The Innocents

by David Putnam

  All the suspects, except the gunshot victim from in the room, sat on their butts with their backs to the wall in the hallway. Thibodeaux and Blue stood watch, lording over them. Blue smiled when we came back. “We got him. He’s sittin’ right there. We got him.” He pointed at a skinny punk with glassy eyes and the “FFL” tattoo on his neck. One of the first ones I’d handcuffed right after the round went off in the room.

  Chelsea raised her voice. “Yeah, we got him. But at what cost, huh? At what cost?”

  Thibodeaux snorted. “Take it easy, chicky baby. This is all good.”

  “No, it’s not, Dirt. How could it be?”

  Thibodeaux tried to take her arm to escort her down the hall away from the ears sitting on the floor. She jerked her arm away.

  Blue stepped in between them before Chelsea could slug Thibodeaux in the face. “Come on down this way. Let’s talk this out before everyone gets here.”

  As a group, we moved ten feet away and lowered our voices.

  Thibodeaux said, “Okay, this is what we’re going to say.”

  I raised my voice. “We’re not going to say anything that didn’t happen. We are going to tell the truth.”

  Thibodeaux glared at me. “That right, cowboy? That really the way you want to play this one?”

  Chelsea held her arms across her chest, the towel with the ice in her hand not doing her eye any good. “Bruno, that’s real easy for you to say. Let Dirt talk. Let’s at least see what he has to say.”

  “Everybody just take it easy,” Blue said. “This is a clean one. Listen, this is exactly how it went down. We came to the door and knocked. Someone inside said, ‘Quien es?’ I said, ‘It’s me, man. Open up.’ The guy opens the door. I look in the crack in between the door and the jamb and see four or five assholes sitting on the floor with a plate of Mexican tar heroin.

  “Plain view doctrine says I have every right to force entry and secure the evidence. That’s what we did. Once inside, everyone resists arrest and we have to fight them. I see the guy, who’s later gunshot, grab onto Miller’s gun. In my book, that’s attempted murder of a police officer. Miller jerks the gun away and clubs him with the gun. The gun discharges into the guy’s shoulder. He’s lucky Chelsea didn’t give him all six in the gut, because she was absolutely justified.”

  Chelsea’s grim expression turned into a half-smile that got bigger and bigger as Blue spoke. She slowly moved the ice pack back up to her injury. Her eyes spoke of a deep admiration for this new savior. I got mad at Blue all over again and shouldn’t have—not for that reason.

  Chelsea hugged Blue. He wrapped his arms around her, his eyes still on me, his smile saying it all.

  He’d won over the girl and I’d lost big-time.

  I turned and walked back to the room. On the floor, right in the center of the room, sat the plate of Mexican tar just as Blue described. The black sticky heroin was cut up into individual doses, making the plate look freckled with little clumps of grease. Multicolored toy balloons sat in a small pile next to the plate, ready to be loaded.

  Sirens from outside reached through the walls to us as they drew closer. There wasn’t much time before the whole world rolled in.

  The problem with Blue’s fairy tale was that when I came in the room, the main body of the fighting happened right where the plate sat. No way could the plate and the empty toy balloons still be sitting there undisturbed. The coolheaded Blue thought far enough in advance to get Chelsea and me out of the room while he set up the props to his little staged play. The way he designed it, no one would question what happened.

  He’d saved Chelsea’s career; I had to give him that much. He really knew how to cover everyone’s ass.

  Chelsea moved up beside me in the doorway of the room. She clandestinely touched her fingers to mine, which hung down at my side. Her voice was barely a whisper. “You good with this, Bruno?”

  She knew she needed the whole team’s buy-in.

  I shook my head as the little angel on my right shoulder fought with the devil on the left. “Sure, Chels, I’m good. You don’t ever have to worry about me.”

  She squeezed my fingers and whispered, “Thank you, Bruno. I owe you.”

  I turned to face her. “Why would you owe me anything? Like the man said, that’s exactly the way it went down.”

  She nodded, and from the doorway of the room, her eyes furtively looked down the hall to where Blue and Thibodeaux quietly talked. With her other hand, she reached over and stuck something in my front pants pocket. It felt like a piece of paper.

  She wanted me to have her phone number or her address, or she’d written something personal on a note. My heart glowed warm. Maybe Blue hadn’t won over the girl after all.

  She smiled and shook her head, whispered, “Not here.”

  She didn’t want me to look at the paper where Blue and Thibodeaux could see me. My heart sank. Maybe it wasn’t something personal. Maybe this note simply said that she did work for IAB after all and that she wasn’t transferred in from Public Affairs.

  Now I really needed to know. I needed to look at that piece of paper.

  No time now.

  Down the hall at the front door, paramedics came in carrying all their gear. Blue escorted the two paramedics over to the room. Chelsea and I moved out of the doorway so they could enter. They set their gear down next to the wounded suspect, the one who’d grabbed on to Chelsea’s gun. The one who committed attempted murder, this according to Blue.

  Blue said, “Be careful of that plate of dope. It’s important evidence.”

  Wicks’ 9 mm stuck out of the front of Blue’s waistband and made him look like some kind of ghetto gunfighter. Back in the day he would’ve fit right in with Pancho Villa’s brutal crowd.

  If he’d shot me with that 9 mm when I came through the hotel room door, as he almost did, how would he have justified that? How would he have arranged the props to that crooked little play?

  Blue looked all around the dirty bed where he’d leaped in the air and landed when the gunshot went off. He patted his pants pockets and jacket.

  “You lose something?” I asked.

  “What? No, no. Just makin’ sure I didn’t. Last time I dropped my badge and didn’t realize it until I got back to the station. No, I’m good here. Go on, wait outside. This is a crime scene.”

  I guess I liked him a little more, covering Chelsea the way he did, though not enough to keep from taking him down when the time came.

  And that time continued to draw closer by the minute.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  “BRUNO? BRUNO?”

  I sat up straight in bed, rubbed my eyes, and shook myself. “Yeah, Dad, what’s going on? Is Olivia okay? What’s the matter?”

  I glanced at the clock on my old nightstand in my room on Nord. Nine o’clock.

  Nine o’clock!

  “Dad, why’d you let me sleep? I was supposed to be at work thirty minutes ago.”

  “Bruno?”

  I jumped up, looking around, frantic to be on my way, not knowing what to do first. I found my pants I’d worn the day before and hopped around getting into them.

  The shooting team didn’t get done with us until close to midnight. Blue wanted to go out and get a few beers to celebrate “Chelsea popping her cherry,” her first shooting. Neither Chelsea nor I wanted any part of that mess. I offered to drive Chelsea home, but she said she preferred to be alone. I told her that wasn’t a good idea. She insisted.

  Maybe I had read her all wrong. And that’s all I thought about or could think about.

  Too pent up to sleep, I tossed and turned in bed until at least three. The emotion in Chelsea’s eyes, her expression, the way she looked at Blue when Blue told us the scenario that really happened in that motel room, continued to play in my head and kept sleep at bay. If Blue had been a good guy, I’m sure I wouldn’t have been as upset at losing Chelsea to him.

  “Bruno, someone’s here.”

  This time I caught Dad’s tone,
froze, and looked at him. He stood in the doorway to my bedroom wringing his hands, a confused—no, a scared, expression—on his normally calm and congenial face.

  “What is it, Dad? What’s going on?”

  “CPS is here. They say I have to leave. They say I can’t live here right now.”

  “CPS? What are you talking about?” The sleep clouding my thoughts cleared. Child Protective Services?

  I moved over to him and took hold of his shoulders. What he’d said sank in. “That son of a bitch,” I said. “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch Thibodeaux.” I ground my teeth and gently moved Dad aside.

  “Don’t, Son. Wait. Wait.”

  I walked down the short hall to the living room wearing just my jeans, no shoes or shirt. A black woman who hadn’t missed a lot of meals and wore a blue dress that went down to the floor stood by the open front door holding a clipboard. “Are you the father of Olivia Johnson? Are you Mr. Bruno Johnson?”

  I caught her eyes moving up and down my naked torso.

  “That’s right. What’s this all about?” But I knew. Thibodeaux had stiffed in an anonymous call to CPS, for no other reason than to be vindictive and nasty, to rub our noses in the ugliness he’d perpetrated upon us. I didn’t think I’d be able to keep from hurting him this time. Hurting him real bad.

  The woman stepped over, offering a piece of paper. “I’m sorry, this is an order by the court that says until your father’s case is adjudicated he cannot be in the presence of your infant child.”

  Even though I’d figured the play, her words socked me in the stomach. I couldn’t imagine what they did to Dad. I took the paper and I looked over at Dad, who sat on the couch, pale and crestfallen, ashamed beyond belief. I crumpled the paper into my fist and silently swore.

  Mrs. Espinoza sat on the couch at the opposite end from Dad, holding little Olivia. What the hell kind of world had we brought her into? A world where a man like Dad gets treated this way.

  I turned back to the woman, a strange calm settling over me. “Yes, thank you. This has all been a huge mistake, and my father did nothing wrong, but we will be happy to comply with this order.”

  “Again, I’m sorry,” said the woman. “I have been assigned this case and just so you know, I will be making periodic calls on the child to see that the court order is followed.”

  “I understand. I’m a Los Angeles County sheriff’s deputy and you won’t have to worry about us complying.”

  “I’m aware of your employment, Mr. Johnson.”

  I waited for her to turn and leave. No one said anything.

  She finally said, “I have to wait until your father vacates this residence.”

  Dad said, “Oh, dear Lord.”

  I went over and got down on one knee in front of Dad, put my hand on his leg. “Listen, I will handle this thing today. I promise you, I will make it go away, today.”

  Tears welled in his eyes and it ripped my guts out, made tears blur my vision and my chin quiver. I wanted to crush and stomp Thibodeaux into the ground, grind him into an unrecognizable pulpy mess.

  Dad put his hand on mine. “No, Son. Let your sergeant, that nice Mr. Kohl, handle it. I’m scared for you.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me, Dad. I can take care of myself.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about.” He lowered his voice, glanced up at the woman still standing in our family’s home over by the door, then looked back at me and said, “I know your temper, Son. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t do this, Bruno. It’s not worth it. Nothing’s worth that kind of heartache. Please, I’m asking you to leave it alone.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but it’s not like that. I promise you I will handle this professionally and get it taken care of today. Now come on, let’s get you off to work. Hey, why aren’t you at work? It’s—”

  Dad reached out and gripped my hand.

  I nodded, letting him know that I understood and that those words didn’t have to be aired in front of the CPS worker or Mrs. Espinoza.

  The postal inspector would be doing an investigation into the allegation Mrs. Whitaker made about the attempted rape while Dad delivered her mail. They’d have placed Dad on administrative leave pending the outcome.

  And now, with no work to keep his mind busy, the county was kicking him out of his own home.

  No way could this situation get any worse.

  Oh, but I was wrong.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  I GRABBED MY shoes and socks, my shirt and my gun, and followed Dad out into the front yard. We sat on the curb while I dressed, the bright summer morning already warming up the day. Cars drove by, some of them neighbors, the last of them on their way to work or going to the grocery. They slowed to look at us and at the beige American Motors Ambassador sedan with the red-and-white county seal on the doors, sitting in front of our house. What they must think about Dad not going to work, and at the same time, question the county car. The county car always meant something bad. The awful embarrassment for Dad.

  Dad never took a sick day; his strong work ethic wouldn’t allow it. And now I’d brought this mess literally right to his door.

  I finished dressing, put the gun in my holster, my sheriff’s star clipped to the front of my belt. “Dad, where are you gonna go? You can use my place if you want.”

  “That’s okay, I’m going to head over to Tommy Tomkins’. I already called him. He’s off sick again, but I think he took off today to go fishing. We’ll get a late start, but it doesn’t really matter for bonita.”

  Dad worked with Tommy at the post office. Dad liked him well enough and would never say an unkind word about him. But based on what I’d seen in the past, Dad could only take Tommy in small doses. Dad would never admit to it. According to him, Tommy qualified for the best-friend-in-the-world category. Anyone who made it into Dad’s sphere of friendship qualified that way.

  “That’s good. You two should go fishing.”

  He nodded. “Listen, Bruno, I meant it when I said you needed to let your department investigate this thing. It’ll get all straightened out without you getting involved. The truth will come out all on its own.”

  For someone so knowledgeable about life, he knew little about the law, its hidden prejudices and sometimes its ignorance of the truth.

  I reached over and put my arm around him just as the dedicated woman from CPS came out of our house, walked across the short yard, and got in her car. She sat in the car and waited. She wanted Dad not only out of the house but out of the area as well.

  We’d already complied with the order and didn’t need to leave right then. Let her wait a little. I still needed to talk with Dad. I needed to assure myself that he was okay emotionally with what had happened. And maybe I also needed to assure myself he didn’t blame me, even though he should have.

  “Dad, what is it you’ve always told me?”

  “I’ve told you a lot of things.”

  “Don’t play coy. You know what I’m talking about.”

  He nodded but wouldn’t say it.

  “You always told me,” I said, “that ‘all evil needs to succeed is for good men to do nothing.’ Are you saying that I’m not a good man? Is that it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Son. You know better. You have no idea how proud I am of you.”

  “I know, Dad. And this . . . this thing I got you involved in isn’t going to resolve itself on its own. Trust me on this. I don’t think you understand what’s going on here. I know more of the key components than anyone else. I have to get involved now. It’s what these men want. That’s why they’re doing it. I can’t explain it all right now, but when it’s over, we’ll sit down and have a long talk, okay?”

  “You know what’s best. Just be careful. When you get angry and see red, that real dangerous shade of red, you know what happens. You start burning the world down. Remember what I’m telling you right here, this minute: you now have a far greater responsibility, more so than you’ve ever had befor
e, with that little girl in there.”

  The way he said it and put the emphasis on the key words really hit home. “I will, I promise. Now I need to ask you a very personal question. And I wouldn’t ask it if I didn’t think I needed to.”

  He turned to look me square in the eye, and for the first time I noticed little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, along with the first errant gray flecks in his black hair, cut short to his scalp. Had the added stress of the last few days caused him to age ten years, or had I been too busy in life to notice it before?

  “Go on then, ask it. I have nothing to hide, especially from you.”

  I took a breath and nodded, dreading this.

  He said, “Is it really that bad? Go on, Son, you can ask anything.”

  “The woman in the midnight-blue Eldorado, the one you kissed good-bye yesterday on our porch, was that Mrs. Whitaker?”

  His mouth sagged open more with each word, his eyes turning from fear to sadness, to shame. I couldn’t have read emotions that clearly on anyone else but my own father.

  His lips quivered a little. “Son . . . I . . . I . . .”

  “Ah, Dad, was that Mrs. Whitaker?”

  He shook his head.

  “No? Ah . . . well, if it wasn’t her, don’t worry about it. Then it’s none of my business.”

  Again, I realized that I truly didn’t know my father like I thought I did. This revelation about Dad being a lady’s man, coupled with the way he had just reacted, changed my entire historical view of him and shook the foundations of everything I held dear.

  “No, no, you have a right to know.” He looked away, ashamed.

  I wanted to say that I didn’t want to know but couldn’t get the words to come out fast enough.

  “I guess, like you said, you must’ve seen her yesterday.”

  I said nothing, and couldn’t now.

  “It was Mrs. Bingham.”