The Permit

by William B. Scott

  "That's how it happened, and that's precisely what your testimony's going to be on the stand. Got it?"

  Malovic whipped a glance at the other two shooters. Nothing but dark, menacing glares.

  "Got it, sir. This case could be different, though. Ho's had a video-surveillance system that will prove Steele never touched his gun.

  "Besides, Steele's no backstreet drug dealer! He's a decorated Army officer and a respected medical-device salesman. He's also a big-time real estate guy — sales director for those high-dollar condo towers over by the Suncoast Casino! He's bound to have connections that could derail the Metro and DA 'machine'!"

  Closing his eyes, Nardel shook his head. Patiently, as if speaking to a child, he explained, "All irrelevant. The Ho's video is being handled. It will not be a problem.

  "And by next Saturday, everybody in Vegas will be convinced that Erik Steele was a drunk, a wife beater, a drug-abusing scumbag… whatever. Nobody will care that he's a West Pointer or Army veteran or hotshot real estate broker.

  "We know how to turn a suspect into anything we want him to be."

  "And TV reporters simply buy our bullshit?" Malovic shot back.

  "The media isn't a problem," Nardel said. "Nooooo problem at all."

  The lips were smiling, but the eyes were not.

  "Ya see, boys," he soothed, "average Joe citizens are stupid—and scared. Stability is what's important to them, and they'll do anything to protect their neat little world view. They want police officers to take care of them, the little guys, who are just trying to get by every day. They don't want to believe police officers use excessive force and kill innocents, so we feed that desire.

  "We give the folks what they crave—assurance that we're taking care of 'em. As a result, they're willing to swallow whatever we say and discount whatever BS is mouthed by some victim's family or lawyer. They're willing to cut us some slack, so we play to that. And it works!"

  He made a show of checking an expensive wristwatch, then pointedly addressed Malovic. "Any other questions?"

  "Sir," Akaka interjected. "I put four rounds of nine-mil into Steele. Was that too many?"

  Nardel sputtered, "I…er… Not really. Why?"

  "You know. Four in the back, after the dude was on the deck? Might not play well to a jury."

  "No sweatski," Nardel replied. "You see, there won't be any cross-examination, during the inquest hearing. The process is totally under our control. Actually, under the DA's control. His people pick all the witnesses, then ask the questions.

  "The suspect's family might have an attorney in the courtroom, but he's not allowed to say a damned thing. The family—or any spectator—can scribble questions and submit them, but the presiding judge decides which to ask in the jury's presence."

  Malovic looked at the floor and shook his head in disbelief.

  Akaka grinned. "Awesome! Maybe the DA won't even bring up how many shots I fired?"

  "Hell, no. If you get written questions about the issue, you say, 'I was protecting my fellow officer. I fired, until the threat was neutralized.' Something along that line.

  "Don't worry about being badgered, either. Our judges never allow follow-ups. One question, one answer, and move on."

  Nardel stood and handed the empty Pabst can to Krupa.

  "If you boys have any other concerns, give me a shout, and someone will get back to you. Now, if you'll excuse me… ."

  At the door, he faced the three cops, who were in trail.

  "One more thing. This Steele case could be a tough one, because there were so many witnesses. Captain Greel and his team are working on them, and the ones that'll testify at the inquest hearing will be well-screened and prepped.

  "But the suspect's family will probably file a lawsuit against Metro, and you boys will be named. But don't worry about that, either. As long as you're members in good standing with the PPA, we'll take care of your defense. Nice little bennie for those hefty dues you boys cough up every month, see?"

  Again, the politician's broad smile. He shook hands all around and departed.

  Watching from the doorway, Akaka said, "Hey, check the union dude's wheels."

  Nardel was climbing into a late-model Cadillac CTS two-door coupe, painted an unusual nonreflective, flat black.

  "Weird paint job," Malovic said.

  "Yeah," Akaka answered. "Damned cool, though."

  "Cool? A flat-black rig? It'll soak up heat like a cast-iron skillet!" Malovic exclaimed.

  Akaka didn't answer, admiring the sinister-looking Caddy making a U-turn.

  * *

  "Now it's my turn," Krupa announced. "C'mon out to the pool, and I'll lay the good stuff on ya.

  "You teetotalers ready for a beer now?"

  Both rookies again declined, and waited for Krupa to snag another Pabst.

  Outside, they settled into molded-plastic chairs shaded by a striped-fabric patio cover. An inviting, oval swimming pool dominated the Krupa's yard. Tall, cinder block walls shielded the tree-lined grounds from neighbors and intermittent traffic noise.

  "Dude, I have things to do," Akaka grumbled. "What did Vader tell you to pass on?"

  "Hey, relax, rookie!" Krupa said, propping a heel on a chair. "You're on government-paid vacation! Like you surfer-dudes say, hang loose!"

  Akaka rolled his eyes. "Just get on with it. We ain't got all day."

  "I need to get going, too," Malovic echoed.

  "Yeah, yeah. Okay, here's the dope: We're on paid admin leave for at least a couple of months. No uniforms, no shit details, no night shifts, no nothin'.

  "But don't be grabbin' the old lady and skippin' town, ya hear? We're still on call."

  Two blank stares.

  "What the hell's that mean?" Akaka demanded.

  "Means you're one of Vader's Ravens now."

  Again, puzzled looks.

  "Never heard of Ravens, huh?"

  Head shakes confirmed the negative.

  "Well, that's damned peachy!" Krupa beamed. "Nobody but Ravens are supposed to know about Ravens. Here's the deal: Any Metro cop who's hosed a civilian in the line of duty automatically becomes a Raven. And Ravens live very well! Vader takes good care of his 'black birds!'"

  "In return for… ?" Malovic questioned.

  "For helping out now and then. Ya know, special details and missions that regular cops can't handle for one reason or another."

  "What's the payoff?" Akaka asked, cutting to the chase.

  Krupa laughed and downed a slug of Pabst. "For one, you don't go to prison for shooting a perp. Two, Vader makes sure nobody hassles Ravens. Even Uriah leaves us alone. Three, we pick up a few thousand bucks for special jobs. Know what I'm sayin'?"

  "Jobs like what? Bumping off some Mafia geezer?" Akaka asked harshly.

  "Maybe. 'Course I've never done anything like that. Usually it's disposing of dead bodies. What Vader calls 'taking out the trash.'

  "Ya see, one hell of a lot of people die in the casinos and hotels. Some rich old fart's having a good time with a twenty-something workin' girl, and he keels over from a heart attack or stroke. The guy dies happy, but four or five of those a day can get embarrassing for billionaire owners, ya know?

  "Resort-hotel honchos pay Ravens to make sure those bodies go out the back and into unmarked modes of transportation, see? Vader gets a call, he rounds up a few Ravens, we handle the body, and everybody goes home with a wad of Ben Franklins.

  "Sometimes, we take trash-on-the-hoof to what Vader calls 'private' locations for 'special handling.' Those are rare, though. Typically, they're problem hookers or deadbeat gamblers, who failed to pay up. They just… disappear."

  Malovic was aghast. Krupa was casually discussing killing people and dumping their bodies in the desert, as if human beings were bald tires!

  "This Raven thing's voluntary, right?" Malovic asked hopefully.

  Krupa threw his head back and hooted. "Voluntary? Yeah, sure! Tell Vader you'd rather volunteer at the soup kitchen than be one of hi
s Ravens!

  "Dude, your skinny ass belongs to Vader now! You think he took that forty-five off Steele's body and parked it in front of Ho's, before Homicide arrived, because he felt sorry for three dumb-ass cops?

  "Grow up, rookie! This is Las Vegas! Either get your head in the game and do exactly what Vader tells you, or you're his-to-ry!"

  Malovic was dazed and disoriented, as if he'd been clubbed from behind. He was trapped. Agree to be a compliant Raven? Or go to prison for shooting Steele in the back? Yeah, there's a choice!

  "So how does this work?" Malovic asked. "Sit on our butts and wait for Vader to call?"

  Krupa polished off the beer and crushed his Pabst can on a deck table. "Yeah, but not for long. Vader likes to get cherry Ravens 'dipped' as soon as possible.

  "Today, though, we're gonna haul our butts downtown and get one of these."

  He pulled up his T-shirt's left sleeve, revealing a blue-and-red tattoo: A skull above a pair of dice inscribed with a date in 2006.

  "That's when you killed the other dude?" Akaka asked.

  "Damn straight. Only Ravens wear this tat. I get another one for Steele."

  "You murdered Erik Steele in cold blood, and you're proud of it?" Malovic barked, incredulous.

  Smirking, Krupa mimicked aiming a pistol in a two-handed grip, right index finger pointed at Malovic.

  "Bam! Bam! Center mass, double-tap. Hell, that perp deserved to die!"

  Even Akaka was shocked. "You shittin' me?"

  "In my book, it's open season on every jerk running around with a concealed-carry permit. Nothin' but cop-wannabes!"

  "Hey, the U.S. government gives them the right to carry!" Malovic said. "Hell, Metro issues their permits! Every CCW-holder's been through a serious background check, and we sign 'em off!"

  "So what? As a cop, I have the ultimate permit—a badge that says I can shoot anybody I damn well please!" Krupa shouted.

  Jabbing a finger into Malovic's chest, he yelled, "You still don't get it, rookie! Cops are the only Americans who deserve to carry a gun!

  "I don't give a shit what the Second Amendment whack-jobs say. I'll shoot every son of a bitch dumb enough to carry a concealed firearm in my town!

  "If we kill enough of 'em, they'll get the message: You carry, you die!"

  Malovic stood and looked down his nose at the senior Metro officer. "You're a sick lunatic, Krupa! Steele had every right to carry a forty-five for self-defense! And you had no right to take his life!"

  "Rookie, with that attitude, you're gonna get nailed by a half-cocked, concealed-carry vigilante! We're in a war with those nut jobs. It's us against them.

  "I'm sure as hell not gonna stand back and let some armed civvy take me out! Shoot first and let God sort 'em out! That's how you stay alive in the law enforcement game!"

  "And exactly what gives police officers the right to rip up the Second Amendment and kill anybody who exercises his constitutional rights?" Malovic demanded.

  Krupa stuck his chin out and jabbed a thumb into his own chest. "My star gives me that right, kid! We're Metro! We do whatever the hell we want!"

  Malovic raised both fists and looked skyward. "Holy Mother of God! You worthless… ! I can't believe you were ever given a badge! I'm outta here."

  He headed for the patio's sliding door.

  Krupa laughed harshly and yelled, "Wuss! You've been bloodied in the line of duty, Malovic! There ain't no goin' back now! You're a Raaaaa-ven!"

  * *

  That afternoon, Olek Krupa strolled into Discount Firearms, bent over a glass display case and eyed a neat row of semiautomatic pistols.

  Unconsciously, he gingerly rubbed his upper left arm. The dark blue "7-10-10" on a second pair of red dice looked great, but he hated needles. Damn tattoos were painful!

  "Can I help you, sir?" A clerk with short-cropped gray hair and penetrating ice-blue eyes met Krupa's glance.

  "Yeah. Lemme see that nine-mil Glock nineteen," Krupa snarled.

  The clerk unlocked a sliding glass door, reached inside and tapped a stainless-steel pistol.

  "This one?"

  "No. The all-black one."

  Retrieving a flat-black sidearm, the clerk thumbed a release and placed an empty magazine on the counter. In one smooth motion, he expertly jacked the slide open, confirmed the action was clear, and handed the Glock to Krupa.

  "Polymer frame and grip. Six-point-eight-five inches long, cold-hammered-steel barrel, Tenifer-coated. Fifteen-round magazine is standard. Loaded, it's thirty ounces. A little heavy for some people, but still a very nice concealed-carry weapon."

  The officer flicked a release, raised the pistol in a two-hand grip, and sighted along the barrel at the store's barred front door.

  "How much?" he asked, squeezing the trigger.

  The clerk checked a display card. "That model's five thirty-nine. Plus tax."

  "I can get it for four ninety-nine at Cheaper Than Dirt," a giant mail-order outlet.

  "And you'll wait two weeks to get it. Plus pay shipping, handling and a background-check fee. Your call."

  Krupa grunted, "Yeah, okay. I'll take it."

  After filling out the required paperwork, Krupa wandered around the impressive gun store, waiting for a background check to be completed. He was admiring a mean-looking Barrett M82 .50 caliber rifle mounted on a bipod, when the clerk waved him over.

  "All cleared, sir. You're good to go."

  He slipped the box into a plastic bag and handed it over the counter. Krupa mumbled his thanks.

  "Off to kill another decorated veteran?"

  The comment caught Krupa off guard. The cop pivoted, prepared to retort, but something in the clerk's hard gaze changed his mind. The two men stared at each other a long moment, neither blinking. Krupa spun on a heel and stomped out, slamming the front door.

  Unsettled, he squeezed behind the wheel of a Toyota Camry and tossed a glance at the store. The gray-haired clerk and a young, square-jawed man were standing in the doorway. The old guy pointed at the officer.

  Krupa yanked the car into gear, checked over his left shoulder, and merged into traffic on Highland Drive.

  The unexpected challenge and hard, unwavering glare had rattled him. He had never felt so exposed and naked. He could no longer disappear in a crowd, when out of uniform.

  From now on, people throughout the Las Vegas valley would point and whisper: "That's Olek Krupa. The scum-cop who panicked and killed Erik Steele."

  Or worse.

  CHAPTER 13

  'DISAPPEARED' EVIDENCE

  "And now are you cursed from the earth,

  which has opened her mouth to receive

  your brother's blood from your hand…"

  Genesis 4:11

  LAS VEGAS

  "Hey, dude!"

  Danny Rubin shot a quick greeting to Hajji Taseer, who pushed through swinging doors. Seated at a workbench cluttered with tools, test equipment and electronic components, Rubin was soldering a multicolored resistor into a densely packed printed-circuit board. The air-conditioned shop, a converted bedroom of Rubin's modest home, reeked of warm electronics equipment.

  "Got a problem with your security system DVR, huh?"

  "Ah… yeah. Sorta," Hajji muttered. He slid a commercial-grade digital video recorder onto the bench, shoving aside tools, boxes of integrated circuits, capacitors and other assorted components.

  He'd called that morning with a rush job, emphasizing that only Rubin would be entrusted with Ho's "defective" DVR. The electronics tech routinely performed off-the-books tasks for Ho's, the Metro police department and a number of resort-casinos.

  "Whadda we got here, my man?" Rubin asked. The gaunt technician's sunken chest was framed by a skeleton's bony shoulders. Tousled bleach-blond hair hung below ears pierced and adorned by an array of stainless steel hooks and studs. Angular facial features were softened by a sparse mustache and scraggly goatee. A chromed ring pierced one nostril.

  Rubin wore a black T-shirt stamped with a d
eath's-head, black jeans and leather boots. A two-foot silver chain looped from a studded black belt into his jeans' right pocket.

  Hajji hesitated, licked dry lips and flicked a glance over his shoulder.

  "Ya see… , this big redhead was in the store last Saturday… ya know… acting kinda weird. I had to call the cops, and… they shot the guy."

  "Dude! That whatsisname Steele? The one Metro blasted at Ho's? You were in the middle of that? Woooo! Knocked-up cool!" Rubin gushed, patting Hajji's shoulder. "You da man, my man!"

  Hajji grinned, feigning humility. In fact, he relished the hint of new respect in Danny's reaction. The same respect-edged tone he'd enjoyed time and again, since Saturday's shooting.

  By Allah's holy name, people now deferred to him! Never again would they dare talk down to Hajji Taseer, or give him that condescending half-smile and pitying, patronizing look. The quick, degrading, fake smile that screamed "Loser!"

  No more. From now on, he would be treated as someone who could summon death with a single speed-dial key.

  Piss off Hajji Taseer, mutha, and you gonna die.

  Eyeing a wall clock, Rubin said, "So, what're we doin' with this puppy? Another erase-and-prep job?"

  Rubin snapped his fingers, pointed at Hajji and exclaimed, "Yo! A camera caught ya hustlin' one of those hot Air Force wives, huh? Man, those GI hubbies…they gonna kick yo butt, when they get back from the 'Stan!"

  He laughed, assuming a boxer's stance and shadow-punching.

  Hajji blanched and shook his head vigorously. "No way, Danny! This is… ya know… like, really serious. The big redhead was inside the store, acting kinda… dodgity, and… like… the shooting outside… ." He cocked one eyebrow, waiting.

  "C'mon, dude! You know… !"

  "Oooooh! Got it, my man! Got it! You're sayin' this video doo-doo's gotta dis-a-pear! Yeah! No prob-lem-ah!"

  Rubin connected a laptop computer to the DVR, called up a special analysis program, and scanned the DVR's recordings.

  "Looks like somebody already erased…oh, close to forty-six, forty-seven hours of video data."

  He eyed Hajji, questioning.

  "Ah… yeah. 'Bout right. I had Ding, our IT guy erase that section. On Saturday… after the shooting. Captain Greel… you know… ."