by David Grace
“No, Your Honor.” Odermatt, turned and motioned Virgil toward the door.
“Just a moment,” Wilkington called. “Marshal Quinn, how did you find out about this other murder that Mr. Crocker allegedly committed?”
Allegedly, Virgil thought, and struggled to keep a sour expression off his face.
“We were contacted by the Nye County, Nevada Sheriff’s office in response to a request for information that we sent out. Apparently, Mr. Crocker was a person of interest in the rape and murder of a seventeen-year-old high-school student but his attorney, Mr. Fitch, refused to allow the police to interview him. They recently discovered the victim’s body and recovered fiber and DNA evidence. They informed Mr. Fitch that Mr. Crocker was going to be called before the grand jury. They also were about to serve a search warrant on Mr. Crocker for a DNA sample.”
Wilkington pursed his lips, and for a second or two stared vacantly at the shelves of books lining the far wall.
“All right,” he said finally, as if snapping out of a trance. “I understand. Thank you, gentlemen. Is there anything else?”
“No, Your Honor,” Odermatt said, turning toward the door and dragging Quinn with him. Wilkington was toying with his pen and frowning into space when they pulled the door closed behind them.
“You did that to make sure he knows that Fitch played him,” Odermatt said once they were in the hallway.
“No comment,” Virgil replied.
“You’ll see to it that Ms. Hamilton gets back to Arizona?”
“Tomorrow. I figure that after all this she deserves a day off.”
“Good.” Odermatt stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Marshal.”
Virgil watched the A.U.S.A. disappear into a courtroom at the end of the hall then headed for the exit. Virgil had just reached the entrance to the elevator at the bottom of the parking garage when his cell rang.
“Quinn.”
“It’s Brian. He killed another one!”
“What?” Virgil snapped, not sure he had heard correctly over the noise of the closing doors.
“I just got a call from the Tulare County Sheriff’s office. Another dead girl, two and a half years ago. This one was up along the 395. Crocker made it onto their suspect list because he was dumb enough to buy gas with his credit card fifty miles from the dump site.”
“How old was she?”
“Eighteen.”
Eighteen, Virgil thought, a year younger than Nicole would be – is!
“Want to take a guess who Crocker’s lawyer was?”
“Fitch?” Virgil almost shouted.
“Bingo! Martin Charles Fitch, esquire. I thought you’d want to know.” The call disconnected just as the elevator reached Virgil’s floor. When the doors rattled open he stepped out and almost bumped into a waiting defense lawyer in a thousand-dollar suit and three-hundred dollar shoes – Martin Fitch.
“Marshal,” Fitch muttered, taking a step forward.
“You son of a bitch!” Virgil shouted and blocked his way.
“What?” Fitch took two hurried steps back. “You can’t–”
“You bastard! You knew Crocker was killing those girls and you let him. You helped him!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I resent the implication that I helped anyone commit–”
“You got Crocker out of jail so that he could keep on killing.”
Behind Fitch a small crowd had gathered, but seeing the rage on Quinn’s face they scattered like a flock of frightened birds.
“Everyone has the right to a defense, Marshal,” Fitch said, stiffening his back and straightening his lapels. “It’s in the constitution.”
“You did more than just defend him. You knew that he had raped and kidnapped Carrie. You knew he had killed two other girls. You knew he was a psychopath who was going to kill again, but you hid that from the judge so that he could get out of jail and make a run for it.”
“He never told me that he was going to run,” Fitch said and tried to move around the marshal but Quinn blocked his way.
“It’s interesting that you put it that way. You said ‘He never told me’ but you didn’t say ‘I didn’t know’ because you did know. You knew he’d killed those girls. You knew the cops in Nevada were coming for him. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what he was going to do once you got him out. How much did he pay you to spring him? A hundred thousand? A quarter of a million?”
“How much a client pays me is none of your business. I have to go to court. Please let me pass,” Fitch said and leaned forward.
“More than a quarter of million, then?” Vigil replied, taking a step closer, forcing Fitch back. “You helped a psychopath get away so that he could kill and then kill again!”
“I’m a defense attorney. I was just doing my job,” Fitch whined and made an end run for the elevator, but Quinn blocked him again.
“That’s your excuse? You were just doing your job? That’s what the Nazis at Dachau and Auschwitz said. ‘Yes, I shoved those Jews into the ovens, but I was just following orders. I was just doing my job.’ Listen up, asshole, ‘Just doing my job’ is not an excuse!”
“Under the constitution–”
“A hit man takes money to kill people. You took money to help a vicious killer get free so that he could kill again!” Virgil shouted and Fitch cringed back. “You took money from a psychopath so that he could rape and murder young girls. ‘I was just doing my job’ is not a defense you disgusting excuse for a human being!”
Fitch hid his face behind splayed fingers and turned to run but only got two steps before he tripped over a parking stop and tumbled to the floor. Virgil started toward him then stopped and took a gasping breath.
Terrified, Fitch looked up and curled into a ball. Virgil glared, then shook his head in disgust and walked away. A few seconds later Fitch struggled to his feet and tried, unsuccessfully, to wipe the grease and exhaust scum from his cuffs and knees and hands.
As he left the garage Virgil pounded the Cadillac’s wheel twice in frustration then took a long breath and tried to force himself to purge Martin Fitch’s existence from his mind. By the time he reached the end of the block the two kids who were twenty feet behind Fitch had already uploaded the video of the entire incident to YouTube. Twelve minutes after that Virgil’s phone began to ring.
Chapter Nine
When he entered the squad room Virgil shot a questioning look at his partner but Pignataro shrugged his ignorance. Quinn looked away and saw Chief Deputy Marshal Andrew Kenner watching him. Tight-lipped and frowning, Kenner waved Virgil toward his office. Virgil took a second to review the events of the last few days and try to figure out what kind of trouble was waiting for him, but he came up empty.
Had Fitch complained about him? Virgil wondered, then relaxed. Firstly, Fitch was a no-good, scumbag defense lawyer, not the most popular group with people in law enforcement. Second, Virgil had been careful not to touch him or physically threaten him. I called him a few names but that’s not illegal, Virgil thought. How bad can it be?
“What’s up, Chief?” Virgil asked, heading for the chair in front of Kenner’s desk, then freezing under his boss’ angry stare.
“You’re going to be famous, Quinn,” Kenner said in a cold, flat voice. “Unfortunately, not in a good way.”
Virgil abandoned any thought of sitting and assumed a “parade rest” position in front of Kenner’s desk.
“I don’t understand,” he said after a long silence.
“It amazes me, Virgil, that even after Rodney King and Oscar Grant and all that shit on the evening news that it never occurs to people that everything we do is going to be recorded and put on public display.”
Recorded. The image of him shouting and Fitch falling and rolling around on the greasy garage floor popped into Quinn’s head. Oh, shit!
“You called a prominent defense lawyer ‘a disgusting excuse for a human being’ and then knocked him down.”
“I never touched him.
He tripped.”
“He tripped. Well, that makes all the difference.”
“I–”
“Not another word. As of this moment you’re on paid administrative leave while I decide whether or not to refer this to OPR or handle it myself.”
Virgil stood silent for a moment then asked, “How bad is it?”
Kenner tapped a couple of keys and peered at his monitor.
“So far your little tirade has gotten 58,281 views. I figure you’ll make a quarter of a million by the end of the day.”
“Oh, shit!” Virgil muttered.
“Oh, shit, indeed, Virgil. Go home and don’t talk to anybody, especially any reporters.”
“All right. For how long?”
“Until I figure a way out of this mess.”
Quinn stood there half a second longer then, stone-faced, strode through the squad room without a backward glance. Two days later Kenner’s secretary left a message on Quinn’s cell that he was to report to the Deputy Assistant Marshal’s office at nine on Monday morning.
Just before he left home for that meeting Virgil checked YouTube and found that he was up to 472,328 views. At least 14,911 of them gave me a thumbs-up, he thought before closing the screen.
Chapter Ten
“That’s the guy?” Charles Grantham asked, staring at the sixty-inch screen.
The shaky images rattled on, the sound tinny and thin: “You took money to help a vicious killer get free so that he could kill again! You took money from a psychopath so that he could rape and murder young girls. ‘I was just doing my job’ is not a defense you disgusting excuse for a human being!”
“Big guy, isn’t he. What is he, six-two, six-three?”
“Ahhh, I don’t know. I can find out if you’d like.”
“Nah, not important,” Grantham said, clicking the pause button and turning away from the screen. “He looks like something of a loose cannon.”
“He’s got a good record, Mayor. No disciplinary actions or reprimands in his file, until this,” Fineman nodded toward the frozen video, “but if you’re concerned he–” Grantham waved his assistant to a stop.
“Kick-ass is good. I’m sick of paper pushers. A kick-ass, take-no-prisoners guy is just what I need.” Grantham glanced back at the frozen screen. “Has he ever shot anybody?”
Fineman leafed through the file. “Uhh, twice.”
“Did he kill them?”
“One dead, one seriously wounded,” Fineman replied, running his finger down the page.
“Good, good,” Grantham said, turning to stare at the screen for a couple of seconds longer, then looking back at his Chief of Staff. “Get together with the Chief and the City Attorney and figure out what paperwork we’ll have to push to make this happen.”
“Are you sure, sir? As you said, he might be a loose cannon. He could end up making things worse, especially since he once had a relationship with Captain Tanner.”
“Sammy Theriot is killing me over these ‘Mad Dog’ murders and I am not going to lose this election. This guy,” Grantham hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the screen, “is going be my dog catcher. I don’t give a damn what his relationship with Tanner was or is. He can fuck her on the courthouse steps for all I care as long as he catches those bastards before the election. Make it happen.”
“Yes, sir,” Fineman said, jotting down a note before grabbing the next file on his stack.
Chapter Eleven
“People in high places have noticed you,” Kenner said. Virgil made no response. “The Deputy Director himself called me about you. He thinks that I should refer this to the Office of Professional Responsibility.” Kenner waited for a count of three, then continued. “I’m glad to see that you’re starting to learn when to keep your mouth shut. Would you like a chance to defend your actions? Would you like me to refer this to OPR so that you can tell them that you were just exercising your constitutional right of freedom of speech?”
“No, sir,” Virgil said, knowing that any other answer would be career suicide.
“So, you’re willing to accept my decision on this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t answer too quickly, Quinn. The Service is getting a lot of heat over your little fiasco. We can’t just ignore what you did. We have to throw the media a bone. You’re going to have to take a hit, and I’m not talking about a slap on the wrist. Or you can let OPR do an investigation and then demand a hearing if they recommend bringing you up on charges.” Since he hadn’t been asked a question, Virgil kept his mouth shut. “What’s it going to be?”
“I’d rather you handled it, sir,” Virgil said through gritted teeth.
Kenner expelled a long breath, then nodded.
“All right. First, I can’t leave you on the job after this. You will have to take time off to consider your unacceptable behavior. Here’s your request for Leave Without Pay. Sign it.” Kenner slid a form 71 across his desk. Virgil picked it up and scanned the boxes.
“The duration line is blank,” he said.
“I’ll fill that in if and when I think it’s appropriate to bring you back. I can tell you right now that it’s going to be at least two or three months. Do you want to change your mind about me sending this to OPR?”
Virgil scowled, then shook his head. “No, sir,” he said and signed the form.
“Good.” Kenner glanced at it then tucked it into Virgil’s personnel folder. “Since you’re going to have some free time, I’ve found a job for you. Unless you want to sit on your butt for the next three months.” Kenner looked at him expectantly.
“No, sir.”
“All right. It turns out that the Detroit PD needs some help tracking down a violent gang of home invaders. Thirteen people are dead, so far. There’s one survivor. You’re good at tracking criminals. I told the DPD Chief that you’d be happy to give them a hand. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. I’d be happy to give them a hand,” Virgil parroted. He’d gotten Kenner’s message loud and clear: ‘Do exactly what I tell you or you can kiss your job goodbye’ and Quinn couldn’t let anything take his job away. Remaining a Deputy U.S. Marshal was absolutely vital if he was ever going to have any hope of finding Nicole.
“Good. Your medical benefits will continue through the Service during your LWAP. The DPD will pay you the same salary you were making with us so compensation-wise, nothing’s going to change. Also, since this is a temporary duty position they’ve agreed to give you a fifteen-hundred dollar a month housing allowance. You should be able to find a decent furnished apartment for that in Detroit. Any questions?”
Virgil thought about it for a moment then asked, “What will be my official status in Detroit? A consultant? A–”
“The Mayor’s signing some kind of executive order amending their personnel rules so that the DPD can treat this as a lateral transfer. You’ll carry a DPD badge with the rank of lieutenant, but you won’t be eligible to participate in their retirement program. Any other questions?” Virgil knew that the correct answer was “No” so he just shook his head.
“Go home and pack. Your flight leaves LAX at 11:45 tomorrow morning. Your ticket’s waiting for you at the Delta counter. Someone will meet you when you land and help you get set up until you can find an apartment.” Kenner stood and extended his hand. “Good luck.”
“Thank you,” Virgil said automatically. He turned then stopped after a few feet. “They wanted you to fire me, didn’t they?”
“It was suggested that this was the kind of situation that OPR was designed to handle.”
“And OPR would have taken my star so that the Service could tell the media that they don’t condone rogue employees who want to rip up the constitution.”
“I’m sure OPR’s investigation would have been conducted with appropriate professionalism,” Kenner struggled to say without frowning.
“I’m getting close to finding Nicole,” Virgil volunteered, his voice suddenly filled with emotion. “I just need a lit
tle more time.”
“I know you do. I got you three months.”
“Then what?”
Kenner shrugged. “Then we’ll see. One day at a time, Virgil. One day at a time.”
Quinn paused a second, looking vacantly into the distance, imagining Nicole as she might look today, running into his arms, then shook his head as if waking from a dream.
“Thanks, boss. I mean it. Thanks.”
“Just stay out of trouble. Keep a low profile and in two or three months this will have all blown over and we can get back to normal around here.”
“Right,” Virgil said, hoping that it was true.
* * *
“What happened?” Brian asked as Virgil hurried past.
“It’s OK, but I’m on the clock. I’ll call you.” Virgil hurried for the door. He had barely a day to pack, close down his house and catch a plane.
Chapter Twelve
DETROIT, MICHIGAN – PRESENT DAY
She was waiting for Quinn at the gate, one of the privileges of having a badge and a gun. Nine years had left Janet Tanner tighter and leaner, like a doll once new that has been subtly worn by years of play.
When he saw her it felt like meeting in real life an actor whom you remembered from an old TV show and marveling at how different they now looked and yet how much they were still the same.
Her hair was shorter, falling just above her shoulders in a faintly military cut. Her face was thinner too and small lines marked the corners of her eyes. When she saw that Virgil had noticed her she gave him a restrained wave.
“Janet?” He hurried forward to hug her then stepped back when his carry-on got in the way.
“Hi, Virgil,” she said with a look that was someplace between discomfort and an embarrassed smile, then stuck out her hand.
Ignoring it, Quinn dropped his bag and gave her a hug.
“I thought you were in Chicago.” He took a step back, displacing the swarm of passengers streaming around them.