by Lynch, Sean
Avery wasted no time, and started on the sofa first. He wanted to use his knife and slash through the cushions, but instead chose to lift each one and search by feel. Under the sofa he found nothing but dust-bunnies. He went on to the electronics array next.
He checked the T.V., and the space behind it. He pulled out the video cassette player, and all of the stereo components, one-by-one. He made sure there were no documents taped or concealed behind either of them. He was careful to replace everything he examined to eliminate the possibility that the next person to search the apartment wouldn’t suspect someone had already been there.
Avery knew within a day or two an investigative team from the sheriff’s department would be writing and serving a search warrant at Mendenour’s apartment. It’s what he’d do if he was the supervising investigator in charge of the murders.
He finished his search of the main room by disassembling the lamp stem and finding nothing inside. He moved on to the bedroom.
In the single bedroom there was an expensive-looking bed with a matching dresser under more piles of discarded clothes. The closet, not surprisingly, was mostly devoid of clothing. The only things hanging inside were several of his sheriff’s uniforms, which Avery could tell were too old to fit the portly cop.
He checked under the mattress, in all the dresser drawers, in the pockets of the various clothes he found lying about, and even inside shoes. In one dresser drawer he found several pictures of a pretty woman and a baby. The hairstyle and clothes she wore dated the picture at least a decade, and he recalled that Mendenour’s wife had left him not long after their daughter was born, over ten years ago.
A two-drawer nightstand with a phone was next to the bed, and inside the bottom drawer was a stack of pornographic magazines. He took a moment to shake each one by its binder; no documents fell out. In the top drawer were a small flashlight and an open box of condoms.
He went into the bathroom next. In the overstuffed wastebasket Avery found several empty prescription bottles for Vicodin HP, in Mendenour’s name, and a half-full bottle of the powerful painkiller in the medicine cabinet. The overweight detective was known for chronically complaining about his bad back. The meds were presumably prescribed to alleviate the condition. Avery knew Vicodin HP was the most powerful version of the potent opiate, and if Mendenour was using that stuff he was most likely heavily-addicted. Avery was silently angry at himself for not picking up on that sooner. Had he, perhaps this entire clusterfuck could have been avoided.
The only room left was the kitchen. Avery checked the cabinets first, which was easy, because all the dishes were on the counter or in the sink. A large bottle of vodka and a fifth of Wild Turkey was all he found, and some opened cereal boxes. He checked inside the boxes and found nothing but half-consumed cereal. The wastebasket under the sink contained several empty alcohol bottles.
In the largest kitchen drawer he found a checkbook, several receipts from the Bay Meadows racetrack, and a lot of bills. A scan of the checkbook revealed Mendenour’s bank account contained a little over one-thousand dollars. The notations showed checks issued for rent, groceries, and various other run-of-the-mill transactions.
The last place to look was the refrigerator. Within it Avery found a couple of cases of Budweiser and some take-out boxes. He took a moment to examine the contents of the take-out boxes, and found nothing but moldy Chinese food. In the freezer he found some ice cream and a bag of ice.
As he pulled the refrigerator away from the wall, Avery noticed there were faint scuff marks on the dirty linoleum floor. It appeared the appliance had been moved recently. He reached a hand under the pan and was rewarded by the discovery of a solid object encased in a plastic bag.
He withdrew the object and un-wrapped the dark-colored bag. Inside were two clear plastic bags. The first contained money. There were several stacks of hundreds in one-thousand dollar bundles. The second transparent bag contained what looked to be two black bars of soap. They were both wrapped in cellophane, and Avery recognized the items as black tar heroin. He shook his head. In that quantity, the street value of the two bars of Mexican mud was a small fortune.
The bag also contained a small black book. Avery opened it, and cursed under his breath.
It was a ledger, and each page was filled with detailed handwritten entries. Every transaction for the past several years was carefully recorded. There wasn’t supposed to be records. The pocket ledger was what Trask and Mendenour must have been using to squeeze Gabriel.
Avery re-wrapped the bag and pushed the refrigerator back into place. He pocketed the parcel, and opened the refrigerator to take a beer, which he also pocketed. As he headed for the door he checked the apartment for any telltale signs he may have left which would give away his visit. Satisfied, he quietly exited the apartment, ensuring he locked the door behind him. When he passed #215 he removed the tape from the eyepiece.
Five minutes later Avery was in his Ford. He got onto the Nimitz freeway from Davis Street. He lit a cigarette and extracted the can of Budweiser from his pocket, opening it one-handed.
Avery was pleased with his score, and glad he’d taken the initiative to toss Mendenour’s place while he could. The money, dope, and ledger were sure to have been discovered by sheriff’s detectives investigating his murder, when they eventually got around to searching his apartment. He only wished he could do the same to Deputy Trask’s home, and hoped Mendenour’s former partner was smarter than he was, and didn’t leave anything so damning around which could lead back to him.
Avery had only a vague idea of what he was looking for when he went to Mendenour’s home. He knew Mendenour was an unkempt person, and expected to find disarray, but he was also a veteran narcotics detective and should have been smarter than to leave something in his residence which could implicate him.
Avery pondered the Vicodin. Mendenour was a well-known pussy hound and boozer, but so was half the department. The pills meant something more, however, and could potentially explain his recent erratic behavior.
He sipped beer and smoked as he drove home. It was certain Internal Affairs was going to sift through every facet of Mendenour’s life with a fine-tooth comb. Trask’s too. He’d know soon enough what loose ends their investigation turned up.
Avery didn’t like loose ends. He was determined to make sure that Internal Affairs’ suspicions ended with Brian Mendenour and Bernie Trask. But the biggest loose end of all was still dangling, and he knew next-to-nothing about it.
Rookie Deputy Kevin Kearns.
Chapter 14
Kearns walked down the corridor of the uppermost floor of the Alameda County Sheriff’s Headquarters with Judge Eugene Callen and Bob Farrell on either side. His freshly starched collar and tie weren’t comfortable, and the new shoes he wore were stiff on his feet.
Kearns had awakened from a night on the couch at Farrell’s apartment and dutifully telephoned his watch commander at 9:00 A.M. as ordered. He and Bob had planned to drive into Alameda, breakfast with Callen, and discuss their strategy for dealing with the impending I.A. investigation. Those plans got changed.
Kearns was ordered to report to the undersheriff’s office in Oakland at eleven o’clock. He dug out his only suit from within his duffel bag and pressed it using a can of starch Farrell provided, and ironed a clean shirt. He also quick-shined a pair of dress shoes he’d bought a week before but had yet to actually wear. He and Farrell were showered, shaved and on the road by ten o’clock. They picked up Judge Callen at his house a little after that, and twenty minutes later Farrell was parking his Oldsmobile at Lake Merritt. A minute later they were in the elevator on the way up to the undersheriff’s office.
“I just realized something,” Kearns said to Farrell. “I haven’t seen you smoke a cigarette today.”
“That’s because I haven’t,” Farrell said. “First day in over thirty-five years I haven’t started with a smoke.”
“Good for you,” Judge Callen said.
“That’
s great news,” Kearns said. “Is this the beginning of a trend?”
“Don’t jinx it,” Farrell said as they exited the elevator.
“What do you think this meeting with the undersheriff is all about?” Kearns asked, as Farrell opened the door to the undersheriff’s office and motioned for Judge Callen to enter.
“We’ll soon find out,” Farrell said.
When they walked into the lobby a stern-looking woman behind a desk looked up.
“Deputy Kearns to see the undersheriff,” he said. “I’m expected.”
“Follow me,” she said. She led them past several doors, including one which read UNDERSHERIFF and into a spacious conference room. The room was already occupied by several men seated around the large conference table.
The first person Kearns noticed was Deputy District Attorney Derlinger. The deputy D.A. wore a smug expression which instantly put Kearns on guard. There was another man he didn’t recognize in a suit, his watch commander, in uniform, Sergeant Conley, wearing a rumpled suit and looking like he hadn’t slept much, and Undersheriff Fresco.
Wade Fresco was a tall, heavy, bald man in his sixties with small eyes, a light complexion, and a no-nonsense demeanor. He was wearing an expensive-looking shirt and tie with onyx cufflinks. His tie-tack was a miniature Alameda County Sheriff’s badge. Kearns watched as Fresco gave a none-too-friendly glance of recognition to Callen. Nobody stood when the trio entered.
“Deputy Kevin Kearns, reporting as ordered,” Kearns said, addressing his watch commander.
“Who’s he?” the undersheriff asked over his shoulder to Derlinger, pointing at Farrell.
“He’s the one I told you about,” Derlinger said. “In the file.”
“He’s my investigator,” Callen said.
“Bob Farrell,” Bob said, extending his hand to the undersheriff. Fresco looked at it but didn’t extend his own hand. After a long moment, Farrell retracted his hand. A slow grin spread across his face.
“Nice to meet you, Undersheriff Fresco,” he said. “Apparently what I’ve heard about you is true.”
“What’s that?” Fresco said.
“That you’re an even bigger asshole than you look.”
Conley bit his lip to suppress a smile, Derlinger stood up in a dramatic display of outrage, Kearns’ watch commander fidgeted nervously, and the other man stared at Farrell with an even expression on his face.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Fresco said.”
Farrell looked at Callen. “I would remind you,” the Judge announced, “that I am Deputy Kearns’ legal counsel, and Mr. Farrell is in my employ. He has every right to be here to assist me.”
“Maybe so,” Derlinger spoke up, “but that doesn’t give him the right to insult the undersheriff.”
“I believe the first salvo was fired by Undersheriff Fresco,” Callen said.
“The undersheriff doesn’t have to be subjected to-”
“Shut up, Myron,” Fresco cut him off.
“Yeah,” Farrell said. “Shut up, Myron.” Callen gave Farrell a warning look.
“You have called my client in. He has duly responded. I suggest we dispense with the nonsense and get to the reason he was summoned?”
“I want to talk with Deputy Kearns,” Fresco said. “That means you two wait outside.”
“Is this part of the internal investigation?” Callen asked.
“No,” Fresco said, looking at Derlinger. “Administrative.”
Derlinger’s smug air magnified. “Administrative,” he repeated, resuming his seat.
“I am requesting to attend the meeting,” Callen said.
“Denied,” Fresco said.
“Very well,” Judge Callen said. “We’ll wait in the lobby for Deputy Kearns.”
Kearns looked quizzically at Farrell and the Judge.
“The undersheriff has the authority and right to administer the deputies under his command as he sees fit,” Callen said. “As long as he doesn’t ask you questions pertaining to the shooting, you must obey his orders or you are insubordinate.”
“Which is a termination offense,” Derlinger couldn’t refrain from saying.
“Who is this man?” Callen said, motioning with his cane to the other man in the suit.
“Lieutenant Scott Pickrell,” the man said. “Internal Affairs Division.”
“Will he be in attendance during your meeting with Deputy Kearns?”
“How and where I choose to deploy my personnel is none of your goddamn business,” Fresco said.
“So that’s how it is,” Judge Callen said.
“That’s how it is,” Fresco said. “Whining to the sheriff won’t do you any good this time.”
“Come along, Mr. Farrell.” He took Farrell’s arm. “We’ll be outside when you’re done with Deputy Kearns.
“I’ll see you again,” Farrell said to Fresco. “You too, Myron.”
“Are you threatening us?” Derlinger asked.
“Yeah,” Farrell answered, rubbing his chin. “As a matter of fact, I am.” Callen tugged on Farrell’s arm, heading for the door.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Fresco said again.
“Don’t sweat it, Kevin,” Farrell said to a forlorn Kearns as he left the room. “It’ll be okay. We’ll be outside waiting for you.”
Once the Judge and Farrell were gone, all eyes were directed on Kearns.
“Sit down,” Fresco said. It wasn’t a request. Kearns complied.
Derlinger was the first to speak. “Your friend Mr. Farrell is a real jerk,” he said. “Are all your friends assholes?”
“Watch your mouth,” Kearns said.
“What did you just say to me?” Derlinger asked.
Kearns looked slowly from the deputy district attorney, to the undersheriff, then to Sergeant Conley, to his watch commander, to Lieutenant Pickrell, and finally back to Derlinger.
“I asked you a question,” Derlinger demanded.
“I told you to watch your mouth,” Kearns said.
“Who do you think you are,” Derlinger said, “telling me to watch my mouth?”
“The guy who’s going to feed you your teeth if you insult my friend again. If you read my file, you know I ain’t bluffing.”
“Derlinger looked at the undersheriff. “Did you hear what he said to me?”
“I’ve got ears,” Fresco said. Derlinger’s face reddened. He stood up again and pointed a bony finger at Kearns.
“You listen to me, Deputy-”
“No,” Kearns interrupted him, “you listen to me. You ain’t in my chain-of-command. There is a sergeant, two lieutenants, and an executive officer in this room. I’m bound by oath and the law to follow their orders, and do whatever they tell me. But there’s nothing says I have to sit here and take shit from a pencil-neck, dickhead, paper-pusher like you. Crack wise about my friend Bob Farrell again, and it’d better be a real clever insult. Because the next time you speak it’s going to be with your jaw wired shut.”
“I don’t believe this punk,” Derlinger said. He turned to Fresco. “Are you hearing this? He’s actually threatening me in front of witnesses.”
“Shut up,” Fresco told the D.D.A. for the second time. Derlinger’s eyes widened in disbelief.”
“Sit down,” the undersheriff commanded him.
Derlinger sat down, trembling with rage.
The undersheriff turned to Kearns. “I like you, Kearns. I read your file. I know about your hunt for Vernon Slocum. Raymond Cowell, too. I understand your loyalty to Judge Callen, and your friend Farrell. I like that. You’re my kind of deputy. Doesn’t seem like you go looking for trouble, but from what I can tell you know how to handle it when it comes your way. You’re also a guy who doesn’t take a lot of shit.” He cast a sidelong glance at Derlinger. “I like that, too.”
“Why am I here?” Kearns said.
“I’ve got a problem,” Fresco said. “I got a couple of dead deputies on my hands, which means a lot of questions to answer. I’ve got the sher
iff asking questions, reporters asking questions, even the governor’s office asking questions. The public is asking questions, too. Questions I don’t have all the answers to.”
“I don’t have them either,” Kearns said.
“And I’m not asking,” the undersheriff said. “Get that straight. I don’t want you to go running back to your lawyer and tell him we were in here grilling you.”
“That hasn’t happened,” Kearns said.
“My point is,” Fresco went on, “sooner or later, the truth of the shooting is going to come out. When the facts of the shooting emerge, like all facts, they’re subject to interpretation. Facts can be interpreted a lot of different ways. People can manipulate facts, and their various interpretations, for a lot of different reasons. Not all of those interpretations are in the department’s best interest.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“What I’m saying,” Fresco said, “is that sometimes facts can be crafted into a narrative which will protect the department and maintain the integrity of the profession. You’re a smart kid, Kearns. I see you’ve completed your bachelor’s degree. Surely you can understand the benefits of occasionally preventing the citizens we serve from needlessly learning things which if they became public could cast the department in a negative light?”
“Certainly.”
“Do you like working here?” Fresco asked.
“I do.”
“That’s good,” Fresco said, “because I like having hard-charging deputies like you working for me. You’re a veteran, you have a college degree, and yesterday you showed you’ve got no shortage of guts. You possess all the ingredients to forge a stellar career here. All you have to do is add your brains into the mix, and there’s no telling how far you could go.”