The first guy stiffens. “Are you accusing me of something?”
“No,” Levi says. “It’s just that we see this a lot. Guys coming here to check off boxes until they get their disability, but once they get it, they don’t really need the group anymore. Just makes you wonder if you really had a problem in the first place. And if you’re lying, it makes it harder for the rest of us. All the fraud in the system.”
“We don’t need to judge each other,” Coggins says. “I’m sure Will had a good reason for not coming.”
“It’s not like I owe this guy an explanation,” Will says. “I have diagnosed PTSD just like the rest of you, but if you don’t want me in this group, I’ll find another one.”
“He wasn’t even in combat,” Levi says. “This guy had a desk job. He never took mortar fire. He never saw an IED explosion. He never had one minute’s trauma other than missing his mommy, yet he said all the right things to get on disability, while most of us here can’t get the help we need.”
Will springs up, shoving his chair back.
“You want to come out and see how messed up I am?”
“No, we can do it here!” Levi says, coming to his feet, and before anyone can stop him, he punches Will in the jaw, knocking him off balance, and when Will goes down, Levi keeps going at him.
I jump up and grab Levi. Another guy restrains Will, and we drag them away from each other. Dr. Coggins is on her feet now, and she’s yelling at them to stop.
Levi jerks away from me. “I’m not coming to this group with people like that here, Doc. You make a decision whether this group is for people who really need help or not.” He storms out.
Will just stands there, his lip bleeding. “That dude is sick.”
“That’s why he’s here,” Coggins says.
“No, he’s dangerous. He needs to be in an institution.”
“The thing is,” one of the women says, “he’s right. We all think you’re a fake.”
Will shoots her a look like he could take her head off, but since she’s female, he holds himself back.
Dr. Coggins steps between them. “Will, let’s set up a private session. Just call me this afternoon. I’m sorry this happened.”
He leaves, and I sit back down. I hope she’s not going to tell us that Will’s accusers are off base, because the woman is right—we’ve all thought he was a fake. There’s no one who has less patience for a PTSD fraud than people who really do have it.
Instead, she just looks at each of us. Her hands are shaking. “Everyone here is in a lot of pain, and as they say, hurting people hurt people. Part of your recovery is learning how to manage your anger outbursts, and even if you think certain things, you can’t say them, because what will follow is not what you want. Can we agree on that?”
A few people nod.
“Some sources say that twenty-two veterans a day kill themselves in the US—almost one per hour—and groups like this one are supposed to keep that from happening. We’re all trying here. We can’t get inside each other’s heads. We can’t judge. We have to be accepting of each other. If we can’t do that, who will?”
After several comments on what she’s just said, Dr. Coggins switches gears and asks us all how we’re sleeping, what’s working, what’s not. She shows us the patch Dex mentioned to me earlier, says it’s a promising new therapy that might help. I make a mental note to find out more when I have a chance.
When the meeting breaks up, I talk to a couple of people on my way out. The new guy who knocked his kid down stops me just outside the door. “Interesting meeting.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t boring,” I say.
“Does it really ever go away?”
I drag in a deep breath. “For some, yeah.”
“How long?”
“Let me know when you find out,” I say. “But keep coming, man. I’m better than I was.”
When I get back into my car, I say a prayer for that man and his family, that his issues won’t paralyze him. Feeling guilty that I didn’t say more to give him hope, I pull my phone back out. I can’t wait to get home and get back to work.
16
DYLAN
I spend the night and much of the next day marking off the cops on the list who have died of natural causes—checking their ages and obits, making sure there was nothing off about their deaths. Then I figure out which ones transferred to other departments or agencies, like the state police or the FBI or ATF. Then I check the age-appropriate retirements and mark them off the list.
I’m left with thirty or so who just left the department for reasons not mentioned on this list. There’s a cluster of five in the few months following Andy Cox’s death. I circle all their names. I’ll follow up on those first.
I do a search on each of them, find out where they’re living now. One of them still lives in town, so I check out what he’s doing now. I find that he’s working in his father-in-law’s business, so he probably just got a better deal.
When I check out the other four, I find that two are dead. My heartbeat ramps up, and I follow the trail to see what happened. One of the guys died a year after he resigned. He was thirty-two. Brakes failed, and his car crashed into a tree. No other vehicle involved. He had a wife and two small children.
The second one was in his fifties and died of cancer, so I cross him off.
There are two guys left who I need to find and talk to, plus the wife of the man whose brakes failed. I track down their addresses. One lives in Jackson, Mississippi, now, and one in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I try calling both of them, but their landlines have been disconnected, and they don’t have cell phones in their names.
I pack a bag and throw it in my car. Jackson is four hours from Shreveport, give or take. I can be there by sundown.
I get there just as rush hour is glutting I-20, but things move faster than in some cities I’ve been to, so I just plow through, following my GPS to the address I’ve gotten. The guy’s name is Alvin Rossi, and he lives on the north side of Jackson. It takes me about half an hour to get through the traffic and follow the stack to I-55, to the north side of the city. My GPS directs me to get off at County Line Road, which is a pain to navigate this time of day. But my GPS finally spouts out, “You’ve arrived at your destination.”
I look at the building the voice has indicated. It’s a shopping center. The address is a UPS store. He must have a PO box there.
So it’s a decoy address. I’m going to have to dig further.
There are a lot of shops up County Line Road, and I drive until I hit Old Canton and find a barbecue place that advertises free Wi-Fi. The parking lot’s remarkably empty for this time of day. I take my laptop in and order a meal, then take my time checking all my databases to find Alvin Rossi.
Everything I find on him has that decoy address on it, but finally I locate his place of employment. He works at a Nissan plant a few miles up 55, in a bedroom town called Canton. Maybe he lives around there.
I drive over there and pull into the parking lot. The place is massive, and it’s not likely that they all know each other. This is probably one of the biggest employers in the area. How am I going to locate this guy?
It’s seven p.m. by now, but there’s clearly a night shift, so I go to the front entrance and step inside. There’s a guard at the front, so I give it a shot. “Hi, I need to see one of your employees. Alvin Rossi.”
The guard shows no recognition. “What department is he in?”
“Not sure.”
“I’ll look him up.” He punches something on the computer, and I fiddle with my phone as though uninterested. But I’m really opening my camera, ready to click when his info comes up.
My shutter is silent, so he doesn’t realize I’ve done it. I lean toward the screen after I’ve gotten the picture, and study the guy’s face. My eyes skim down, and I try to get the phone number, but he shuts it down before I can find it.
“He’s not on the night shift,” he says. “Doesn’t work till morning.”
“Oh, my bad,” I say. “I thought he said nights. What time does that shift start?”
“Seven a.m.”
I thank him and leave, checking my phone to make sure I got a good shot of the screen. Yes, his information is there. He’s still using the same address, but I got his phone number.
Hoping it’s a cell phone, I quickly add it to my Contacts, then send him a text.
Alvin, you don’t know me, but I need to talk to you about your time at the Shreveport PD. Can we meet somewhere? Very important.
I drive back toward Jackson and look for a motel that isn’t too expensive and isn’t in crackhead territory. I pull into a Motel 6.
I’m just about to go in when he texts me back.
Who is this?
I don’t want to give him my real name, just in case he’s in touch with Keegan. The phone I’m using isn’t the one Keegan knows about, so he won’t know it by my number.
I use my middle name.
Name’s Ward. Like I said, you don’t know me.
Before I press Send, I add a line:
I can be at your place within a few minutes. I won’t keep you long. I think we might have some things in common.
I hope I’ve made him think I have his address and will show up at his house if he doesn’t agree to meet me.
There’s a longer silence than I expected, then finally, he says, I’m tied up right now. No can do.
Now what? I blow out a sigh, then go in and get a room. I’m just walking into it when my phone vibrates again.
Meet me in the parking lot of Buffalo Wild Wings, eight o’clock.
I type back, I’ll be there.
I get there fifteen minutes early and park with my back to the restaurant. It’s a popular place, and there are few empty spaces. It’s not dark yet, so I watch every car that comes in. Finally, a white Nissan truck pulls in at about ten till eight. A guy gets out, wearing sunglasses even though it’s dusk, and I’m pretty sure it’s him. He taps a cigarette out of its pack as he walks up to the front, then stands there with his hand in his jeans pocket, smoking as he looks out toward the street.
I get out of my car and walk toward him. “Alvin?”
He turns and looks me over. “Yeah.”
“Thanks for meeting me.” I start to shake his hand, but he thrusts out his cigarette pack. “Take a cigarette and light it.”
I take one and he flicks his lighter, and I inhale although I don’t smoke. He’s paranoid, looking from one end of the parking lot to the other, clearly worried someone might be watching us, wanting it to look like I’m a stranger bumming a smoke.
“See that bar across the street?” he says. “Meet me in there. I’ll be in the back booth.”
The clandestine stuff sets off my alarm. The guy seems ultra-careful, too careful for his story to be that he just got tired of police work. I leave my car where it is and watch him get in his truck and drive it across the street. I wait a few minutes, smoking, then put my cigarette out and cross the four lanes of traffic. When I go in, I use the restroom first, giving him time to get settled, then I stride back there.
He’s at the back booth, his back to the wall, and when I slip in, he keeps watching the door. He finally settles his gaze on me. “Who are you and what do you want?”
I don’t know quite where to begin. I didn’t expect it to go this way. Again, I leave my name out of it. “I’m a private investigator, and I’m working on a case that involves Andy Cox.”
His ears redden. “He’s dead.”
“Yes, but I got curious about the circumstances of his death. I noticed you quit working for the department that same year. I wondered if you could tell me why you left.”
“I don’t know anything about his case,” he says, but his Adam’s apple is a little too active. He lowers his voice. “Look, if you’re checking on me for him, you can tell him I haven’t opened my mouth in all these years. I’m not going to start now. All I want is to be left alone. How did you even find me?”
I don’t answer that question. “I’m not working for Keegan,” I say. His reaction when I use the name is interesting. His hands are trembling now, and he waves for a barmaid, orders a beer. I ask her for a Coke.
While we’re waiting, I watch him. He’s sweating, and he doesn’t take his eyes off the door. It’s like he’s sure Keegan is out there, about to enter and blow his head off. He’s scared to death.
This isn’t a guy who’s buddies with Keegan. He’s hiding from him.
I lean toward him and keep my voice low. “Gordon Keegan is still getting away with everything he’s done. So is Sy Rollins. But I want to take them down. I need information from you to do that.”
His eyes harden. “Take them down? You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“I think I do.” I pull out one of Brent’s crime scene photos that was released to the press and lay it down on the table. “I have good reason to believe they recently did this.”
Rossi stiffens. “Another cop?”
“No. A journalist who was looking into that case.”
The barmaid brings our drinks, and he takes a gulp, then holds his mug like it’s his lifeline. “This was Brent Pace, wasn’t it? I saw that girl on the news. It’s Cox’s daughter, right?”
“Yes,” I say.
“She didn’t do it, did she?”
“No.”
“They’ll find her,” he says.
I don’t tell him that I’m going to find her first. “Help me take them down,” I say. “Tell me who else in the department is involved.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been there in twelve years.”
“Who was involved then? You must know.”
“There were a few guys. One almost turned, wound up dead. One-car accident. Nobody even questioned it. The rest made so much money being their allies that none of them ever would have flipped.”
“But you. Why did you leave?”
“Because I knew Andy Cox. I knew he didn’t kill himself. Andy told me about the stuff he’d found out about them—extortion like you wouldn’t believe—and he was getting ready to report them.”
“Then he wound up dead?”
“Yeah. I told Maroney—he was the captain of my precinct back then—I told him what Andy had been working on, that I knew it wasn’t suicide. That night, I pulled into my driveway, and two men wearing ski caps grabbed me and beat me. Bashed my head into the concrete. I went limp, acted like I was dead. Almost was.”
He turns and points to the scarring on the side of his head. “A neighbor saw me and called an ambulance, and they got me to the hospital. Soon as I woke up, I realized the captain must have been involved and let them know I snitched on them. I didn’t know who I could trust, so I got up and walked out of the hospital. Disappeared.”
“Did they ever come after you?”
“No, they didn’t know where I was. I wasn’t married then, so I went from one place to another, just hiding. I finally met my wife here and got married. Enough time has passed that I didn’t think they were after me anymore. I took precautions, but you found my address. I thought it was impossible.”
“I didn’t, man. I lied to get you to come out.”
He takes in a deep breath, lets it out in a huff. “You’re sure they haven’t followed you?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Look, I need names. And if this ever goes to court, I need for you to testify.”
“No way. I have a family now.”
“What if we get all of them? What if we clean out that department? Do you have any evidence it was them who beat you?”
“Just a voice. Keegan’s voice.”
“No other evidence?”
“I have what Andy Cox had.”
I catch my breath. “Extortion victims?”
“Yeah, that and bank accounts, and how they were laundering the money. Others they’d terrorized.”
“Can you get all that to me?”
He takes another gulp. “I don’t want to s
tir things up. I like it here. My kids like their school.”
“The sooner we get these leeches off the street, the sooner you can let your guard down.”
He’s sweating now. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t take long,” I say. “A girl’s life depends on it. She’s been through a lot. Think of all the other families they’ve threatened. There are probably even more murders than we know. You’ve managed to hide out all this time, but you constantly look over your shoulder because you know they could catch up to you eventually.”
He looks at the booth behind me, as if thinking through his options, trying to figure out how this could go. Finally, he says, “Where you staying?”
“Near here,” I say.
He leans forward, whispering again. “If I decide to help you, I’ll leave you an envelope under the trash can at the 7/11 a few doors down from here. The can at the number three pump. It’ll be there by seven in the morning if I’m going to leave it.”
“They won’t know I talked to you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I’ve been hired as a consultant to find Casey Cox. They think I’m only focused on that.”
“You really think you can do it? Take those maniacs down? You really think you’re a match for them?”
I meet his eyes. “Try me.”
He looks down at his drink again. “I’d wanted to be a cop since I was a kid. Loved it, most of it. But after that, I didn’t dare join a force again. I had to keep my head down. I didn’t want to get it bashed in again.”
“You didn’t have any allies,” I say, trying to make him feel better. “You were injured. You did what you had to do.”
“But look at all they’ve gotten away with since then.”
“You can change all that now. Help me.”
He draws in a deep breath, calls the barmaid for our check. I can tell that he hasn’t made up his mind yet.
“Leave me the envelope,” I say, “and you won’t hear from me again until the prosecutor needs you to testify. And trust me, I won’t out them until I know we’ve got them good. All of them.”
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