I tried a long shot. “The body was dumped downtown, Chief.”
Team leaders usually get picked based on the old policing boundaries. If a body drops in old Halifax, it’s an HRP lead, a rural murder gets a Mountie-run team. Like I said, the merged police thing works in the field, but at the highest levels there are still turf wars, and picking team leads is one way the white shirts on both forces piss on trees.
“I know, but you called this as the primary crime scene. Now the red, yellow, and blue circus is in town. They want it, and there is nothing I can do.” He looked through the window at the house.
“Why’d they send him to the dump in the first place? Were they going to take lead even if Gardner was killed in our backyard?”
“I raised that. They say no. Say they didn’t even know he was at the first scene. Seems he went on his own. Who knows what he was thinking. It really doesn’t matter. It’s his, theirs.”
The politics of policing. The chief had to protect the shotgun marriage that kept that Mountie budget within reach. Handing a Mountie the lead in a high-profile case meant he was swallowing something he wouldn’t like the taste of.
“One more thing you and I need to discuss.” He turned back to me, a hard look on his face now. “I understand the inspector asked you to go to the clubhouse. I don’t think that was a good idea.”
“I don’t think his reason for it was good, but we do need to work with the Stallion if we can.”
“Like hell.”
“They have security cameras pointing at that dump, Chief. We go for a warrant, Snake could erase anything they might have recorded. I think maybe I can convince him to give me a peek.”
He looked back out at the house, and then returned his gaze to me, looked like maybe he was swallowing something else.
“Detective Constable Neville, you’re a good cop. A good person, too. A hero, for Christ’s sake.”
“I’m no hero, Chief.” I could feel a “but” coming.
“Look, I know how you feel about losing your spotter. I lost people over there, too, remember. No way to make that hurt go away. But, you fought your way out of a prison alone. That is heroic, no matter what you tell yourself.”
“Killed a couple of kids and ran, Chief.”
“Those kids had AKs and training. Never mind. What I’m saying is I don’t regret fighting the fight with our Mountie partners to get you a badge. But, you’ve got to tread carefully around the gang. I don’t think it’s smart to remind people you have pull with a criminal organization.”
I knew the chief had been forced to bend the rules to get me on the force. I wasn’t the only Afghan vet with a checkered past he’d recruited, but I was the poster child for those who say his military loyalties ruined the HRP. I was never charged with anything when I rode under the patch, but my Stallion past makes me a guilty man to many cops.
“Might be that pull can pay off right now,” I said.
“You really think he’ll show you the tape?”
“Only if it’s to the club’s advantage. He doesn’t want police attention, not even from me. If the tape shows something that leads us away from the club, he will want us to know.”
“Then why not just get a warrant and give him the excuse he needs to turn it over?”
“He’ll make a point of destroying it to show the club will never co-operate with the police. If he shows it to me, he can justify it internally.”
He stood and walked over to the window overlooking the driveway.
“What if it shows something incriminating?”
“Then it’s already been erased.”
I stepped out into the sunshine, feeling its heat on my face, something hotter inside. Being told that my Stallion past is a problem still pisses me off. The chief gave me the badge, but sometimes he still acts as though it was a mistake. Makes me want to toss it back. Bobby Simms stood outside the car, leaning on the front fender, smoking. He smiled at me, like he could read me. I needed to get my head back in the case, so I headed inside to talk with Blair. I found him just outside the kitchen, thumbing his cellphone.
“What’s up?”
“Just texting the boss. I expect I won’t be home for dinner,” he said.
Blair has a life away from the badge in the form of a beautiful wife, and he keeps her in the loop. The best I can hope for is the occasional smile from Sergeant Cage. I’d keep her in the loop if she didn’t always seem to know more than I do. I told Blair about my meeting with the chief.
“Let’s see if we can solve this thing before it attracts any more white shirts,” I said.
“Too late.” Blair nodded back toward the kitchen.
MacIntosh had managed to slip past while I was in the bus. Probably what the chief was looking at while he was giving me the outlaw lecture. It was MacIntosh’s file now, like it or not. But what the hell was he doing here? The team leader’s first job is to gather the resources needed to handle any big case. That usually means reassigning other detectives from colder files and sending them into the field to support the first responding officers. I knew we were going to need that help. Instead, here he was, sitting at the table talking into the cellphone that rarely left his ear. Thelma Waters was moving around the kitchen, coffee cup in hand. Looked like she was going to make him brunch. Greg was there too, sipping his own coffee and watching her. How much did he know about Sandy Gardner’s habits? Could my brother hide something like that?
I gave the inspector a nod. He raised a finger to stop me as he kept talking into the little phone. I ignored him and walked over to Samuel, who was still sitting at the far end of the table. A gust of wind coming off the lake slapped the patio doors hard; the glass rattled in the frames, but he didn’t flinch. Greg came over and rested a hand on Samuel’s shoulder, a protective move maybe, a comforting move, for sure. I turned my attention to Samuel.
“Hey, Sam, you and I need to talk. Thelma or Father Greg can come along if you want. But I don’t think that’s going to be necessary. I just want to get some information about who attended last night’s meeting.”
I wanted him alone but had to be careful here. Like any seventeen-year old, Samuel had the protection of the YCJA. That little piece of legislation is a cop killer, let me tell you. It is supposed to protect kids who make minor mistakes: break a few windows, or get drunk at the high-school dance. Probably does that, but it also shields the hard-core little leaguers with the guns. YCJA stands for Youth Criminal Justice Act in a courtroom, but in the squad car it translates into “You Can’t Jail Anyone.” I couldn’t talk to Sam without a guardian or a lawyer present. The only wiggle room a cop has is that, in theory, the YCJA only protects a suspect. I’m big on wiggle room. People are usually killed by loved ones, and technically that makes them all suspects. Sam was on the top end of the YCJA scale at seventeen, and that meant I didn’t need a parent’s permission to talk with him. As long as he wasn’t a suspect. I told myself I didn’t think Sam killed his father, so we could talk. He stood silently and glanced across the kitchen. He looked older now, something in his posture. Maybe losing his second father; maybe he knew what I found in the office.
“Do I have to go outside like Bobby?” he asked the floor.
“For a minute. Let’s step out to the patio, if that’s okay.”
I could hear MacIntosh backpedalling on the phone, telling someone he had to make a statement. His voice quieted as he said he would be at headquarters right away. In trouble for talking to the media without getting his speaking points from the civilians on the PR team. Rank wouldn’t protect him from them. I ignored his still-upraised finger and led Sam through the patio doors. I had police work to do and didn’t want him interfering. He could deal with the bullshit downtown.
Sam walked to a large brick hearth built around a gas barbecue. He lifted the lid and looked at the grills absently. I wondered how often he’d seen his fath
er tend to that grill. Well, it was his now. I remembered walking into the Stallion clubhouse the day after my father died, feeling a sense of power there I didn’t have when he was alive. I sat on the arm of a cedar Adirondack chair; it was warm in the morning sun. I needed to go easy with him, let him open up on his own. I didn’t want to drop into the chair and have him look down on me, but I needed him to see me relax. It’s the kind of stuff we learn in cop school.
“So tell me about last night.”
“Someone finally killed him, I guess,” he said, closing the lid.
See, the relaxed posture worked. He was ready to talk. I moved into the chair as he dropped into one on the opposite side of the stone patio. It was the first time he had made eye contact. His eyes looked cold; I hoped mine didn’t look too eager.
“What do you mean by ‘finally’?” I asked.
“You don’t care what I say. You didn’t care last year. You don’t care what happens to me, just him.” The left corner of his mouth twitched. His eyes locked with mine. Showing me anger, and then just as quickly looking down into the patio stones. Where was this coming from?
Shit. I remembered it. He pestered me when I was doing the security check a year ago. Kept asking how the police protected the public. Wanted to know how much power I had. I wrote him off as another kid with badge worship. We see it a lot. Kids are never indifferent to the badge. There are two kinds: the ones who want to be us, and the ones who want to shoot us. His father was annoying the hell out of me that day, too, and all I wanted was out. I told Sam I’d be in touch, promised to chat with him another time. I blew him off. I’m no recruiter.
“Sam, if you’re saying you wanted help a year ago, I am so sorry, believe that. No excuse. So please tell me now.” He had me cold.
He stood and turned to the lake.
“To forgive is divine. It’s a beautiful day the Lord has made, and I do forgive you.” He turned back, looking down at me, in control of the conversation now.
I stood. This kid was mind-fucking me. A familiar pressure grew in my temples as my heart turned up the juice just a little. My left hand dropped to my hip. I felt the ridge of the badge clipped to my belt. Had to remember the colours I was flying and stay professional. Sam had every right to be angry, but I needed to take control.
“Let’s have it, Sam.” I kept my voice low, let a little ice in.
He dropped back into the seat. I sat down.
“I don’t know what you want. Any of you. You want to punish someone for killing my father. What if my holy Father above did it? What if it was the right thing? You wouldn’t help me; no one would. God did.” The eyes came up again, accusation, maybe a little hate. “Luke said: ‘There is nothing covered up that will not be revealed, and hidden that will not be known.’ You refused to look last year; you can look now and see what was covered up.” He was talking to the patio stones again. My heart valves struggled to slow the flow. Good cop and bad cop were at war, and I knew who I was rooting for. I knew who had to win.
“Sounds like a lot of people made mistakes, Sam. If you are telling me your father was abusing you, then we will get you help now. And believe me, I am sorry if I missed your plea for help. I said it twice. I mean it, but I’m not saying it again. Now let’s get past this. He’s dead.”
I had questions but knew I couldn’t ask them. Cheating Section Eight and finding the crime scene was one thing. The YCJA is a case buster. I had to walk away. If Sam was abused, he was a grade A suspect.
“Sam, I want you to go back inside with Thelma and Greg. I need to go ask Bobby a few more questions. I’ll have to speak with you again a little later. When your mother is home.”
He went inside without another word, the slouched shoulders barely moving. All the anger gone, all the energy with it. Maybe his trauma didn’t end when he was rescued. He was the perfect target if Gardner was an abuser. Already shell-shocked and easily controlled by a powerful personality like the pastor’s. The slide show upstairs was beginning to seem less like a plant.
I stayed outside, ducking Inspector MacIntosh. I walked in the deep shade of the hardwoods at the side of the house. The grass was soft, the air thick and cool. The police dog had been through, so I wasn’t spoiling the scene. I stopped beside an old oak tree and pulled out my notebook. I jotted a few thoughts about Sam and what he’d said and logged the time. I leaned back against the tree and took a few deep, cleansing breaths.
There are times when I still miss club life. Not often, but it happens. I don’t have the patience for by-the-book police work. I figure not many good cops do. Good cops weren’t into sharing their feelings with an ex-biker, so I wasn’t sure. The problem is simple. We fight above our weight class every day. Even when we land a good punch, it doesn’t make a dent.
Figuring out the who of any crime is easy. Even a rookie can do that after a few weeks on the job. Want to know who is breaking into cars in the neighbourhood? Park on a side street and watch the fourteen-year-old sauntering home at 3:00 a.m. on a school night. Want to know who held up the young couple at the bank machine at ten in the morning? Drive to the nearest crack corner and watch the skinny junkie make a quick buy and then scurry out of the sunlight. Need to know who is keeping that crack corner stocked? Circle the block and watch the twelve-year-old run up to the passenger window of that Escalade and then dash away.
But figuring it out isn’t worth shit unless you do everything by a set of impossible rules. Rules written by a crowd of second-guessing, liberal loons who’ve never seen a back alley or smelled fresh blood. Shake the shit out of the fourteen-year-old until the stereo components fall out. “Sorry, officer, that is not admissible. You had no right to touch that child.” Shit, just try questioning him without whatever he calls a parent sitting in, and the judge will plug his ears to everything the kid had to say. The Escalade, have the traffic guys pull it over. But don’t even look at that gym bag on the back seat. The rules that come with the badge are a bitch. The system is stacked against us. I wasn’t sure if it was the boredom of the anti-terror task force, but I’d found myself second-guessing my choice to become a cop. This morning when I walked into the crime scene, it felt right, but that buzz was gone.
The outlaw life comes with its own rules. All the one-percent clubs have constitutions. The Satan’s Stallion is no different. It’s just that bending and breaking club rules is expected. Short of shooting a bro without consent, there isn’t much you can’t get away with in the name of profit. As for those who make a move against the club, violating their rights is mandatory. Don’t get me wrong, I left the life for a reason. Not just the heroin. Too many assholes hiding behind the patch and doing nasty things to powerless people. Just like the badge, the patch can bring out the worst in some animals. At least with the badge, they usually can’t hide forever.
This was no time to worry about career choices. I had to focus on the case. My nerves still jangled from the exchange with Sam, no matter how many cleansing breaths I took. It looked like I left him in the hands of an abuser for a year. I knew what that was like. You make judgment calls in this job. Sometimes they come back on you in the middle of the night, and then they own you. This was going to be one of those.
Sam made the jump from grieving kid to serious suspect, and that left me powerless. I could almost see the judge’s robes fall from the clouds like a curtain for him to hide behind. It was by the book or bye-bye case time.
Inspector MacIntosh walked around from the front of the house. Shit just kept piling on.
“Detective Constable Neville, damn it, when I signal for you to wait, you need to wait.”
“Just trying to get ahead of this one.”
“Leaning on a tree helping?”
I raised the notebook.
“Logging my actions for the file manager.” By the book.
“Well that’s good, that’s important, and it’s why I wanted you in there. We n
eed to be careful what we log here. Some details we need to be vague on.”
“Not sure what you mean.” I could see where he was going, but wanted to hear it.
“The things you say you saw on that computer. We have no idea how they got there. We can’t ruin a man’s reputation.” The muscles along his jawline worked like he was chewing over what he had to say.
“Inspector, I don’t think Pastor Gardner’s reputation is our biggest concern right now.”
“Grow up, Detective. It is until I say it isn’t. Pastor Gardner was a close friend of the commissioner in Ottawa. That garbage could be a plant, left by a killer not satisfied with killing him. Someone who wants his reputation slaughtered as well. Until we know for sure, this all stays off the book. Clear?” He looked past me to the lake.
I didn’t bother answering. I didn’t care about the RCMP commissioner or his reputation. I couldn’t argue his logic either. I had the same doubts upstairs, even if I no longer believed the scene was staged. Besides, he was dreaming if he thought he could keep this bottled up. A full ident team would comb the office. Too many cops would know, and cops can’t keep secrets. The idea that the killer planted the porn on the laptop was a long shot. Still, the mess above the garage was puzzling. Did the killer want us to find the porn? Was leaving the body in the dump a statement? Was our killer saying Gardner was garbage? Good, my head was back in the case.
Disposable Souls Page 8