. “I’ll make it simple. Do you think we have a corruption problem in this department?”
“No.” Farrell’s answer came easy. He didn’t see systemic corruption. He saw three bad actors—Garrett, Talbott, and Pomeroy. Their corruption was extreme, but isolated. It had certainly touched others and affected them, but it wasn’t an agency-wide problem.
“Neither do I,” Baumgartner agreed. “But do you think DOJ will see a corruption problem?”
Farrell considered the question for so long that the chief finally cocked his head expectantly. With some reluctance, Farrell answered. “I think they will. They are already looking through a lens of expectation that it exists. Enough bad things have happened for them to decide that the dots connect, whether they do or not.”
Baumgartner nodded slowly. “I think so, too.” He sat forward and looked at Farrell. “That makes it our job to do what is best for the department.”
“What’s that?”
“We ask for help.”
Farrell blinked in surprise. “You’re…you’re going to ask for a consent decree?”
“No,” Baumgartner said. “But there’s another option. I can ask for their help in the form of a technical assistance letter. It’s a formal, nonbinding letter, offering us suggestions in a variety of areas. Policy, procedure, and so forth. If we adopt most of those changes, it might be enough to keep them at bay, and avoid a consent decree.”
“It sounds like a risk.”
“Life is a risk,” Baumgartner said. “But a TAL is far better than a consent decree. We can cherry pick the best recommendations from their list, the ones that really will be beneficial, and implement them. It’ll be a lot of work for command staff, but it keeps us from being wholly taken over by DOJ. And we might even be able to find a way to get some federal grants in the process.”
Farrell digested the information, not speaking.
Finally, Baumgartner said, “What do you think?”
Farrell cleared his throat again. “It sounds like a great idea, Chief.”
“Good,” Baumgartner said. “It’s going to be a delicate process, but I think we can pull it off. We just need everything to go smoothly until the investigators here finish their visit. Once they get back to Washington, I’ll hit DOJ with my request. It should work.”
Farrell thought about the Garrett case that he and Clint were trying to bring in. He wondered how DOJ would react to that level of corruption, regardless of how singular it was. He had a feeling their reaction wouldn’t be to send a letter with some suggestions.
“Tom? I want your honest thoughts on this.”
Farrell smiled weakly. “Sounds good,” he managed.
Chapter 34
Ray Zielinski took another nip of Baileys and coffee, watching the Ellis home. As a veteran patrol officer, he had spent plenty of time in the car, but most of that involved driving. This stakeout routine was painful to him. He decided that if this was how detectives worked, he was glad he stayed a patrolman.
Then he realized Clint hadn’t been on surveillance at all for the past couple of days. So it seemed that what detectives really did was get a patrol schlub to do their surveillance work for them.
Not that it mattered There’d been no sign of Ellis. He was starting to wonder if there ever would be. Maybe the man had another place to hide out. Or fled the state. But Zielinski was becoming increasingly suspicious that Garrett killed Ellis and buried him in a deep hole somewhere.
He started to think about getting some food. It was well after lunch. These days, he chose his lunch destinations by which one had one-dollar specials. He tried to remember where those were today, and then realized he wasn’t sure what day today was.
“Good Christ,” he murmured, taking another sip of his spiked coffee. “My life is so fucked.”
His phone buzzed. He debated not looking at the text, since it was most likely from one of his ex-wives with something shitty to say to him. But this was also the way that Dale Thomas kept in touch, and if there had been an update in his case, he wanted to know.
He flipped open the phone and read the text.
This is D. Watson from Dept. of Justice. Chief’s office provided your number. I need to interview you ASAP. Acknowledge receipt so we can set a time.
“Oh, great,” he said, tossing the phone onto the seat next to him. “Just what I need.” He knew DOJ wanted to talk about the Anti-Crime Team. What the hell was he supposed to tell them, now that he knew all that he knew? Was he supposed to lie? Spill his guts?
Goddamn feds.
He wasn’t going to “acknowledge receipt,” at least not until he’d had a chance to think it over. And get some food. He took a long slug of the cool liquid in his thermos cup and debated his destination again. Before he could decide between a taco and a hamburger, Clint’s Impala slid up beside him.
There goes lunch.
The passenger window slid down, so Zielinski turned his own key and rolled down his window.
“Anything?” Clint asked.
“Did I call you, Ward?”
Clint’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a no?”
“That’s a no.”
“My name is Wardell.”
Zielinski didn’t reply but gave him a sour look.
Clint stared back at him for a few moments with a flat expression. Then he said, “Let’s try the door.”
“You want me with you?”
Clint nodded. “I’m going to need you to do some knocking over the next couple of days. It’ll go better if she already knows you.”
“I don’t need an introduction from you to talk to some dirtbag’s mother,” Zielinski said.
“This mother is a grandmother. And she’s a nice woman, so we’re going to show her some respect.” Clint’s tone made it clear that he would brook no argument. “Plus, if I vouch for you, then you don’t have to show her a badge or ID, which you don’t currently have. Now, come on.”
Clint raised his window as soon as he finished speaking, pulling forward just past Zielinski’s car.
Zielinski sighed. The man was abrupt, but he had a point. Zielinski got out of his car and trudged to Clint’s. He opened the door and clambered into the front seat. He noticed that Clint’s car was meticulously clean. The interior smelled slightly of Armor All and whatever utilitarian brand of aftershave Clint wore.
&nbs
p; Probably Old Spice, Zielinski thought disdainfully. He was an Aqua Velva man, himself.
Clint drove the short distance to the home and parked at the curb. They both exited the vehicle and walked to the door. Clint stood directly in front of the door, something that Zielinski smirked at. Clint saw his expression and gave his head a short shake. “A seventy-year-old woman is not going to blast me through the door with a shotgun,” he said.
“No, but her criminal grandson might.”
Clint considered Zielinski’s words. After a moment, he shuffled slightly to the side.
The door opened and Zielinski got his first look at Aurelia Ellis up close. The expression etched on her regal face was friendly but firm. She wore a loose-fitting tan smock and small gold hoop earrings.
“Hello, Mrs. Ellis,” Clint said, in a stilted but friendly voice that Zielinski couldn’t ever remember hearing from him before. It was polite…and kind.
“Detective,” Aurelia Ellis replied, her tone neutral.
Zielinski could smell some sort of spicy dish cooking inside. He tried to peer into the interior of the house, but the entryway dead-ended at a wall, with openings going left and right. All he could see was a coat rack with a pink raincoat, a light blue windbreaker, and a heavy gray overcoat.
His stomach rumbled. As soon as this little dance was over, he was going for some lunch. He decided it would be tacos.
“Your dinner smells delicious,” Clint said.
Zielinski tried to keep a straight face. Had Clint just complimented her?
“Thank you. It’s my mother’s recipe. Shall we discuss the weather next, Detective?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Clint said. “You know why I am here, ma’am.”
“Same reason as always. And like I’ve told you before—”
“Where is he hiding, Mrs. Ellis?” Clint asked it abruptly, and with unwavering confidence.
Aurelia Ellis stopped for a second, clearly rattled by the question. Zielinski was surprised, too, but even more than that, he was intrigued by her reaction. He’d seen it often enough to know what it meant.
“Detective,” she said, her tone wavering slightly, “I don’t know what you think, but he is not—”
Clint held up his hand. “Mrs. Ellis, don’t. Listen to me. I know he is hiding in the house. Now, you can tell me where and let me in to take him down to the station so we can talk, or you’ll force my hand.”
Aurelia pressed her lips together. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean that if it doesn’t happen the way I described, then I will be forced to arrest you for lying to me. Then I’ll have to call for SWAT to surround the house. When they’ve done that, a K-9 officer will send in his dog to find Earl. He will find him, Mrs. Ellis. Those dogs rarely fail on outdoor tracks and never in an enclosed space. The thing is, when the dog finds him, he will bite him.”
“That’s barbaric!”
“It’s what the dog is trained to do. I can’t say I love the idea, given the way some of these dogs have been used in the past on people like you and me, but I don’t get a say in the matter. If the K-9 goes in, he bites. But you do have a say in it, ma’am. Earl is leaving in handcuffs with me today. That is a fact. But he doesn’t have to get bit by a dog, and your neighbors don’t need to get a peep show with the SWAT team surrounding your house.”
Zielinski was impressed with Clint’s finesse. He wasn’t sure how much of what the detective said was true, since he didn’t have probable cause to charge Ellis yet. But he was betting that Aurelia Ellis didn’t know that.
“You can keep him safe, Mrs. Ellis,” Clint said. Zielinski detected a trace of sympathy in his voice. “It’s all you can do in this situation, really.”
Aurelia Ellis stood in her doorway, her eyes fixed on Clint. Clint stood impassively, waiting for her response. Zielinski readied himself in case she tried to slam the door.
Finally, Aurelia spoke in a quiet voice. “He’s in the spare bedroom.”
He’s here? A surge of adrenaline zipped through Zielinski’s chest, sending his heart racing. How’d he get past me?
Zielinski shot a sideways glance at Clint.
The detective didn’t notice. “Where is that?” he asked Aurelia Ellis.
“Take a right at the coat rack and it’s down the hall on the left.”
“Is he armed?”
“Of course not.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ellis. Please wait here.”
“On the porch?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’ll be safest.”
“You said you wouldn’t hurt him.”
“And I have no intention to. But I don’t know what his intentions are, ma’am, and I want to make sure you’re safe.”
Aurelia paused a moment, then stepped out onto the porch. “He’s a gentleman, my grandson. He won’t fight with you. Whatever else he is, he’s a gentleman.”
“I hope that’s true,” Clint said.
He stepped through the doorway. Zielinski followed. He noticed Clint didn’t draw his gun, which puzzled him. If this had been a patrol call, they would have drawn their pistols and called out to the suspect.
And how did he get past me, goddammit?
Clint took a hard right at the coat rack and started down the hall. As soon as he was out of the sight line from the front door, he pulled his gun from his holster. Zielinski reached down to his ankle holster and did the same, fumbling to remove his small .38 and still keep up with Clint. He cursed under his breath as he almost tripped and fell before clutching the pistol in his hand.
At the bedroom door, each of them took up a position to the side. Clint nodded to Zielinski, who turned the knob and pushed open the door.
“Police,” Clint said loudly.
Earl Ellis sat on the edge of the made bed, his hands on his knees. He wore suit pants and a white business shirt, open at the collar. A maroon tie lay atop a suit jacket on the bed next to him.
“Hello, shitbird,” Clint said, his voice much lower. He removed a pair of handcuffs from a case on his belt and handed them to Zielinski.
“Stand up,” Zielinski ordered sharply.
Slowly, Ellis stood, keeping his hands open and at shoulder height.
“Turn around,” Zielinski said. “Now!”
Ellis turned almost leisurely until his back was to Zielinski.
“Down on your knees,” Zielinski told him.
“No.”
No?
“I said, down on your fucking knees,” Zielinski repeated, more firmly this time.
“And I said no.” Ellis spoke in flat tone, without rancor. “Do what you have to do, but I don’t get on my knees for anyone.”
Zielinski didn’t hesitate. He gave the man a power nudge behind a knee. Ellis buckled but didn’t fall, catching himself by bracing his hands against the bed.
“Hands up,” Zielinski growled.
Then he felt Clint’s restraining hand drop onto his shoulder.
“Just cuff him,” the detective said.
Zielinski frowned, but did as he was asked. “Put your hands on your head,” he directed Ellis. When the man complied, he slipped his .38 into his jeans pocket and reached out to take Ellis by the wrist. Ellis didn’t resist, and Zielinski cuffed that wrist and then the other behind the back. He performed a meticulous pat down, finding only a wallet. When he’d finished, he gave Clint an embarrassed nod.
“Let’s go,” Clint said.
They walked Ellis down the hall and out the door, past Aurelia Ellis. The elderly woman didn’t speak as her grandson walked past, but Ellis did.
“Don’t you worry, Grams,” he said. “Everything will be fine.”
Zielinski expected Clint to call for a patrol car, but the detective surprised him by stuffing Ellis into the back seat of his Impala. When he closed the door, he gave Zielinski a satisfied nod. “I guess you’re done for the day,” he said. “I’ll call you when I need something else.”
Now he was being dismissed. “That’s
perfect,” he said sarcastically.
“What’s the matter?”
“I didn’t miss him,” Zielinski asserted.
“So you say.” Clint started around the back of the car toward the driver’s side.
“I didn’t.”
“Maybe not,” Clint said. “Our coverage hasn’t been perfect. He could have slipped in while we didn’t have eyes on the place.”
Zielinski thought about the small gaps of time when he hadn’t been on surveillance duty. It was possible, he decided. It was a better thought than the idea that Ellis made it into the house right under his nose.
Clint opened his car door.
“Wait,” Zielinski said. “How’d you know he was in the house? You sounded so sure.”
“I was.”
“Why?”
“What did you see on the coat rack behind her?”
Zielinski thought about it. “A pink raincoat, a blue jacket, and a dark gray overcoat.”
Clint nodded. “I’ve knocked on her door a dozen times since Ellis went missing. Every time, that rack held a pink raincoat and a blue windbreaker, and nothing else. Until today.”
Zielinski grunted in appreciation. “So now what?”
“Now Mr. Ellis and I are going to have a conversation,” Clint said.
Zielinski watched Clint get into his car and pull away. Then he got into his own car and started it up. He glanced toward the house to see Aurelia Ellis still staring after Clint’s taillights. Her face was pinched with a mixture of anger and embarrassment, but most of all, disappointment.
He put the car in gear and drove home. He wasn’t hungry anymore, but he needed a drink.
Chapter 35
Tyler Garrett sat in the corner of the Starbucks at Buckeye Avenue and Division Street. He sipped his black coffee and kept his eyes on the door. The music in this store always seemed abnormally loud especially combined with the hissing of the espresso machines and the banging of whatever the baristas hammered against the counters.
But Garrett liked the noise for the anonymity it provided him when striving to have private conversations in public places.
When Dale Thomas walked in, Garrett raised a hand.