Code Four

by Colin Conway

  He was confident that he’d survive this wave.

  But there was still an entire storm to contend with, each swell coming hard on the heels of the previous. He needed a plan. He couldn’t just expect to grab onto the wheel and careen across the waves. Passively standing by and waiting for DOJ to dictate terms would be the equivalent of that. He had to be proactive, steer into the waves, and mitigate their crashing power.

  How?

  He sat again and drummed his fingers on his desk. He forced himself to forget the Garrett situation for the moment and look ahead. He needed to bring all his knowledge and experience to bear. A consent decree was coming. What could he do to steer into that?

  Externally, there were a few things he could accomplish in short order. Ratchet up community programs and involvement. Bring back the citizen’s academy, for one. It was expensive but transformative for most who attended. He could get the same effect on a smaller scale by increasing the number of citizen ride-alongs.

  What else?

  Expand the Public Information Officer program somehow? Some of the local media was neutral or even friendly, and maybe he could sway some opinions with those who took a more negative stance.

  All good ideas, and fairly easy to put in place. But they were expensive and took time to bear fruit.

  More than that, none of them were a blockbuster move, which is what he needed.

  He considered asking for a community oversight board. Something like that would be tricky. The action could be construed by some as an admission that he didn’t have control over a corrupt department and was asking for help. Officers would resent it as well. They already had Internal Affairs and anyone with a cell phone questioning their every move.

  He’d take heat from the other side, too. Skeptics would say that he planned to stuff the seats with supporters.

  He’d have to walk a thin line. Make it clear that he was inviting oversight for the peace of mind of the people, not because he was concerned. There’d have to be some naysayers on the board. But who?

  Baumgartner grimaced.

  Sam Gallico would be perfect.

  Sure, the former SPD sergeant was a constant critic. He’d never believe there wasn’t corruption within the department. But putting him on the board would make it clear Baumgartner was serious. And hopefully Gallico seeing corruption in every innocuous action would wear thin with the other members and most of the public. In fact, Gallico would be a better choice than a more moderate critic for precisely that reason, and the image of transparency he’d get for selecting such a vocal opponent was an added benefit.

  Baumgartner grabbed a notepad and jotted a few notes on it. The concentration steadied his nerves. He glanced at his watch when he finished writing. Clint still had some time left.

  He turned back to his own problem.

  What about within the department, internally? He knew he could hold things together and provide the leadership the department would need. That wasn’t arrogance, just honest self-assessment. Like any other job, experience counted. Being chief was something he’d gotten good at in his long tenure.

  But he wouldn’t be in that position forever. Depending on what DOJ or the mayor did, he could end up out on his ass within a year. Barring that, he planned to retire someday. There had to be a succession plan.

  Maybe it’s time to bring back the vacant assistant chief position.

  The position had been sitting there in the budget, unfilled since he became chief. The salary savings went toward an extra officer on the street with some left over for training and equipment. But he realized that was a luxury he could no longer afford. He had to fill the position, for two reasons.

  The first was to make a not-so-subtle statement to the department, the public, and city hall as to who he believed should follow him as chief. He couldn’t name his own successor, but he sure could stack the odds in that person’s favor.

  The second reason to fill the position was to prepare that person to be capable of taking over. The nuances of sitting in the big chair were different than any other role in the police department. They took a while to learn and longer to master, and much hinged on a leader successfully doing both.

  He had always imagined that person would be Tom Farrell. Farrell had followed him up the ladder, always one rung behind, for their entire careers. He’d confided in the captain and asked his advice. In a way, he’d been Baumgartner’s unspoken but demonstrated choice. When he retired, unless a mayor decided to go outside the department for his successor, Farrell would have been the obvious choice.

  No longer.

  Baumgartner sighed.

  You should have trusted me, Tom.

  He knew now how he had to proceed. He saw it all clearly. The moves, the sacrifice, the way forward. He knew what he had to do in order to ride out this storm.

  Chapter 51

  Zielinski parked more than a block away from the zombie house. It was the second one he’d checked from the short list of addresses Clint had given him. The first had been empty and secured all the way around.

  Despite the time of day, Zielinski strove for the patrol objective of silent and invisible deployment. He kept mostly out of sight as he approached the house. He scanned the street for people walking, cars passing, and those vehicles parked along the street.

  He squatted behind a tree a half block away from the target house. His thigh bumped against the butt of the .38 secured in his ankle holster. He wished he’d thought to bring field glasses, but when he left his house that morning, he had no idea he might need them. All he thought was in store for him was a shitty interview with a fed.

  From behind the tree, he carefully took in the entire scene. At first, everything looked normal. Just another lower-middle-class neighborhood with a foreclosed house mid-block.

  Then he spotted the Lincoln Nautilus.

  By itself, the vehicle wasn’t out of place. But when he saw the slouching silhouette in the driver’s seat, he knew who it was.

  Garrett.

  Clint had been right.

  He’s doing the same thing I am. Making sure the house is safe before he goes in to get his…what? Stash of drugs or money or whatever so he can run, probably?

  Zielinski lifted his phone and dialed Clint. As soon as the detective picked up, Zielinski said, “He’s here.”

  “Which one?”

  Zielinski gave him the address. “He’s still in the car.”

  “He’s a careful motherfucker,” Clint said. “I’ll be there in three.”

  Zielinski broke the connection and slid his phone back into his pocket. He shifted his stance, as his legs were already cramping.

  Three minutes. In three minutes, all of this would be over. A journey that began for him at Garrett’s shooting two years ago was finally going to end. His arms and legs buzzed with excitement, the sensation traveling out to his hands and feet. He took some deep breaths to control the adrenaline flowing through him.

  He glanced at his watch, waiting.

  A minute passed.

  Zielinski stood slowly, his joints popping as he did so. He pressed himself against the bark of the tree, careful to remain shielded behind it. If Garrett saw him and drove off, he could easily be six blocks away before Zielinski made it back to his car.

  He took three more deep breaths. Long in, and long out.

  Another thirty seconds.

  Garrett’s car door opened.

  A spike of adrenaline shot through Zielinski, making his fingers tremble. He watched carefully, barely peeking around the tree. Garrett looked around casually, then started walking in the opposite direction of the house.

  What the hell?

  Zielinski wondered for a second if he’d been made. But if that were the case, Garrett would have sped off in his vehicle. He wouldn’t get out and walk.

  His question was answered as soon as Garrett reached the end of the block. He made a left, strolled to the alley, and turned into it.

  Of course, Zielinski realized.
He was going to enter the zombie house from the rear. Safer that way.

  He considered waiting for Clint. That was the safest route for him. But what if Garrett retrieved his money from the house and got back into his car? Then they’d be faced with a vehicle pursuit. Not only was that dangerous for them, but even more so for the public. He couldn’t let that happen.

  If he comes back toward the car, I’ll confront him.

  He waited another two seconds, watching Garrett’s shape appear and reappear in the alley as he walked behind the house on the end of the block. Then another thought occurred to him.

  If Garrett gets into that house, he has the tactical advantage. The man used to be SWAT, so he would know how to exploit that advantage. Their best option was to take him in the open.

  My best option, he thought.

  And before he could think about it any further, he was already running.

  He was surprised at how quickly he made it across the street. His tennis shoes barely made a sound on the asphalt. Even his own breath was muted. When he turned into the alley, he saw Garrett’s back as he walked almost two houses ahead of him. Like a bull, Zielinski lowered his head and charged, hoping to remain undetected for as long as he could. The reassuring weight of his .38 on his ankle made his gait slightly lopsided, but he didn’t care. He stared at the back of Garrett’s head and ran.

  He made it to within fifteen feet before Garrett seemed to sense something. He stiffened and turned. When he saw Zielinski bearing down on him, his eyes flew wide. He pawed at the small of his back, but before he could grab the gun Zielinski suspected was there, the veteran officer plowed into him.

  The two of them crumpled to the ground in a heap. Zielinski threw a right hand up toward Garrett’s head, connecting with a shoulder as Garrett started to roll away. Zielinski lunged for Garrett’s throat, but the man was already out of reach. Garrett scrambled to his feet, and Zielinski struggled to follow. He was still on one knee when Garrett reached behind his back again.

  Zielinski sprang forward, forcing Garrett to change tactics. He raised his hands to deflect the first two punches Zielinski threw. His fists thudded into Garrett’s forearms. Zielinski shifted his weight and threw a left hook, looping it behind Garrett’s guard and catching him on the cheek.

  The force of the blow sent Garrett staggering to the side. His arms wavered.

  Zielinski lumbered forward.

  Quick as a snake, Garrett lashed out with a foot, snapping a kick into Zielinski’s groin. The blow caught him flush in the balls, and he stumbled, grunting in pain.

  Garrett didn’t stop. He waded in, raining punches at Zielinski’s head and gut. The veteran blocked as many as he could, battling through sickening pain that slowed his reactions. One of Garrett’s jabs caught Zielinski square in the nose. A momentary flash of white light filled his vision. His knees buckled.

  Another blow crashed into his jaw. His head whiplashed to the right. Now black patches swam in his field of view. He felt his arms drop lower, and he struggled to remain alert.

  The next attack struck him in the back of the head, and he fell forward. The patches of darkness broadened, and he almost lost consciousness. He groaned in pain.

  “Get up, Ray,” Garrett snarled. “Get up, you old piece of shit.”

  Zielinski pushed himself to his knees, but the effort proved to be too much. He collapsed onto his side and rolled onto his back. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. Above him, Garrett stood with his hands in a fighting position. Hatred and contempt twisted his features. He shook his head and lowered his hands, reaching behind his back again.

  This is it.

  “Hey, you two! Knock that off!”

  Zielinski barely registered the frail but insistent voice of an old woman in the distance, but Garrett’s eyes snapped to the left. Zielinski considered lunging at him again, but his limbs wouldn’t obey. He turned his own gaze to follow Garrett’s. He saw an elderly white woman on her raised patio in the nearby backyard. She wore a purple housecoat and held an oxygen tank on wheels in one hand and a cordless phone in the other.

  “I’m calling the cops!” she hollered, raising the phone in the air, and then pulling it back to her face to dial.

  Garrett glanced down at Zielinski. He stepped forward and delivered another short kick, this one catching Zielinski in the lower rib cage. Zielinski curled up into a ball, groaning, his head swimming.

  And then Garrett was gone.

  Chapter 52

  Tyler Garrett smacked the steering wheel several times as he drove. He then wrapped his hands around the wheel and shook himself.

  “You motherfucker!” he shouted.

  He slowed when he came to an intersection marked with four stop signs. Not seeing another car approaching from any direction, he disregarded the red octagon and accelerated.

  “The fuck do you think you are, Ray?” Garrett yelled into the rearview mirror. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you in the fucking face.”

  He blew through an uncontrolled intersection, barely missing a Volkswagen Beetle with a young woman behind the wheel.

  “That old bitch saved your life, Ray,” Garrett hollered. “You realize that?”

  He was about to shout again when a troubling thought occurred to him.

  How the hell did Zielinski know where to find me?

  Garrett’s mind raced. Had Zielinski been following him all day? It was unlikely because he’d been careful and watched for a tail.

  No, it was more likely that Clint had trailed him at some point and found the zombie house he used. If that was true, how many more did they know about?

  Garrett glanced into the rearview mirror again. “Fuck!”

  Another uncontrolled intersection and another narrowly missed collision. This time it was a black Honda with duct tape over its front quarter panel.

  He accelerated.

  If Clint knew about the zombie houses, Garrett wondered if the detective knew why he visited them. Probably not as he’d found his stashes remained untouched in most of these houses.

  Garrett made a hard right at Diamond and a quick left into an alley. He was traveling too fast for the condition of the roadway. It was full of ruts and potholes. His car bounced severely. When he arrived at his destination, he yanked the wheel and pulled into the small, designated area behind the old house.

  He would have preferred to have parked at the end of the block and walk in, but there was no more time.

  When the vehicle finally stopped, he jumped out and ran toward the back of the vacant house. He wasn’t worried if any of the neighbors saw him. With barely a pause, he kicked the back door in. He ran to the living room and dropped to his knees near a floor vent. He popped off a vent cover, reached his arm down the cylindrical tube until it flattened out, then pulled out a stack of bills several inches thick.

  A terrible thought hit him at this moment as he looked at all that money.

  He had never planned to run. He didn’t know where to go. He had no travel documents at the ready.

  Once he collected enough cash, what was he supposed to do?

  Garrett tossed the cash into the middle of the hardwood floor. Then he hurried to the opposite side of the room. Again, he fell to his knees, popped another vent cover, and retrieved a second stack of bills. Without hesitation, he tossed the bills toward the first stack.

  Running to Canada flashed through his mind, but that was a bad idea. They checked IDs when going in either direction. They would surely put his name into a watch database now. Maybe he should go to a city where he wouldn’t stand out so much, where there weren’t so many pale faces.

  Garrett ran into the first bedroom and dropped to his knees. He paused for a second as he thought he heard something. Carefully, he pulled his gun from the back of his pants. The noise was no longer there. He set his gun down and popped the vent cover off. He shoved his hand down the tube and grasped a stack of bills.

  After he pulled them out, he didn’t even bother looki
ng at them. He tossed the stack in the middle of the living room. Two rooms down. One to go.

  Maybe he could run to Mexico. All he would have to do is get across the border. There had to be plenty of spots to do that.

  In the last room, he dropped to his knees and laid his gun on the hardwood floor next to him. He pried the vent cover free and shoved his arm down the tube. As he did so, his fingers pushed the money deeper into the tube. He frantically reached for the stack of money, but he couldn’t get a purchase on it.

  “God damn it,” he muttered.

  He yanked his hand out, grabbed his gun, and wriggled it down the tube. It took some work to get it around the bend but once he did, he carefully used the barrel to press down on the money and drag it toward him. Once it moved enough that he thought he could grab it, he pulled his hand out.

  But now the gun was stuck.

  “Shit,” he whispered. His fist rattled around the tube, but he couldn’t get the gun free. “How the fuck…”

  He let go of the gun then and it clanked into a resting spot. He grasped it from a different angle, and it came out without much difficulty then. Garrett shoved his arm back into the tube, grabbed the stack of bills, and pulled it out.

  A grin creased his face. He picked up the gun in his left hand—his non-firing hand—and moved toward the living room.

  This haul here was close to thirty thousand. All he would need would be a couple more houses and he’d have enough to run. At least, that’s what he thought was needed whenever he considered the unlikely acting of running. He wished he had given this more thought. Running had never seemed an option to him.

  When he knelt to pick up the money from the living room floor, he realized he wasn’t alone.

  In the kitchen, partially hidden behind the wall was Wardell Clint. The detective’s gun extended in Garrett’s direction. If there was ever a time for the weird son of a bitch to smile, it would have been now.

  Instead, Clint watched him coolly.