Accomplice Liability

by Stephen Penner

  “Come on, Sammy,” Jackson intervened. “There’s no need to get so nasty. Somebody’s dead, and we’re just trying to figure out why.”

  Keller narrowed her eyes. “If you don’t know why, then you don’t know shit.” She crossed her arms, which mostly succeeded in stilling the uncontrollable shaking she’d exhibited since she’d set foot in the room. She was as high as a kite. Probably another desirable trait in a drug lord’s girlfriend, Brunelle guessed. At least she supported her man’s work.

  “We know a lot more than you think,” Chen replied.

  “Oh yeah?” Keller challenged. “What do you know? How do you know it?”

  “We know Derrick Shanborn was murdered for being a snitch,” Jackson said.

  “And we know it because Elmer told us himself,” Chen added.

  Keller’s eyebrows knitted together. “Elmer? Fuck, man, ain’t no one calls him Elmer. You call him Elmer, you gonna get a round in your ass. Maybe that’s what happened to Derrick fucking Shanborn. And I ain’t surprised to hear he was a snitch. He was a short little, rat-faced fucker. He deserved to get shot.”

  There was a lot there to work with, Brunelle knew. Chen put a hand on Jackson’s arm to quiet him, then started in. “We know his street name is Burner. And we know how he got it. We also know that Derrick was killed for giving information to the police, not for calling your boyfriend by his real name.”

  Keller shrugged and looked away. One of her legs was bouncing uncontrollably. “Whatever, man.”

  “We also know that we never told you Derrick was shot,” Chen continued calmly. “I was careful to say murdered. You’re the one who knew he was shot to death. So why don’t you just go ahead and tell us what else you know?”

  Keller looked back at the detectives, but her arms stayed crossed and her leg kept bouncing. After a moment she said, “I don’t know nothing about nothing, asshole, but I know if someone snitched on me, I’d shoot his bitch ass.”

  “That’s exactly what Elmer—er, Burner—said,” Chen replied. “He said he shot him because he was a snitch and dumped his body where it’d be found so everyone would know.”

  Keller took a few beats to size up her opponents. Finally, she asked, “Burner said that?”

  Chen nodded. Jackson too. “Yep. Although he said it better than that,” Jackson said. “He’s better with words than we are.”

  “Yeah, and he’s better with reality than you two shit eaters. Now I know you’re lying to me. No way he said that. No way he said anything. Fuck you. We’re done. Let me go or get me a fucking lawyer, but I’m done talking with you two ballsacks. Fuck you.”

  The detectives tried one more time to get Keller to engage, but the request for an attorney pretty much brought the questioning to an end. They didn’t have to get her an attorney—they just couldn’t talk to her any more. They left her in the interrogation room, and checked in with Brunelle.

  “What do you think?” Chen asked.

  “I think she’s a lovely girl,” Brunelle answered. “Real ‘bring home to mom’ material.”

  “Well, now that you’re single again, I could introduce you to her. I feel like I have a real rapport with her now.”

  “Oh, yeah, absolutely,” Brunelle replied. “You cock-gobbling ballsack. Maybe I’ll just try my luck online.”

  “Bad idea,” Jackson interjected. “That’s how I met my ex-girlfriend.”

  Brunelle looked at Jackson. He had to admit, he was interested, but they had limited time. “So anyway. That didn’t go terribly well.”

  Chen shrugged. “Well, I mean she didn’t confess to seeing the murder and helping dump the body, no. But it wasn’t a complete waste of time either.”

  Brunelle nodded. “She was almost buying it until you told her Elmer said he shot him.”

  “Right.” Chen returned the nod. “So maybe that part isn’t true and she knows it.”

  “Which means,” Jackson added, “Hernandez isn’t the one who shot him, but she knows who did.”

  The three men stood in thought for a moment. Then Chen stepped into the hallway and grabbed one of the patrol officers who was standing guard. “Let her go. Just right out front. She can find her own way home. Then bring Wilkins into the interrogation room and leave him there to sweat a little more.”

  * * *

  “He doesn’t look very nervous,” Brunelle remarked as he and the two detectives observed Nate Wilkins through the two-way mirror. “He just looks kind of tired.”

  Chen grunted. “Well, you probably don’t get to be number two in a major drug-running operation if you scare easily.”

  “Yeah, he’s known on the street for being a pretty cool cucumber,” Jackson added. “Basically unflappable. A good quality for someone you need to rely on.”

  “Great,” Brunelle replied. “I’ll keep him in mind if we ever have any openings.”

  “Don’t worry, Dave.” Chen rested a hand on his shoulder. “This whole interrogation thing is a little like judo. We’ll use his strength against him. Unflappable people are good at running operations, but they rarely get angry enough to kill someone. If he was involved, he’s freaking out inside, no matter how calm he seems on the outside.”

  “And what if he wasn’t involved?” Brunelle asked.

  “Then we better hope the boys have found some more associates for us to talk to, because so far, as sweet little Samantha Keller would say, we ain’t got shit.”

  Chen and Jackson departed the observation room and Brunelle settled in for the next interview. He wished he had a cup of coffee.

  “Mr. Wilkins,” Chen practically shouted as he threw open the door to the interrogation room. “I’m Detective Larry Chen, Homicide Division. I believe you already know Detective Jackson of our Narcotics Division.”

  The thing about unflappable people is that they have the same flapping triggers as anyone else. They just have an extra filter that clamps down the reaction to the flapping. They’re cool under pressure, but that doesn’t mean they don’t feel the pressure. And a constant barrage on those flap-filters can wear them down, just like anything else. Brunelle knew that. Chen did too. Hence, the loud entrance.

  Yeah, it was going to be a good show. Brunelle needed popcorn to go with that coffee.

  But the filters were still doing just fine, thank you. Wilkins nodded toward Jackson. “I know him. He’s always trying to get all up in our business. Not very good at it, though.”

  Brunelle smiled slightly at that. They all knew that was a dig about Derrick Shanborn. Jackson had tried to catch Hernandez using Shanborn and Shanborn had ended up dead. So Wilkins scored a cheap shot. But it confirmed Wilkins knew Shanborn was an informant.

  “We’re better at it than you think,” Chen replied. “Shanborn got us enough info to put you away for a long time.”

  But Wilkins just laughed. “Not without a witness. It’s gonna be hard for Derrick to testify from the cemetery.”

  “You think we build our cases on just one informant?” Jackson challenged. “Derrick got us some initial info. But then we follow up with more witnesses, more informants, cell phone records, bank records, surveillance video from every business on the street. Oh no, Nate. We know what we’re doing. And we know what you’ve been doing.”

  Wilkins didn’t have a ready comeback. He shifted uneasily in his seat, a cheap and intentionally uncomfortable plastic chair.

  Chen pressed their advantage. “And that’s just the drug activity. We also know about what happened to Derrick. There’s no honor among thieves. There sure as hell ain’t no honor among drug addicts.”

  Wilkins looked down and frowned. After a moment he looked up. “You’re bluffing.”

  “My officers are picking up more of your friends right now, Nate,” Chen answered. “Do you trust them to keep their mouths shut? This isn’t some little drug delivery. Shit, this isn’t even a big drug delivery. Somebody’s dead, Nate. Somebody’s murdered. This shit is real now. The others, the other people we’re picking up, t
hey get it. They’re gonna talk, Nate. They’re already talking.”

  Wilkins didn’t say anything.

  “They’re already talking, Nate,” Chen repeated. “Samantha Keller, Nate. We just talked to Samantha. And the reason we picked you and Samantha up is because we talked to Burner this morning.”

  That got Wilkins’ attention. His head shot up. “No way Burner talked. No way.”

  “So how did we know to scoop up you and Sammy, huh?” Jackson asked.

  Before Wilkins could figure out a response, Chen threw him—and Brunelle—a curve ball. “Nate, there’s somebody I’d like you to meet.” He tapped on the mirror. “Dave, come on in here.”

  “Fuck,” Brunelle hissed under his breath. What the hell are you doing, Larry?

  Brunelle ran a hand over his head. It was one thing for him to look on while the cops lied to a potential defendant. It was completely different if he was the one lying. He had Rules of Professional Conduct he had to worry about. One of those rules was candor to opposing parties. He wondered, as he let out another hushed, “Fuck,” and headed toward the door, if he had to be honest and candid with a suspect before he became an actual opposing party. It wasn’t a distinction he wanted to have to explain to a bar investigator in three months’ time in order to save his law license.

  As soon as Brunelle opened the door to the interrogation room, Chen started in with the introductions. “Nate, this is Dave Brunelle. He’s a homicide prosecutor with the King County Prosecutor’s Office. Do you know why he’s here?”

  Wilkins lowered his eyebrows in thought, but then admitted, “No.”

  “He’s here, Nate,” Chen said, “because Burner talked and I can’t cut deals. Only the prosecutor can cut deals. Burner is getting booked into the King County Jail right now, and unless you want to follow him in on first degree murder charges, I’d advise you to start talking too.”

  Wilkins hesitated. His eyes darted back and forth under those lowered eyebrows. He looked up at Brunelle. “What kind of deal you offering?”

  Brunelle shrugged. “Depends on what you say. And if I think you’re telling the truth.”

  That much was true, Brunelle supposed. That was always how he approached snitches—or as his office liked to call them, ‘cooperating codefendants.’

  Wilkins crossed his arms. “First tell me what Burner said.”

  But Chen swatted that idea down. “Sorry, Nate. That’s not how it works. We’re not gonna let you just parrot back whatever Burner said. You just tell us the truth. Then it doesn’t matter what anybody else said.”

  Wilkins sat there for several long moments. He was clearly conflicted, weighing the pros and cons of snitching out a major drug dealer. Brunelle knew what the rational decision was. Unfortunately, so did Nate Wilkins.

  “Nope,” he finally decided. “I ain’t a snitch. If Burner talked, then he had his reasons, but I ain’t talking.”

  Chen sighed. Jackson tapped the table with his fist. But Brunelle was actually a little bit relieved; the bar was going to care a lot less about him being involved in a police ruse if the ruse failed.

  Chen stepped past Brunelle and opened the door again to the hallway. “We’re done,” he informed the patrol officer standing guard outside. “Take him to the jail and book him in on three counts of delivery of a controlled substance.”

  “Not murder?” Wilkins asked as he stood up.

  “Not yet,” Brunelle growled. He couldn’t help himself.

  Once Wilkins was gone, the three of them let down their guards.

  “Damn it,” Chen complained. “This is going nowhere.”

  “Everybody’s too scared of him,” Jackson said. “Or too loyal.”

  “Both, most likely,” Brunelle suggested.

  The detectives both nodded.

  “What we need,” Chen started, but the rest of his thought was cut off by screaming in the front lobby and a call for assistance over the P.A. The detectives ran toward the lobby; Brunelle hurried behind. When he got there, it was quite the sight: five patrol officers were trying to hold back two scraggly drug addicts, a man and a woman. The man was fully compliant with the two large officers holding him. In fact, he appeared to be barely conscious and definitely able—unlike everyone else in the vicinity—to ignore the ratty-haired woman struggling against three even larger police officers and screaming at him, “You better not talk, you mother fucker! You talk and you’re dead, man! You fucking talk and you’re fucking dead!”

  Chapter 6

  Chen looked back at Brunelle.

  “Start with the guy,” Brunelle suggested. “So she has time to calm down, and he doesn’t have time to sober up.”

  Chen smiled and nodded. “Agreed.”

  A moment later, he’d barked out the appropriate orders to his officers. The belligerent woman was dragged out of earshot and the compliant man was dragged into the interview room.

  “Battle stations, everyone,” Chen said.

  Brunelle went back into the observation room as the detectives got their subject’s name, rank, and serial number from the patrol officers, then headed into the interrogation room for the introductions.

  “Mr. Rittenberger?” Chen began. “I’m Detective Chen and this is Detective Jackson. We’d like to ask you a few questions about a man named Derrick Shanborn.”

  Rittenberger’s head was flopped to one side, his eyes open, but fixed on the table top. He didn’t respond to Chen at all.

  “Mr. Rittenberger?” Chen repeated. “Josh?”

  The use of his first name seemed to stir something inside Rittenberger. He managed to raise his head and his eyes slowly upward until they focused on Chen, still standing over him. “I’m Josh,” he said.

  Chen smiled slightly. “Hi, Josh. I’m Larry.” He sat down and gestured to Jackson. “This is Tim. We want to talk to you about Derrick. Do you know Derrick?”

  Rittenberger took several moments to process what had been said to him. His face was blank as the neurons tried to fire amidst all the heroin or God-knew-what his brain was pickled in. Then his already bloodshot eyes suddenly teared up. “Derrick. Oh God, Derrick. He’s dead.”

  This was the first confirmation that any of the people they’d questioned even knew Derrick was dead. And Josh Rittenberger looked like he was ready to spill a lot of information. Without standing up, Chen reached around to the small table behind him and pulled a form off the stack of papers there. Now that they were going to actually get some information, it was time for the formalities.

  “Okay, Josh. I want to hear all about Derrick, but first, I have to read you something, okay?”

  Rittenberger didn’t respond. But he didn’t protest either. Chen proceeded. “Okay. You have the right to remain silent...”

  Chen went through each right, one by one, and then asked Rittenberger to sign the form if he was still willing to talk to them. Rittenberger signed the form.

  Brunelle wasn’t thrilled about the interrogation of an obviously intoxicated suspect. Even though the case law was on his side—getting yourself drunk or high was your own fault—it still felt a little dirty. On the other hand, they didn’t even know if they had a case yet, let alone against whom. Even if a judge would suppress this particular question-and-answer session, Josh Rittenberger might still lead the investigation to other, more admissible evidence. Brunelle deferred to his cops and made a mental note to research “intoxication + confession + admissibility” when he got back the office. If Rittenberger actually gave them anything worthwhile.

  “Burner shot Derrick, man!”

  Yep, worthwhile, thought Brunelle.

  Chen had reengaged with a simple, open-ended, “What happened to Derrick?” Rittenberger jumped right to the conclusion. Chen would need to back him up a bit. Still they knew how the movie ended, and it was a good ending.

  “Okay, let’s back up,” Chen said. In part because the homicide was his investigation, but another part was that Jackson looked like he was ready to explode. “What happe
ned, Josh? Why did Burner shoot Derrick?”

  Rittenberger’s eyes were as wide as saucers. They almost looked like dinner plates in his gaunt, yellowy face. “He just shot him, man. Right there in front of everybody. Just,” Rittenberger mimicked pulling a gun out from under his jacket, “blam, blam, blam! Dead. Fucking dead, man.”

  So, good information, but not exactly responsive to the question. Not really surprising. Chen pressed ahead. “Okay. And why, Josh? What happened before Burner shot him?”

  But Rittenberger just shook his head and answered a different question. “He made us clean up, man. Said we’d be next. We had to wrap the body up in the rug, man. We had to clean the floor too, man. With bleach. I got it on my coat, man. I ruined my coat, man. I don’t have another coat, man.”

  Rittenberger looked down at his dirty, ragged jacket. So did the detectives, and Brunelle. There were definitely bleach stains, areas where the yellow-beige of the coat had been turned nearly white. But far more importantly, there were darker stains. Brown stains. Blood stains.

  “I think we’re going to need your coat, Josh,” Chen said. Brunelle would have preferred a warrant to seize someone’s personal property, but there wasn’t a judge handy right then, so Chen went for one of the exceptions to the warrant requirement: consent. And maybe a bribe. “Can we keep your coat, Josh? We can give you a brand new one from our lost and found. It’ll be a lot cleaner and warmer.”

  Rittenberger glanced down at his coat again. Then he shrugged. “Sure. I guess.” He started pulling himself out of it.

  Jackson stood up and took the article of clothing. He took a moment to hand it to the patrol officer outside the interrogation room, directing him to book it into property and return with a new, warm jacket for Rittenberger. “Thanks, Josh,” he said as he sat down again. “Your new coat is on its way.”

  Rittenberger nodded and hugged his jacketless self against the chill of the concrete-walled room. “What, uh, what were we talking about?”

  “Derrick Shanborn,” Chen answered. “You said you got your coat stained cleaning up after he was shot.”