The Sticking Place

by T. B. Smith

  Coleman knew his cops were righteously pissed at the Mayor. Their march on the city council meeting a few days before had proved that.

  He also knew Pillson had a tough job trying to run the city even if his ambitions were no secret. Coleman believed Pillson had his eye on an eventual run for the White House and had to prove himself in San Diego before he could take his next logical step. His ambition didn’t make him a bad guy, but it did make Coleman’s job harder.

  Coleman genuinely liked the Mayor. But Coleman was a cop at heart and his troopers’ respect really mattered. He certainly respected anybody who wore a badge and didn’t automatically believe the worst about them, no matter who made the accusations.

  “I don’t know what went on,” Coleman said. “But calling it a bogus arrest sounds a little over the top.”

  The gap spanning the cosmos between an ill-advised enforcement action and false arrest could be either miniscule or gargantuan. A tiny gap meant small problems. A huge gap could spark an explosion big enough to topple an entire police administration if mishandled. Coleman paused, giving the Mayor a chance to respond.

  No response came.

  Coleman’s secretary peeked into the room again, exaggerating a wincing movement with her cheeks and eyebrows. It clearly indicated more trouble was coming Coleman’s way as she tiptoed to the edge of the enormous mahogany desk and slipped a yellow piece of paper onto the blotter next to the Chief’s glasses.

  “Goddson got arrested for not doing anything. What else would you call it but police harassment?” the Mayor said.

  “I’ll check into it,” Coleman promised before hanging up, picking up his silver-rimmed bifocals, and reading the message written in the bold ink of a red felt pen. Call Councilman Cleveland as soon as you can!

  “Just a second,” the secretary at the other end of the line said. “He’ll be right with you, Chief.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Just thought you should know, he asked me to hold all his calls until you got through.”

  “What’s up?” Coleman asked.

  “I really don’t know. All I can tell you is he’s hopping mad.”

  “What can I do for you, Dallas?” Coleman asked when the councilman picked up the line. Cleveland, a constant pain in Coleman’s ass, sometimes tried to run the police department and the chief sometimes gave in to his ridiculous demands just to keep his sanity.

  “I was accosted by some pervert in Balboa Park in broad daylight and your officers refused to help me. That’s what you can do for me.”

  “I just got off the phone with the Mayor,” Coleman said. “He tells me Goddson got arrested for not doing anything, now you tell me my officers wouldn’t help you arrest somebody who committed a crime. What the hell’s going on out there?”

  The answer was silence.

  “How were you accosted? Who were the officers involved? What exactly are you talking about?” Coleman asked.

  “I’m talking about walking into a public restroom with my grandkid, in broad daylight, and having some pervert standing there with his prick in his hand and your officers refusing to help me. That’s what I’m talking about.” The councilman’s sputtering words sounded like a verbal Gatling gun spitting out bullets.

  “Slow down and tell me exactly what happened,” Coleman said.

  “I had my grandson with me, for goodness sakes.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Nothing happened to him. You’re not listening.”

  Coleman tapped a cigarette filter against his desk.

  “I went into the bathroom at Pete’s rally and found some guy standing there holding his erect johnson in his hand with his pants down around his ankles. That’s what happened. I told several of your officers about it and they refused to help. How much more do you need to know?”

  “You led the brigade telling me to have my troopers lay off those guys. Now you want me to discipline them for following orders. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Cripes, Bob, that’s different and you know it. I was talking about guys being hassled just because they’re gay.”

  “That’s not what we’re talking about at all,” Coleman said. “Just how did you think these guys make their desires known in a public place in broad daylight? They do it how you described. Sometimes they get a taker and sometimes they run into folks who get the shock of their lives. It’s not a pretty sight, but you asked me to have my officers lay off because of the complaints you kept getting, so don’t lay all this crap on my guys.”

  Coleman listened to Cleveland’s heavy breathing and involuntary clucking noises. Recognizing the signs of anger building to the exploding point, he adopted a more conciliatory tone. “Do you know who the officers were?”

  “I didn’t get their names.”

  “Do you know where they work?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Were they patrol officers or detectives?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Were they in uniforms or suits and ties?”

  “Flip flops and T-shirts mostly, but one of them wore a uniform.”

  “What?”

  “What did I just say?”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “That’s how they were dressed.”

  “Wait a minute,” Coleman said. “Are you telling me these officers weren’t on duty?”

  “The one in uniform was, I guess. What’s that got to do with anything? Besides, what do you mean telling me I’m laying crap on somebody? All I’ve got to say is it must be a hell of a lot worse out there than it used to be. I mean—the guy just stood there holding his johnson in his hand like—like he wanted to hand off a football. That’s a public park and I want a stop put to that kind of foolishness.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Coleman said, resisting the impulse to say what he really thought. The buzzer rang the instant Coleman hung up the phone.

  “Chief,” Coleman’s secretary said. “Tom Murray from the San Diego Union’s on line one.”

  Coleman realized Murray’s call would probably be the least painful of the press calls he’d have to take. Murray, a journeyman police reporter, was genuinely too nice a guy to move up the reporter’s ranks. He lacked that certain killer instinct necessary to sniff out a story and follow it through to its ruthless conclusion in spite of the consequences to people’s lives. He ran stories down by utilizing the personal relationships he’d cultivated with the men and women of the San Diego Police Department, up and down the ranks. They genuinely liked him, and didn’t consider him a threat.

  “Chief,” Murray asked as Coleman picked up the phone again, lighting the cigarette in his hand. “Can I ask you to comment on the arrest of Aaron Goddson at the America’s Finest City Rally earlier today?”

  “I don’t know much yet,” Coleman said. “But I can tell you this much. I don’t like what I see.”

  “Exactly what have you seen so far?”

  “Well nothing really but...”

  “Have you read the arrest report?”

  Coleman took a deep breath. He’d already committed a tactical error saying he didn’t like what he’d seen. “Not yet but.…”

  “Have you spoken to the officers involved?”

  “I don’t know who they are. But I can tell you this, I intend to press this investigation fully.” This represented a much smarter line to take.

  “Well, let me ask you this,” Murray insisted. “Was the arrest warranted?”

  “I’ll have to let the investigators make that determination,” Coleman said.

  Most reporters would’ve pressed their advantage once Coleman said he’d seen something he didn’t like. Coleman was grateful Murray let it pass.

  Coleman hung up, but immediately picked up the receiver to dial the Homicide Lieutenant’s extension. “Jim,” he said. “Mayor Pillson’s hot under the collar right now and I don’t blame him. He says one of our officers arrested his chief assistant just for asking him to leave a picnic. I want
one of your teams to start investigating this thing right away.”

  “Chief, I’m a little strapped right now,” Lieutenant Berend said. “We had two murders over the weekend with two suspects in custody and a forty-eight-hour deadline to finish the DA’s packages. Crimes Against Persons usually handles this sort of thing, or Internal Affairs maybe, if you think that’s appropriate.”

  “I don’t care what you’ve got on your plate,” Coleman said. “I want a Homicide team investigating this thing because I want all the bases covered, and I want you briefing me on every move. Is that clear?” Coleman made sure his voice signaled his sense of urgency, the kind of urgency that could make heads roll.

  “Yes, sir, I’ll take care of it,” Berend said.

  Coleman next dialed the extension to his academy classmate and good friend, the Captain of Central Division, to demand that something be done about the “increasing problems around the men’s rest rooms at Balboa Park.”

  “Problems? What problems?” Captain Mahler asked. “Didn’t you say we don’t have any of those? Didn’t you tell me to leave those people alone?”

  “Councilman Cleveland walked in on some pervert tripping over his pants and holding his stuff in his hand,” Coleman said. “All of a sudden, we’ve got an issue again and he wants something done. What I need is for you to handle it so he gets off my ass. Could you do that for me?”

  “Okay, Bob. I’m all for enforcing the laws Cleveland used to tell us to leave alone, especially since you’re saying something has to be done. But we should have never stopped in the first place.”

  “It’s not me saying it.”

  “Then who is?”

  Coleman hesitated. “Okay, it’s me. You had to make me say that?”

  “I told you when we gave the orders to stop enforcing those laws we had a problem on our hands.”

  “All right,” Coleman said. “You can go ahead and say I told you so if you want, but I still need this thing handled.”

  “It’ll be a little tricky, getting the troopers motivated since we kept telling them to lay off,” Mahler said. “What should I tell them?”

  “Tell them the truth,” Coleman said. “Tell them the councilman walked in on some pervert and wants something done.”

  “That’s not such a good idea, Chief. It’s sure to piss the guys off, knowing Cleveland made us lay off for political reasons, but changed his mind because he was personally offended.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Coleman agreed. “Tell them whatever you want. Just find some way to deal with this thing and get Cleveland off my ass.”

  “What about the complaints we’ll start getting? My supervisors will all be tied up with personnel investigations,” Mahler said.

  “Goddamn it, I’ll tell you what,” Coleman insisted, “how about I just give the order and you figure a way to get it done?”

  “Seems fair enough, considering I don’t have any choice,” Mahler said.

  “It’s good to hear you’re finally seeing things my way. By the way,” Coleman said before hanging up, “the shit’s really spattering against the walls and dribbling down to the floors around here. I better pass on happy hour.”

  Coleman’s secretary called him on the intercom as soon as the phone’s light went dark to tell him a crowd of reporters were swarming his outer office with microphones, note pads and cameras in hand.

  In no mood to confront a pack of reporters, Coleman lit a cigarette and dialed the extension to the Press Relations Office. No one picked up, so he cleared the line and started calling his deputy chiefs in order of preference. All lines went unanswered until he called his last choice, Hal Browner, the one deputy chief he’d inherited when promoted to the top position a few years before. The officers in the lower ranks referred to him ironically as “Hal, the patrolman’s pal” because of his reputation for visiting harsh punishment on mistakes or violations of department policy. Coleman didn’t like Browner any more than his patrol officers did.

  “Hal,” he said when he heard Browner’s voice at the other end. “I’ve got a pack of reporters over here and I need you to come down and deal with them. I’m up to my ass in alligators and I need you to wrestle a few for me.”

  “What am I supposed to say to them?”

  “All I know is Pete tells me one of our officers arrested Aaron Goddson at the America’s Finest City Rally because he didn’t like Goddson’s attitude,” Coleman said. “It hasn’t been looked into yet, but it sounds pretty bad. Just tell them there’s an ongoing investigation and we’ll have some sort of comment later.”

  Hal Browner closed the door to his office on the way to Coleman’s waiting room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said as he strode in, “Chief Coleman has asked me to answer any questions you might have.”

  “Hal,” Murray jumped in. “What’s the name of the officer who made the arrest?”

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you that just now.”

  “What happened out there?” another reporter asked.

  “We’re looking into that. I’ll be able to tell you more as the investigation moves along.”

  “Let me ask you this,” Murray pressed, “was this a legitimate arrest, or did the officer arrest Goddson because he didn’t like his attitude?”

  Browner thought for a second about holding the company line; that the incomplete investigation inhibited further comment. But it was the Mayor himself making the accusations after all. Pillson would love seeing this quote in the morning paper. “Since you put it that way, if you want to talk about an attitude arrest, this exemplifies it to the hilt.” Browner smiled.

  Satisfied he had the makings of a provocative headline, Murray hurried into the press office situated next to the SWAT armory. Murray, the San Diego Union’s reporter officially assigned to the police beat, warranted the office along with his counterpart from the afternoon Tribune. Since the Tribune’s reporter wasn’t at work yet, Murray could get the jump on the story. He picked the phone up and called the Mayor’s office.

  “Mayor Pillson, can you tell me about the arrest of Aaron Goddson at the America’s Finest City Rally earlier today? I understand you’ve filed a formal complaint with the Chief.”

  “To me, it’s an abuse of police power, even if it is a small one,” Pillson said. “It’s unfortunate that a respected citizen, who’s given so much of his time to this celebration, can be treated this way.”

  “Can I speak with Mr. Goddson?” Murray asked.

  “This thing shook him up so badly, I sent him home for the day.”

  “Can I have his home phone number?”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Pillson said, “give me your number and I’ll have him call you back within a few minutes.”

  Murray set the receiver down to fill his stained coffee cup with five-hour-old black coffee. Before he could manage his first sip, the phone rang with Goddson on the line.

  “Mr. Goddson,” Murray asked. “As the Mayor’s chief assistant, aren’t you a little bit embarrassed at being arrested?”

  “To tell you the truth, the officers should be embarrassed,” Goddson answered. “I just asked if they wouldn’t mind moving along since we were having a picnic. Times are pretty scary when that’s enough to get you arrested, wouldn’t you say?”

  Murray hung up the phone and pondered the question he’d decided not to ask. When had the America’s Finest City Rally the Mayor orchestrated to gain the political will to build a convention center turned into a simple picnic?

  22

  A MAN POUNDED AT THE APARTMENT’S DOOR for more than a minute. “Criminy,” Lt. Berend said. “This Durango kid has to be at work in about an hour. Where else could he be?”

  Luke set his dog-eared copy of Nietzsche’s Human, All Too Human on top of his bedroom copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, slipped out of bed and pulled a pair of gym shorts over his BVD’s. He started rehearsing his response, assuming the insistent knocking was coming from one of Denny’s persistent women who showed up
at all times of the day or night.

  Denny already had a woman in his bed on the opposite side of the living room. Luke intended to lie about his roomie’s whereabouts and to politely, but firmly, refuse to let the knocking woman inside the apartment.

  Luke walked to the refrigerator before heading for the door to buy some time to decide on what he’d come to call his prevarication du jour about Denny’s sexual activities. His naked feet crunched the sunflower seeds dropped by the cockatoo Denny kept in a cage where the living room’s shag carpet merged with the canary-colored linoleum.

  Luke grabbed the orange juice from the top shelf and padded toward the door, deciding on the easiest lie possible. He’d say Denny had left for work a little early.

  Luke shook the orange juice as he peeked through the security hole. There was no woman standing outside the door this time, just two men wearing the white shirts and ties that made them look like Mormon missionaries intent on saving somebody’s soul. The man in front straightened his tie.

  Luke opened the door.

  “Are you Denny Durango?”

  “No,” Luke said. “He’s in bed.”

  “Who are you?” the man in front asked.

  “What do you mean, who am I? Who are you?”

  “I’m Lt. Jim Berend with SDPD Homicide and this is Sgt. Bob Farren. We’re here to see Denny Durango.”

  “What does Homicide want with Denny?”

  “I think we should save that information for Officer Durango, don’t you?” Berend put one foot inside the apartment as he said it.

  “Sure thing,” Luke said. “Come on in and I’ll get him up. He needs to get ready for work anyhow.”

  Berend glanced at his watch. Luke could tell his thoughts by his perturbed expression. Damn straight Denny needed to get ready for work. The rookie should already be at the station looking up crime trends on his beat and preparing a patrol strategy for his upcoming shift.

  A silky white pair of thighs that wrapped around Denny’s ears impaired his hearing as he nibbled and licked a swollen clitoris through moist silk panties. Rounded hips and an abdomen as smooth as brushed Egyptian cotton undulated above the mattress of the king-size waterbed as Denny’s tongue slow danced in unison with the thrumming sounds of Donna Summer’s singing “Love to Love Ya Baby” on the stereo.