“How long has he been out there?”
“Two years, Chief.” Assistant Chief Morlock was reading from Max Kincaid’s personnel file.
“Did he ever apply for a transfer?”
“The first year. He was rejected. He didn’t try again.”
“Why didn’t he resign?”
“Too close to retirement would be my guess. Besides, who else would take him after the stunts he pulled?”
“That’s true. Well, wake him up and tell him to get down here. His exile is about to end.”
In the dark, Max Kincaid felt for the phone as if it were a hooker with time left on her meter. “Yeah?”
“Sergeant Kincaid. This is Chief Stalling’s office. The chief wants you in his office in an hour.”
“You’ve got the wrong number.” Kincaid unplugged his phone and went back to sleep.
Twenty minutes later, a battering ram was testing his front door. Kincaid rolled out of bed, walked across his efficiency apartment, and viewed the proceedings through his peep-hole. My, my, he thought. They’ve got my old lieutenant down here. Avery Bitterman was one of the few officers Kincaid would listen to, or at least he once was. Bitterman was leaning against the far wall, massaging his scalp. Two uniforms were banging on the front door in tandem. Kincaid thought about reporting a disorderly-in-public to the station house and giving everyone a shitload of paperwork to do but decided against it. The pleasure would be pale and brief, and Bitterman was one of his last friends.
“Good morning, Officers,” he said, swinging the door wide open. “Anything I can do for you this fine summer day? Sorry if I was a little slow getting to the door. I’ve only been asleep for …” He checked his watch. “Fifty minutes.”
“That’s enough. I’ll talk to Sergeant Kincaid.” Bitterman pushed off from the wall. The two officers turned and walked down the hall. Bitterman moved past Kincaid, into the apartment. He sat at the card table next to the kitchenette. “Sit down, Max. You might be interested in what I have to say.”
Kincaid pulled out a folding chair and stared at Bitterman. They had worked Homicide together for ten years, until everything came apart. He hadn’t seen him in over a year, but Bitterman still looked the same.
“Been awhile, Avery. How’ve you been?”
“Don’t ask. Chief Stalling asked me to come over and roust you as a personal favor. He’s pissed about the phone call but he’s willing to cut you a little slack. That’s because he thinks he needs you. That’s a real fragile thought, Max. Listen carefully. This is a one-time offer. You know there’s been a directive to retrain and re-qualify all officers in firearm procedures. To do that, they either have to hire new instructors at the academy or reassign officers. Reassignment is cheaper. He wants you to be one of the instructors. That’s the offer. Max, it’s day work, you can use your skills, and it’s a chance to practice what you preached.”
Kincaid walked around the proposal, looking for its tripwire.
“Why me? I’m the last person on earth they’d want over there.”
“I’ll let the chief explain it to you, Max. Just get dressed, I’m supposed to deliver you personally.”
Kincaid arrived at headquarters within the hour he’d been originally allotted. The chief’s secretary announced his arrival as soon as he walked in.
Chief Stalling looked up briefly and said, “Take a seat, Sergeant.” Kincaid did and stared at the top of the chief’s head while he read the file on Max Kincaid. When he looked up, Kincaid marveled at how much he looked like a fruit bat. Jug ears, pug nose, all those uneven teeth in that brown face. Kincaid realized he hadn’t been listening.
“Excuse me, Chief; could you repeat that?”
“Am I boring you, Kincaid?”
“No sir, it’s just that I’m still a little fuzzy. I’d just come off duty when Lieutenant Bitterman showed up.”
“What I asked you is whether you wanted a transfer to the academy. You’d be senior firearms examiner and sit on the weapons-use review team.”
“Sir, why am I being offered this position? I can’t imagine that you’d want me anywhere near the academy. You’ve got my file there, you know the history.”
“That’s exactly why I’m offering you the transfer. You made a lot of enemies when you were doing deadly-force investigations. Your memos pissed off a lot of people. Turns out you were right about a lot of things. You know the mayor has mandated complete retraining and re-qualification of all officers—I repeat, all officers—in proper firearm procedure. I read all your memos, Kincaid. I’d think that you’d jump at this opportunity. You’d be able to train officers so they wouldn’t be a danger to themselves, their partners, or the citizens. It’s what you said was needed.”
“So I’m the poster boy for the department’s new get-tough policy. If you read those memos, you know I was especially critical of management. You hired hundreds of officers without background checks just so the budget allocations wouldn’t get lost. Many of them were never properly trained on firearms. Hell, the shooting range wasn’t open for how long, a year? Most officers have never been re-qualified. You know that a number of women officers were qualifying on their backs. Yeah, we’ve got people out there with guns and the authority to use them but no skill or judgment, and I’m all for getting them off the streets, but I won’t whitewash the department. They were sent out into a combat zone without the tools to do the job. That’s management’s fault. Was then, is now.”
“Are you through? In case you hadn’t noticed, I was not part of that ‘you’ you so eloquently denounced. I was brought in to change the way things are done. I’m asking you if you want to be part of that change. You take care of your end of this and I’ll take care of mine. You look old enough to remember this line, Sergeant: ‘If you aren’t part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.’ So, what’ll it be?”
Kincaid was silent for a while. “When do I start?” He’d been saying yes inside ever since Bitterman told him of the offer, but he didn’t want anyone to know how hungry he was.
“Effective immediately. You have a weapons-use review scheduled for one o’clock. It’s a homicide. You can move into your office as soon as you like. Cherise will handle the paperwork. The case file on the shooting is on her desk. Take it on your way out. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.” Kincaid stood up and left the office. He picked up the file and began to read it in the elevator. Out on the street, he blinked at the sunlight, at all the people on the streets. He’d slept through all of this for two years. The solitude, the darkness, hadn’t been all bad.
He crossed the street, entered the support-services building, and took the elevator to the top floor. Weapons-Use Review was a secured section. He showed his badge, signed the book, and deposited his weapon in the safe. The receptionist told him that his office was 704 and the door buzzed open. He walked back, following the numbers on the doors. 704 had a window on the back wall that offered a view into another office across the alley. The furniture was strictly functional: gray steel desk, gray steel shelves, gray steel file, a chalkboard for crime-scene diagrams. There was a microphone sticking out of the desk, like an antenna on a bug’s head. The tape recorder would be in the upper right drawer. He’d move it over as he was left-handed. One chair for the officer, one for counsel or union rep. He sat behind the desk, moved the phone to the left side, and checked the drawers. His predecessor had cleared out everything but the dust. Fortunately, Max asked little of his surroundings and put little into them. He’d be functional by one o’clock. He called the academy.
“Director Hansen, please. This is Sergeant Kincaid.”
“Max. Bruce Hansen. I hear you’re coming over here. Is that so?”
“God’s truth, Bruce. I need to schedule a time on the range. Get myself re-qualified.”
“What for? Christ, you’ve forgotten more about procedure than most officers ever learn.”
“Maybe, but the word from on high is everybody retrains. I need to show that
I’m qualified, not just say so. And I need to be more than qualified. I need to be better than anyone else. When I tell some A.C. that he’s failed and he has to turn in his piece, I want to be able to show him there and then how you do it. I’ve been off the street for two years, Bruce. That’s a lot of rust.”
“Okay. How about four o’clock today? I’ll have Hapgood be your examiner.”
“Thanks, Bruce.” Max figured he’d wait a week or so before he suggested to his new boss that all examiners should be on the course at least once a week to work on their own shortcomings.
The next phone call would be much harder. He punched in Vicki’s number.
“Hello,” he heard.
“Hi, Vicki. It’s Dad. I’m glad I caught you. Are you in-between classes?”
“Yeah. Where are you calling from?” She hadn’t recognized the number on her screen, which increased the likelihood that she’d answer the call.
“My new job. I’m at the academy. It’s day work, like normal people. Monday through Friday. I wanted to let you know right away. Maybe we could do something this weekend. It’s been quite awhile, you know.”
“Yeah, it has, Dad. Quite awhile. Only thing is, I’ve got some plans for this weekend. I’m going to the beach with a bunch of friends. They’re counting on me and I’ve already paid for the room, so I’d be out the money if I didn’t go.”
Kincaid picked up right on cue. He wouldn’t want such a reasonable excuse to fall flat between them. “Of course, honey. I understand. It’s late notice. I just wanted you to know what my schedule is. We could go out to dinner some night when you don’t have a lot of homework, or a weekend—do something together. Are you still playing soccer?”
“Yes, Dad. I still play soccer. Every weekend. Have since I was nine years old.”
“Well, I’d like to come see you play. When is your next game?”
“We’ve got a State Cup game next week. It’s down in Roanoke. Why don’t you wait until there’s one nearby. I’ll send you a schedule.”
“Thanks. That’s great. You have my address, don’t you?”
“I have your address, Dad. Look, I’ve got to go. I’m going to be late for my next class.”
“Sure, honey. Have fun at the beach.” He almost said “I love you,” but no one was listening.
Officer Delbert Tillis entered Kincaid’s office at one o’clock. He was tall and thin, with a flattop and a pencil-thin moustache. His features were soft and blunt, and his ears flared out at the bottom like Michael Jordan’s.
“Sit down, Officer Tillis. My name is Sergeant Max Kincaid. I’m interviewing you as part of the weapons-use review team. This team will collect evidence and make a finding as to whether the shooting was justified or not and whether you will be subject to any disciplinary action. Because a person died as the result of you discharging your weapon, Homicide is also investigating this and will present their evidence to a district attorney, who may indict you criminally. The information from our investigation may be turned over to the district attorney. You have the right to have an attorney present for this interview, or a member of the police officers’ union. Do you waive that right?”
“Yeah. I’ve got nothing to hide.” Tillis stared straight at Kincaid.
“For the record, state your name, badge number, and present assignment.”
“Officer Delbert P. Tillis, Junior. Badge number four-one-oh-nine, assigned to the second district.” Crisp, confident.
“This interview is being tape-recorded. You or your attorney is entitled to a copy of the transcript of this interview. Why don’t you tell me everything that happened?”
“Where do you want me to start?”
“It’s your story. Start at the start, go to the end. I’m not going to interrupt you or ask any questions.” Too often, questioning improved the quality of the story. Kincaid wanted it to be all Tillis.
“Fine, whatever.” Tillis looked annoyed.
Kincaid set a pad in front of himself and adjusted the volume on the recorder. His notes would mostly be diagrams, converting the officer’s words to actions. He’d note inconsistencies between approved procedures and the report with brief questions. Later, he’d read the transcript and compare his thought processes as he moved through the story with what Tillis had to say, looking first for plausible differences and then for the lies.
“I saw the guy sitting in the car. He looked like he could have been sleeping, or hurt, or dead. I didn’t know what. The place was deserted, man. I didn’t have no backup. I didn’t know what I was walking into, so I pulled out my piece and I came up alongside the car, and, you know, I tapped on the window with the barrel, just, like, to startle him, to see if he woke up, and, bam, the thing went off. You know how the piece is, man, it went off. I didn’t even pull the trigger. Shit, man, you gotta believe me, I did not mean to kill that guy. It was an accident.”
Tillis was leaning forward in his chair, palms open as a sign of his transparency. His eyes had been fixed on Kincaid’s blank face the whole time he spoke.
“How long have you been on the force, Officer?”
“Four years.”
“All in the second?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time you were qualified in weapons procedure?”
Tillis looked away. “I don’t remember.”
“Were you notified, were you scheduled?”
“Yes.”
“Did you shoot?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Two.”
“Did you qualify?”
“No.”
“Do you remember what the proper procedure is for the use of a firearm as a door knocker?”
“No.”
“No? There is none. It’s a gun. How many times have you done this, Officer? Knock, knock, open up—whoops, guess I shot you. Didn’t mean to. Sorry.”
“None. It’s never happened before.”
“Lucky you. Where’s your piece, Officer?”
“Homicide took it at the scene.”
“Let’s go back to the start. I’m a little fuzzy there. You said the place was deserted. What were you doing there?”
“I saw this guy’s car there, by itself; so I went down to check it out. You know, maybe it was kids doing the nasty. I’d roust ’em, move ’em out of there. It ain’t a good neighborhood.”
“Where was the car again?”
“Parked at the end of the road.”
“Right. So you went down there.” Kincaid looked at his notes. “From where?”
“From the street, man. I was driving by. I just picked up some food at Mickey D’s.”
“Were you on duty, Officer?”
“No.”
“A little bit slower this time. You see the car from the street. Then what?”
“I pulled down the road till I got to the car.”
“You see anything in the car?”
“No, it was dark. So I pulled up alongside. I got out and walked towards it. That’s when I see the guy.”
“And the gun goes off. Then what?”
“Then what? I freak out, man. I reach in the door, the window’s all gone, open it up, and he falls out into my arms. I mean, he’s dead. I know that right away. Half of his head is gone. I just lost it, man.” Tillis looked down and shook his head.
“Lost it how?”
He shrugged. Kincaid leaned forward. “I need your words, Officer Tillis; you lost it how?”
Kincaid turned up the volume on the recorder to catch Tillis’s whispered reply. “I just dropped him, right there in the dirt. I jumped back, my heart was pounding. His head had flopped over and all I saw was this big hole, and blood, and bones, and all this soft gooey shit, so I dropped him and he fell in the dirt. And I’m thinking, I shot this guy, I killed him, and I can’t even pick him up out of the dirt. He shouldn’t be lying there like that. It wasn’t right, but I just couldn’t pick him up. I couldn’t. I just went around the car and go
t my radio and called it in.”
“You ever shot anyone before, Officer Tillis?”
“No. I’ve never discharged my weapon in the line of duty.”
“Has the department psychologist spoken to you yet?”
“No. I’m supposed to see him tomorrow.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t know. What good is talking about it? It’s done. I did it. Nothing’s gonna change that.”
“You’d be surprised. Talking about things can make a big difference. Killing a man, that’s a heavy load to carry alone. Especially an accident. I think that’s even tougher than murder. Murder, you get what you want. An accident, jeez, what a waste. But, hey, I’m no psychologist.”
Kincaid reviewed his notes and leaned back in his chair. “Listen, why don’t we wrap it up right now. I’ll get this typed up and the team will review it. If I have any more questions, you’ll be at home, right?”
“Yeah.”
“This is Sergeant Max Kincaid. Interview terminated at one fifty-one p.m.”
Tillis pushed away from the desk. He stood up and shook his head with sadness as he said, “You gotta believe me. I’m telling the truth. I didn’t mean to kill that guy.”
Kincaid nodded. “I believe you, Officer Tillis.”
Alone, he buzzed the front desk. “I have an interview tape that needs to be transcribed. How do I get that done?”
“That’s part of my job, Sergeant. Is there anything else you need?”
“Yeah, get me Officer Tillis’s personnel file—and who’s handling this investigation out of Homicide?”
“Uh, that would be Detective Seymour.”
“Seymour? Don’t think I know him.”
“Probably not, sir.”
“When will the report be sent over?”
“Detective Seymour will be bringing it over this afternoon.”
Kincaid left the building and walked around the corner to a sandwich shop and ate a “U-Boat” for lunch: bratwurst, sauerkraut, and mustard on a roll; side of German potato salad. Tillis’s file was on his desk when he returned. Pulling the window shade up, he rested his heels on the window ledge while he read. A knock on his door turned him around and upright.
Mary, Mary, Shut the Door Page 25