by Rex Burns
“Yeah.” He grinned at himself. “I guess I tell everybody. I guess I have a hard time believing it myself.” His dark eyes gazed dreamily past Wager toward the kitchen.
“You and Julio ever double-date?”
“Us? Naw. I didn’t see nothing of him off the job. On the job, yeah. We’re both the same age, and all. And like I told you, we talked music.” A half-embarrassed shrug. “I, like, play percussion, you know? We got a Latino band—it might go somewhere.” He snorted at himself. “We got a dream, anyway, and that job out at DIA ain’t going to last much longer. Mr. Tarbell says we’ll be done in six weeks more.”
“That sounds fine—sounds like a fine future.” Wager pushed some dried-up cheese into a little pile. “Was there something you wanted to tell me about Julio?”
Danny carefully unwrapped the happy-looking waxed paper from a burrito and bit into it, finally speaking around the lump in his cheek. “You don’t have to tell people about me, right? You know, if I do tell you something?” He added, remembering, “I seen that story on you in the paper. You and Julio. I didn’t know he was your cousin.”
“I won’t tell anybody. You’ll be what’s called a ‘confidential informant’—they’re protected by law from disclosure or testifying.” Or at least sometimes they were, but no sense worrying the kid with details. “Do you know who might have wanted Julio dead?”
He chewed slowly, his mind on something other than food and his fingers absently tapping the cigarette package in his shirt pocket. “I don’t know about dead. I mean, there’s some things that … well. …” He shook his head. “But dead!”
“What things, Danny?”
“Well, nothing like I want to say for certain. But Julio, like, said something to me a couple days before he quit coming to work.”
“Go on.”
“He asked me was I working with Hastings and I said ‘What you mean, working with him? We both work with him,’ and he said ‘No, I mean working with him.’ I asked him what the hell was he talking about and he just looked kind of funny at me and said ‘Nothing.’ He wouldn’t say no more about it, so I let it drop.”
Roderick Hastings. The heavily muscled black kid who didn’t like cops. The face Wager brought up to go with the name had a flat nose and wide, hairy nostrils, a narrow mustache and close-cropped hair, full pink lips. “What do you think Julio meant?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t even think much about it until I heard about him getting shot.”
“What do you know about Hastings?”
The shoulders of the youth’s frayed denim jacket rose and fell. “Seems about like everybody else. A lot of the time he’s off doing stuff for Mr. Tarbell, but he puts in his time like the rest of us.”
“Has Hastings worked there a long time?”
Another shrug. “He was there when I came. I think he was one of the first ones hired.”
“Did he ever have any run-in with Julio?”
Danny gave that some thought. “I don’t know about a run-in—not a, you know, real fight, but there was something. Hastings kind of said something now and then that made me think something had happened.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, something like, ‘You know what I mean, Julio, my man’ or ‘Julio, you a real smart one and you want to stay that way.’”
“Was this shortly before Julio left?”
“I don’t know—a week or two, maybe.”
“What did Julio say?”
“Nothing. Just went on working like Hastings wasn’t talking to him.” He added, “Julio didn’t want no trouble. He wasn’t that kind.”
“What did Hastings do then?”
“Laughed. Kind of a mean laugh, you know, like he was dissin’ Julio.”
“Hastings ever say anything to you?”
“No. Not like that. I don’t want him to, either.”
“Why’s that?”
“You see how big that sucker is? He’s had him some fights, too.”
“He talk about his fights?”
“Naw, but he’s got this knife cut on his shoulder and somebody flattened his nose for him. And the way he looks sometimes, you know, you can tell he don’t like us, man.”
“Hispanics?”
“Chicanos, yea. La gente.” He shrugged again. “But that’s his problem. I just do my work, you know?”
“Is that why he and Julio had trouble?”
Danny wagged his head slowly. “I don’t think so—it wasn’t that hot, like. It was more like Hastings was talking about something that only the two of them know about. Kind of secret, like.”
Wager’s eyes rested on the cars that pulled past the decorated window after their orders were filled at the drive-up. “Does he ever work late?”
“Overtime? Not that I know of. I asked Mr. Tarbell about me getting some overtime once. You know, save up some money for when me and Lisa get married. But he said the contract only paid for forty hours a week, so there wasn’t none.”
“What about the other two, how do they get along with Hastings?”
“OK, I guess. We all just show up, do our eight hours, and leave.” He added, “Hastings hasn’t said anything to them like he did to Julio, that I heard.”
“And nothing to you?”
“No.”
“You ever hear of any troubles with theft on the job? People pilfering stuff?”
He shook his head. “Nothing I heard about.” He added, “I guess it could happen—there’s a lot of stuff laying around out there. But there’s security people after work. You know, they close the site and have patrols and all.”
It was Wager’s turn to nod. “Any other detective interview you about Julio?”
“No. You’re the only one.”
Knowing Golding, Wager wasn’t surprised. He thanked the youth and told him not to say anything about their talk.
“You don’t have to worry about that, man!”
The usual wad of messages and notices was waiting in his pigeonhole when he reported in the next morning. He didn’t expect any urgent ones—that’s what the location board and the police radio were for—but everybody who sent anything wanted you to think their crap was urgent anyway. On top of the stack was a mailer from the DA’s office marked OPEN NOW IMPORTANT. Wager did: a single memo slid out—FROM: ADA Kolagny. TO: Det. Sgt. G. Wager, SUBJ: Plea-bargain conference for Madeline Slusser, C.N.: 94-40-3-161. Wager stared for a long moment at the memo. What in the hell was there to bargain about? A smoking shotgun and a woman who wouldn’t stop telling all and sundry how much she enjoyed shooting the son of a bitch. Shaking his head, Wager copied the time and date of the meeting into his notebook and turned to the next official envelope.
It was a photocopy of the lab report on the rounds that the coroner had dug out of Julio: .22-caliber hollow-point. The accompanying scrawl from Golding said, “Looks like a gang bang to me, Gabe.” Golding was right—hell, even a stopped clock was right twice a day. The small caliber pointed to a cheap weapon, the kind gang-trained shooters like to use because you could throw them away without losing much money. Just good economy: shoot a lot of people and those little things added up after a while. Wager guessed the round had come from a revolver rather than an automatic; low-cost automatics were more likely to jam than were revolvers, and everything else indicated a killer who had thought things out ahead of time. But people besides gang members knew about that, too, and Wager wasn’t quite as ready as Golding to close the door on other possibilities.
He was unwrapping the string of another interoffice envelope when a civilian clerk leaned through the doorway to search across the desks and telephones and bent heads. Her eyes found him, and she hurried over, a large brown envelope in her hand.
“Chief Sullivan sent this With Dispatch for you, Sergeant Wager. It’s marked Immediate Reply.” She handed him the envelope with defensive quickness; a With Dispatch memo from the top floor always meant trouble, and she wasn’t going to let whatever was in that envelope bi
te her.
He peeled open the seal. It was a single typewritten page headed SHERIFF’S OFFICE CITY AND COUNTY OF DENVER. A freshly inked Received stamp had yesterday’s date and the time of delivery—4:30 PM. The message was brief: “Notification of charges pursuant to filing: Charles Harold Neeley, DOC #636659, against Det. Sgt. Gabriel V. Wager, et alia.” Another cryptic sentence cited a date and a street address, both of which Wager knew intimately: It was the time and place where Wager had shot and wounded this same Charles Harold Neeley who was now officially known by his Department of Corrections number.
“You’ll have to sign this, Sergeant Wager.” The clerk shoved a receipt at him. “It says you received the message.”
Wager carved his initials into the form. Written notice of charges filed, date of sending notice, form for receipt of notice—Chief Sullivan was covering his ass with paper, and that hinted to Wager how much departmental help he could count on if he might need it.
“And Lieutenant Parker said he wants to see you right away.” She allowed her hushed voice to show a little excitement. “I think it’s about the same thing—he got a With Dispatch memo, too. He’s in his office now.”
Wager nodded. “Anybody looking for me, that’s where I’ll be.”
The office of the assistant to the chief of personnel wasn’t as fancy as that of the chief of police, but it was private and it had a door that could be closed. Which Parker, glancing up as Wager made a noise on its frame, gestured for Wager to do. “Sit down.”
A shiny new manila folder lay among the other neat piles of paper arranged across the top of the lieutenant’s desk. It had two names, black and fresh, inked on its lip: Wager’s and Neeley’s. Wager tossed his notice onto the waxed wood. “What is this crap?”
Parker liked to smooth his droopy mustache with his forefinger when he was trying to figure out something to say. He was one of the eager detectives who had decided in the academy that he was going to be chief someday and had applied to every administrative course that opened up. It paid off for him: the only wound he ever got was a paper cut, and six months ago he had become the youngest lieutenant in DPD. When—following one of the periodic organizational shuffles that administrators called “progress”—this job had been created, he had gone for it like a hungry trout.
“It’s the Federal Civil Rights Act, Wager. Section 1983, liability under Title 92 of the Federal Code. It’s your government at work, and its says the police can be sued in civil court for damages if excessive force was used in an arrest, despite the plaintiff being convicted of the crime.”
“Excessive force? Neeley was coming at me with a goddamn sawed-off shotgun!”
Parker nodded and flipped open the manila folder. “Anybody can sue anybody over anything, Wager. You know that. Now, according to the shooting report, you were justified in using your weapon and the shooting team cleared you of any culpability.” The finger stroked the other wing of the mustache, and he stared hard, waiting for Wager to flinch. “But is there anything I ought to know that didn’t make it to the official file? Anything at all?”
“It’s all in the report, Lieutenant.” Wager didn’t blink. “Are you named in the suit, too?”
“I wasn’t here then. Chief Sullivan and Chief Doyle are named, along with the mayor: ‘Poor training and irresponsible supervision of the named officer.’”
That figured. Some lawyer convinced Neeley to try a lawsuit. What the hell, it wouldn’t cost him anything, and he didn’t have much else to do for the next ten years. So the lawyer named the whole chain of command, trying to uncover a deep pocket. Of course, even if he won, Neeley wouldn’t get much out of it. The real winner—if some judge decided in Neeley’s favor—would be the lawyer, who, under the statute, would claim his fees and expenses as part of the award. Two-hundred-plus an hour, including time spent in the toilet where he did most of his thinking. “City attorney involved?”
Parker said, “Bound to be. I don’t know who’s assigned yet, though. Somebody from the DA’s office. You a union member or a Police Protection Association member?”
“PPA.” Wager would have to arrange for an association lawyer to represent him. The plaintiff had his, the city had theirs, and Wager would need someone to look after his interests. That was what PPA insurance was all about, and he preferred that group to the union. “Let me know as soon as you find out who the city attorney is.”
“Right, Sergeant. You’ll be apprised at every stage of the procedure, exactly as the regulations call for.” The lieutenant leaned back in his chair and stared hard at Wager. “You’re absolutely certain the shooting team’s report is complete?”
“I already said it was. Why?”
“The answer to that is pretty damned obvious, Sergeant. If there’s something not in there, and if Neeley’s lawyer brings it into court, it could cost the city—and you—a hell of a lot of money.” The man started to say something else and then shrugged. “Good luck.”
Wager nodded thanks.
10
THE PPA WASTED no time; Wager got a call around eleven that gave him a number and a name: Attorney Dewing. He dialed and told the male voice that answered who he was and what he wanted. A moment later Dewing came on to introduce herself. “When can we get together, Detective Wager? We better get started as soon as possible.”
Wager had a few other things to do that seemed a little more important than a half-assed civil suit. Unsolved homicides, for example. “Do you know something about this that I don’t?”
The line was silent for a moment. “I know these charges should be taken seriously. Unless you don’t take your career seriously.”
Beneath his disgust and aggravation over the issue, he felt a tiny stir of wariness at the flat, factual sound of her voice. But he said, “There’s nothing in this, Counselor. It’s a hot-air case by a hot-air lawyer.”
“If that’s the way it turns out, we’ll both be happy. Now, can we meet immediately if not sooner?”
They settled for lunch, and Wager found the woman at a restaurant just off the 16th Street Mall. It was a favorite with lawyers because the high-backed cubicles lining one wall muffled conversation and provided privacy. And, it turned out, the manager ran a tab for regular customers.
“Try the halibut Provençal. It’s a house specialty.” The woman giving him orders was somewhere in her forties, plain looking, stocky with square shoulders, hair bobbed just as squarely across her forehead and below her ears. The haircut reminded Wager of some character in the Sunday comics that he’d followed as a kid because he liked the adventure stories and the detail in the drawings—a warrior … a Viking, but the guy had black hair like Wager’s own … prince somebody … Prince Valiant! That was it. Went around chopping up dragons and bad guys. But it took more than a haircut to be a hero.
“I’ll have the chef’s salad,” he said.
She looked up from the menu. “Don’t like a woman telling you what to do, eh?”
“I don’t like anybody telling me what to do.”
“A lot of cops prefer a man to be their lawyer because they don’t think a woman can cut it. If that’s the way you feel, say it now.”
Wager studied Dewing’s gray eyes, trying to decide whether they showed anger or amusement. He decided it was a mixture of both. “As far as I’m concerned, lawyers don’t have a sex. Just a won-loss record. How’s yours?”
“Ha! I’ve won a hell of a lot more than I’ve lost, and I intend to keep it that way. Which is why I need your cooperation—your full cooperation—if I’m going to maintain my impressive record and continue to strike terror in the hearts of my enemies.” A waitress appeared with a pad and pencil; Dewing greeted her by name and said, “The usual. And a chef’s salad for my date, here.” She waited until the waitress had completed the order, then focused on her client.
“I did some quick research, Detective Wager. I hear you like to skate pretty close to the line between legal and illegal procedure.”
“And whoever yo
u telephoned probably said I made homicide detective because I’m Hispanic.”
“Yes, I did hear that. However, I’ll grant that you earned your rank. But suppose we get away from your ethnic defensiveness to the point I’m making: your reputation in the department for being a workaholic and for doing whatever you can to get a conviction.”
“First let me make my point clear, Counselor.” Wager heard in his own voice the Spanish lilt that came when he was getting angry. “The things you heard may or may not be true. I’m a cop and a damned good one, and I’m in Homicide because I do good work. As to my being the token Hispanic, it is damn well not true. As to my working hard, it is true. I like my work, Counselor, I like stepping on scum. And some of the people I work with I don’t like because I don’t think they earn their pay!”
She carefully buttered a piece of roll and waited until she was sure he had stopped. “I’m also told you have a quick temper. Now look how that profile could be shaped in court: a hot-tempered chili pepper of a cop who stops at nothing to get an arrest, one even resented by his fellow policemen, one who has a demonstrated record of irascibility, of challenge to higher authority, of pushing the limits of legal procedure to compensate for being a minority. In short, a bomb waiting to be touched off.” Dewing raised the bread and addressed an imaginary audience: “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this highly unstable officer of the law grossly misused his power, resulting in violent, unnecessary, and illegal bodily injury to my poor client. And for all that we’re only asking five million dollars, damages and punitive.”
“The shooting report cleared me!”
“And if you believe you’re going to be tried on this incident alone, you better think again. The plaintiff’s lawyer is going to try your whole history as a police officer, Detective Wager. He will attempt to bring into court every report, every letter, every reprimand, every rumor that could possibly support his contention that you have shown a pattern of excessive force, that your superiors should have corrected that pattern, and that their failure to do so allowed you to maliciously wound and attempt to kill his client.” The lawyer leaned against the back of the booth and swallowed half a glass of ice water. “Your superiors, of course, will be vitally interested in defending themselves against the charge of poor training and lack of supervision; they will try to show that you attended required training courses and sensitivity classes, that you consistently performed your duty to common expectations, that any unfavorable incidents in your performance of duty had been promptly pointed out to you and appropriate corrective action taken, and that any excessive force you may have used against Neeley was not their responsibility but yours. Which leaves you way out on the end of a very shaky limb. So we have to proceed, Detective Wager, as if you’re facing the end of your career, and as if the facts, which you firmly believe to support your actions, are not so firm after all. For that, I need your cooperation, not just your belief that this charge is some half-assed story made up of a bunch of groundless bullshit.”