Death's Echoes

by Penny Mickelbury

  “Work with your sergeants on the warrants. I don’t expect you to handle them, I know you’re not ready, but you need to know and understand the process. Many an arrest has tanked because the language in the search warrant wasn’t sufficient to cover the search.” She turned to head back to her corner, then turned back. “And get him thinking about arrest warrants. Tell him everything we know about those five people. When they do whatever it is they’re going to do, I don’t want us wasting time waiting for warrants.”

  “You seem pretty sure they’re going to do something,” Tommi said.

  “Just a matter of what and when,” she said, and turned back to her corner. “Jim, with me, please, and by all means bring your colorful shitfuck vocabulary.” She waved him into the chair beside her desk. “You guys all recovered from that warehouse thing?”

  He shrugged. “As recovered as you can get from something like that. Tony has seen some pretty ugly shit in his career, but McCreedy—?” He shook his head. “The good thing was that it took his mind off losing his friend. At least for a little while.”

  “Yeah. Now they’re all back with plenty of time to miss Cassie. Which is what I want to talk to you about, Jim. I want to integrate the two units, Hate Crimes and this new thing that we still don’t have a name for. What I’m thinking to do, at least initially, is have two operational teams within the larger unit: You’ll run one and I’m thinking to have Bobby Gilliam run the other, with a mix of old and new people in each. You can keep Tim and Tony if you want, and then get with the sergeants to make some other picks.”

  “How about those A’s? Sharp kids.”

  “Anybody but them,” Gianna said. Jim nodded his understanding. “But it’ll affect Gilliam the same way, won’t it?”

  “He’ll be too focused on the responsibility of running a team to let that get in his way,” she said, and she knew that was the truth. “I want everybody to be able to do any and every assignment, Jim, but if you notice that somebody has a particular talent, develop it. Okay? And if you spot a weakness, do whatever it takes to fix it.”

  He stood up. “Yes, Boss, and thanks.”

  She stood, too, and spied Bobby across the room just coming on shift. She waved him over, sat him down, and told him the same thing she’d just told Jim Dudley. First he stared at her in total and complete disbelief. Then he saw that she was totally and completely serious. “I don’t know what to say. Except . . . are you sure?”

  She gave him a hard look. “What’s going on, Bobby?” And he laid out his concern for Alfreda Tompkins’s mental stability and her unhealthy focus on him. “She called me half a dozen times and I never called her back,” Gianna said. “I’ll do that today and make it clear that she is not to attempt any further contact with you or I’ll have her arrested.”

  “What about her son?”

  “Not our problem, Bobby. Our job at Sunset View is done. Now, I need your head in the game. In this game. All the way in, is that clear?”

  “Yes, Boss!”

  “Good. Two of your new team will be Archie Ames and Annie Andersen—”

  “The A’s! I’ve heard about them. I hear they’re pretty damn good.”

  “They are. You and Dudley get with Tommi and Eric and choose the rest of your team. Do it now. I want you guys operational if we need to move. And Bobby? I’m 100 percent sure.” She got up from her desk and went to stand over him, looking down. “That cut beside your eye is healing.”

  He touched it and nodded. “Stitches come out tomorrow.”

  “You know that little shitfuck cut a guard in the face during his escape.”

  “I heard. From Ms. Patterson, as a matter of fact. Guess Davis taught him how to do more than sling drugs.” He shook his head sadly. “Kid deserved better than that.” He stood, saluted, and crossed the room to join Dudley and the sergeants, and the four of them left, going, Gianna knew, upstairs to the office. She pulled out the stack of message sheets she’d been ignoring and called Alfreda Tompkins, only to hang up when she realized the woman wouldn’t be home from work yet. She’d call her later. Then she returned a call to Delores Phillips and spent a very pleasant few minutes talking with her and telling her what she could of what happened in the warehouse. Delores didn’t mind that she couldn’t know everything, she was just grateful to have what she called “the nightmare next door” over. But Gianna knew the nightmare wasn’t entirely over—not for the victims. The one upside was that Everett Mason had proved to be an excellent snitch. Not only did he give up information on the local traffickers, he provided access to an international network of what, thanks to Jim Dudley and Tim McCreedy, they now all referred to as baby-rapers. Virginia authorities were grateful because they were able to shut down an operation before it got up and running; Arnie Spitzer and his National Center for Missing and Exploited Children got information they needed to close several open cases; and even the federal agencies still interested in pursuing sex traffickers were happy to take over the case when the Chief offered it to them gift-wrapped. But nobody wanted to take responsibility for twelve girls who’d been brought into the country illegally, hooked on heroin, and raped repeatedly. Nobody wanted to be responsible for seeing them through detox and restored to health, to say nothing of trying to find out who they were and where they were from and returning them home—if, indeed, they had homes to return to. And Gianna couldn’t get the sound of their wailing and howling and whimpering for drugs out of her head. The noise woke her at night.

  She forced herself to focus on the piles and stacks of paper on her desk, most of which could be easily handled. As soon as she got reports from Dudley and the warehouse takedown crew, and from the Sunset View people, she could write her own reports of those operations. She looked at the pile the Chief had left with his hand-scribbled note on top: DEAL WITH IT MAGLIONE! NOW! and she knew he meant it, because on top of that was her signed vacation request form. Yes, he was saying—you got what you want; this is what I want. She sighed and opened the top folder and wished she could be with her sergeants and team leaders as they built their teams instead of digesting the paperwork for promotion to Captain.

  As she sat and worked with Eric, Jim and Bobby, Tommi thought, and not for the first time, how unusual and different Gianna Maglione was as a boss, and how lucky and grateful she felt to be one of her sergeants. Here was a boss who wasn’t a control freak, who actually trusted her subordinates to do their jobs and do them well, who was so secure in her own abilities that she didn’t spend a lot of time looking over her shoulder or sticking knives in the backs of others. And the people who worked for her were the same way. There was no conflict or competition between Jim Dudley and Bobby Gilliam as they studied the roster and selected their teams. It was easily agreed that since Bobby had The A’s on his team, Jim should have the other two gay members. “But since I already have McCreedy, doesn’t that create an imbalance?” Jim asked.

  “Then how about I take the Patel kid? Boss likes him, right?” Bobby asked the sergeants. “Thinks he’s got lots of smarts? Then that’ll make us even in the gay department. Now. How about women?”

  And so it went until both teams were complete. “One thing bothers me, though,” Bobby said, and he looked at each of the other three, one at a time, eye to eye: “Alice Long should be heading up one of these teams. Why isn’t she?”

  Eric and Tommi looked at each other. No way Gilliam could have overheard their discussion with Gianna on that very topic! And no way were they going to say why it was decided that Alice wasn’t being given a team. They knew that Bobby knew that discrimination wasn’t part of the picture: Alice was a lesbian, the Boss was a lesbian. Alice was Black and both Jim and Bobby were Black, so whatever the reason was, it was about something else, and because they all trusted the Boss 100 percent, they accepted her decision. But Eric and Tommi could see that they wondered. Nobody else did, though—nothing but excitement reigned at the unit meeting that afternoon when the teams were announced. Whoops and hollers, followed by
hugs, high fives, fist bumps, and back slaps, followed by the self-designation of themselves as Team D and Team G, followed by separating into their designated teams, surrounding their team leader.

  “I’m so glad you’re all so happy,” Gianna said, and got a standing ovation. She shared looks with Jim and Bobby and they restored order. “A few orders of business,” she said, and updated them on the warehouse sex-trafficking and Sunset View operations. “Although neither one is totally wrapped and tied with a bow, our involvement in both is finished—unless there’s a dramatic change and we’re back on the case. And before anyone asks, the Chief would make that decision.” She let that sink in. Then, “To put all the rumors to rest, Taylor Johnstone was dismissed from this unit and from the Police Department. I do not know the final results of the IA investigation and I don’t care—unless somebody in this unit is involved. So, if anybody here had anything to do with his behavior, tell your team leader.” The blank faces staring at her was answer enough. “OK, I like the Team D and Team G designations, but understand that you are not in competition with each other. We’re all in this together—whatever ‘this’ might be at any given time. I want everybody trained and qualified to do everything, and I want all of you physically fit. If anybody doesn’t understand what that means ask your team leader.” She paced a few steps. “You all know that very often, information drives police work and investigations, and we happen to have three of the best information gatherers in the business: Vik Patel, Kenny Chang, and C.A. Jennings, and yes, they’re assigned to teams, but their first job always is to provide the info we need to do our jobs.”

  “Um, Boss?” Kenny Chang’s hand was in the air.

  “Kenny?”

  “Does that physically fit thing apply to the information gatherers, too?”

  “I’m in training for my first Iron Woman competition, Kenny,” Alice Long drawled. “You’re welcome to train with me.” She didn’t crack a smile, but Kenny looked about to faint and the room broke up, Gianna included. She finally got herself under control.

  “I’d be afraid to train with Alice, too, Kenny, so you can take a pass on training for the Ironman, but not on the physical fitness requirement.” Still chuckling to herself she adjourned the meeting and watched as the team leaders took their charges to opposite corners of the room. She walked over to Eric and Tommi. “Good job, you two—thank you.”

  “Jim and Bobby did all the work, Boss. We just listened and took notes,” Eric said, and Tommi agreed.

  “Make sure Jim and Bobby know not to take their eyes and ears off Metro GALCO.”

  Gianna headed back to her corner feeling guilty for the sense of relief she felt. She knew that it most likely would be short-lived, but something was better than nothing, and having the heavy weight of the responsibility of the unit off her shoulders, even for a little while, was rejuvenating after the ugliness of the warehouse and Sunset View. Knowing that the people who shared the weight and the responsibility were among the most reliable and trustworthy people she knew was soothing. Her reward before settling down to the paperwork would be a quick check-in conversation with Mimi. They both were exhausted in mind, body, and spirit. They ate, sometimes together, sometimes not. They didn’t talk very much when they were together, both finding the right words hard to come by, something that really worried Gianna because Mimi always had the right words. It was she, Gianna, who usually found it difficult, if sometimes not downright painful, to put her thoughts and feelings into words. They didn’t sleep so much as they passed out from fatigue. But they made sure they talked to each other several times a day, if only to say, I love you. And when Gianna said those words to Mimi and heard them back from her, she was ready to get to work, as was Mimi.

  “I don’t know that I agree, Patterson, that the Sunset View thing isn’t ready to be a whole story,” Tyler said. He had pulled over a chair from the reporter-less adjacent desk and was seated next to her desk. The sight was unusual enough that more than a few people wandered by to take a look. Tyler, as usual, was oblivious. He concentrated only on what he was concentrating on, to the extent that Mimi often wondered how he managed to be an award-winning reporter when reporters had to notice everything and everyone all the time. But then again, it no doubt was his ability to single-focus that made him such a good editor. A great editor. “You’ve got three huge pieces to work with: the original situation that Virgie called you about, that shitstorm that Zemekis has managed to uncover in Pennsylvania—”

  “That’s Joe’s story, not mine.”

  “And he’ll be back tomorrow to write it. Then there’s the Chief showing up at roll call to fire three dirty cops, and there’s the Tompkins boy’s escape from prison, his attack on the guard, and the fact that the cops can’t find him. Those are stories, Patterson.”

  “Yeah, all right, Tyler. If you say so.”

  Tyler rolled the chair closer and stared at her. “What’s wrong with you? And what’s that look that just crossed your face? Something just came to you.”

  “Get outta my brain, Tyler,” she snarled at him, because what had just come to her was to wonder if the cops had figured out where to look for Robbie Tompkins. His arrest definitely would be a great jumping-off point for a story, but before she could share the thought, their names were called.

  “Carson! Patterson!”

  They looked toward the sound and saw the Exec beckoning. Tyler muttered something Mimi didn’t hear and stood up. She followed suit and followed him across the room to the Exec’s office, but the Exec kept walking and turned into the conference room, the one without windows and with a door that closed. Mimi saw why. The Weasel and one of the company attorneys were seated at the table—the two people Mimi despised most on the planet. “What is this shit, Tyler?” she muttered. He shrugged and shook his head and she followed him into the room. The Exec brought up the rear and closed the door. Not a comforting sign.

  “Have a seat, folks,” the lawyer said expansively, as if it were a social gathering. Mimi looked hard at him and his grin wavered, which was all she needed to see to know that whatever was on the agenda involved her. Tyler and the Exec sat. She didn’t. She stood watching him—and trying to remember his name. She couldn’t. “I said sit down, Miss Patterson,” he said, grin wiped now.

  “I hear better when I’m standing,” she said.

  “Then hear this: You are hereby suspended without pay for two weeks, effective immediately, for the assault on Ian Wilson, and you will apologize to him, in writing, said apology submitted to the executive editor being a requirement for your reinstatement.”

  “How about you hear this: I quit.” She turned and walked out, missing the facial expressions left in her wake: fury on the Exec’s, shock on Tyler’s, surprise on the Weasel’s, joy on the lawyer’s, who said, “That went better than I expected! No more of her fake news! From now on, Todd, let’s have Ian report to Stu.”

  The Exec stood up so hard and fast his chair rolled back and hit the wall behind him. “You don’t make assignments in this newsroom. Ian Wilson will continue to report to me until I say otherwise.” Tyler followed him when he stalked out and headed directly for Mimi. She was cleaning out her desk drawers when Tyler reached her.

  “Please don’t do this, Mimi! You don’t have to do this!”

  “Yes, I do, Tyler. I don’t mind the suspension. To tell you the truth, I was surprised that I wasn’t suspended that day. After all, you can’t go around smacking an asshole in the workplace no matter how much he might deserve it—I get that—but I will not apologize to him, Tyler. Not ever.”

  “I think if we make that point to Todd—”

  “I’m done talking, Tyler. And we both know that Todd isn’t the final word on this.” Cleaning out her desk meant putting lots of stuff in the trash because important things lived in her briefcase and left with her at the end of the day, and since she routinely backed up her files on an external hard drive, eliminating her presence on the office computer’s hard drive was a matter
of selecting all, and then deleting. She was ready to leave in a matter of minutes.

  “Please, Mimi. Please don’t.”

  “I’ll call Joe and prepare him,” she said, walking toward the elevator. He followed, silently. He stood there while she waited for the elevator, watched as she got on, watched her until the door closed on not only one of the best reporters he’d ever known, but on one of the best friends he’d ever had.

  Her first inclination was to go to the gym for a strenuous workout, and while her body no doubt needed it, she didn’t think her brain could withstand it, so she went home. She’d never been able to figure out what to do at home in the middle of the day. On the rare occasions she’d found herself in that situation she’d been sick or injured and therefore inclined to sleep the hours away. She was not so inclined this day. She changed clothes—she always was happiest in sweats or shorts and a tee shirt—then popped and buttered a huge bowl of corn, grabbed a cold seltzer, settled into her favorite chair in the den, and turned on the TV. She had so much stuff stored in the DVR she could watch for hours and not be caught up. She’d start with the British mysteries, her favorite, but she found she couldn’t focus. Unlike so many of the American shows, you really had to pay attention to the British ones and her brain wouldn’t settle down. It demanded that she deal with the reality at hand: She had quit her job. She was unemployed. That’s when she exchanged seltzer for vodka, and pretty soon it didn’t matter what was on television. Buttered popcorn was as good with vodka on the rocks as it was with ice-cold seltzer.

  Gianna was surprised as well as pleased to see Mimi’s car in the garage as the door slid up. Since she hadn’t called to say she was on her way home, and she hadn’t responded to Gianna’s text that she was headed home, Gianna assumed that she was tied up at work. Surprise quickly became worry when Gianna opened the door and heard the TV blaring from the den and spied the almost empty vodka bottle on the kitchen counter. She hurried down the hall to the den—no Mimi. She crossed the hall to the bedroom and there was Mimi, in shorts and a tee shirt, sprawled across the bed, on top of the covers. And drunk! Gianna did a quick examination: She wasn’t injured in any way. At least not physically. But something definitely was wrong.