OFFICER INVOLVED

by Lynch, Sean

  “I’m not sure I get your meaning,” Kearns said coolly.

  “The fuck you don’t,” Fresco said, his finger still aimed at Kearns like a pistol. “I’ve spent almost forty years behind a star, and I’ll be damned in hell if some snot-nosed, rookie, punk with only a few months behind his badge will threaten me.”

  “Sir,” Pickrell tried to speak up again. Deputy D.A. Derlinger’s face had gone pale. Sergeant Conley and the other man in the room watched the exchange impassively.

  “Three time’s a charm, Rookie,” Fresco said, disregarding Pickrell’s attempt to intervene. “Your luck’s about to run out. Maybe the next time somebody takes a shot at you, you’ll walk into a bullet. After all,” he said, “today is Friday the thirteenth; anything can happen.”

  Pickrell now put both palms to his face. Derlinger’s jaw dropped.

  Kearns looked steadily at the undersheriff, who lowered his hand but didn’t sit down. His large belly was heaving from exertion and his face slowly began to resume its normal hue.

  “Will that be all?” Kearns said.

  “That’ll be all,” Undersheriff Fresco said. He sat down. “Lieutenant Pickrell will coordinate your protection detail. Get out of my office.”

  Kearns turned and walked out, with Pickrell, Conley, and the third man at his heels. Kearns risked a glance backwards as Fresco’s office door shut and could tell by Derlinger’s forlorn expression that the deputy D.A. wished he was leaving as well.

  Farrell and the Judge stood when they came out. Both could see by the faces of the men who left Undersheriff Fresco’s office that the meeting had not gone especially well.

  “How’d it go?” the Judge asked Kearns.

  “Peachy,” Kearns said. “Especially the part where the undersheriff threatened my life.”

  “You’re kidding, I hope?” Callen said.

  “I wish I was.” Farrell and Callen looked to Sergeant Conley for a denial and didn’t get one.

  “Is this true?” Farrell asked Conley.

  “I’m afraid so,” the detective sergeant said.

  “Now hold on a minute,” Lieutenant Pickrell said. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions which aren’t supported by facts.”

  “Did we hear the same conversation?” Conley said. “Fresco was way the hell out of line.”

  “I agree that the undersheriff could have been more diplomatic,” Pickrell said.

  “More diplomatic? He all but told Kearns he hoped he got killed,” Conley said.

  “I don’t recall hearing any such thing,” Pickrell said.

  “You always such an ass-kissing, bag-of-puss,” Farrell said to Pickrell, “or only on Fridays?”

  “Forget it,” Kearns said, glaring at Lieutenant Pickrell. “It’s my word against his, and I wouldn’t want to put Sergeant Conley on the spot taking sides.”

  “Apparently Sheriff Strummer’s countermanding Fresco’s cancellation of your probation didn’t go down too well,” Judge Callen said.

  “I’m beginning to believe the undersheriff doesn’t like me,” Kearns said.

  “Fresco didn’t call you downtown just to harass you, did he?” Callen said.

  “He had a reason. He’s assigning me a protection detail.”

  “A protection detail?” the Judge said.

  “More like a surveillance detail, I’m guessing,” Farrell said.

  “That’s my thinking,” Kearns agreed. “Let’s get out of here. We can talk about this somewhere else.”

  “Good idea,” Judge Callen said. They headed for the lobby door.

  “Hold on a minute, Deputy Kearns,” Lieutenant Pickrell said. Kearns stopped, turned around, and faced him. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “There’s the matter of your protection detail.” He motioned for the man in the suit from Fresco’s office to step forward.

  “This is Sergeant Vincent Avery,” Pickrell said. “He’s the supervisor in charge of Vice and Narcotics. He’s been temporarily re-assigned. He’ll be in charge of your protection.”

  “I don’t like this any more than you do, Deputy,” Avery said. “But like you, I’ve got my orders.”

  “Who are you going to be answering to?” Farrell asked.

  “He’ll be reporting to me,” Pickrell answered for him, “if it’s any of your business.”

  “You’re Farrell, aren’t you?” Avery said. “Retired S.F.P.D., I hear.”

  “That’s me.”

  Avery appraised him for a moment without expression. “Care for a smoke?” he finally said. “You look like a smoker.” He withdrew a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered it to Farrell, who stared for long seconds at his extended hand.

  “No thanks,” Farrell said. “I recently quit.”

  “Why would you do a thing like that?” Avery said. He stuck a cigarette between his lips.

  “Life’s crazy enough without smoking,” Farrell said.

  “It’s a crazy life,” Avery said.

  “Are your orders to protect him,” Judge Callen said to Avery, “or spy on Deputy Kearns for Undersheriff Fresco?”

  “I don’t give a shit about politics,” Avery told him. “I’ve been assigned to keep Kearns among the living. As far as I’m concerned, that’s my only job.”

  “Considering how hard some people have been working lately to end my life,” Kearns said, “you may have your work cut out for you.”

  Chapter 29

  “Could you have worn any more cologne?” Kearns asked. “There’re citizens of Nevada who could pick up your scent. What’s it called anyway, Agent Orange?”

  “Shut up,” Farrell told him as he got out of his Oldsmobile. “It was a Christmas gift from Jennifer. If you must know, it’s called Drakkar Noir.”

  “Is that Norwegian for ‘creepy old bastard’?”

  “Hysterical,” Farrell said, straightening his tie and checking his reflection in the driver’s door window.

  “How come I’ve never smelled it on you before?”

  “Since Jennifer is here visiting, I thought I’d show my appreciation and wear it.”

  “So it has nothing to do with our visit to Dr. Marks?” Kearns said, fighting to restrain his grin.

  “Shut up,” Farrell repeated. “Or I’ll make you walk home.”

  Before leaving the lobby to Undersheriff Fresco’s office, Lieutenant Pickrell gave Kearns a pager and orders to immediately report in to Sergeant Avery if he received a page, day or night. Then he left Kearns to be briefed by Avery himself.

  “Hey,” Farrell called out as he walked away. Pickrell turned around.

  “Don’t think I don’t know that what you’re doing to Kevin is a railroad job,” Farrell said, “and that you’re the engineer.”

  “All aboard,” Pickrell said with a smirk, and walked out.

  “He’s a very unlikeable person,” Judge Callen said, watching Pickrell go.

  “You aren’t the only one who holds that opinion,” Sergeant Conley said.

  “I’ll bet not,” Farrell said.

  Conley pointed to the pager clipped on Farrell’s belt, made a telephone gesture with his thumb and pinky finger, and left Farrell, Judge Callen and Kearns with Sergeant Avery.

  Sergeant Avery seemed to be a man of few words. He told Kearns, as Farrell and the Judge looked on, that undercover detectives from his unit would be following him around the clock until further notice. He wouldn’t say how many, and admonished Kearns not to try and spot them. He reminded Kearns he was responsible for keeping him informed of his whereabouts at all times, per the undersheriff’s direct order. He also told Kearns if the protection detail lost him, not only could he potentially lose his life, he’d lose his job for failing to follow orders. He finished by pointing to Kearns’ new pager, and ordered him to keep it with him at all times. The phone number to the device was taped on the back. He also gave out his own pager’s phone number. Then he left.

  “You think he’s one of Fresco’s boys?” Kearns asked.

  “Too early
to tell,” Farrell said, writing down both Avery’s pager number and Kearns new number in his pocket notebook. “As the supervisor of the Vice and Narcotics Unit, Sergeant Avery would be the logical choice to head up a protection detail made up of undercover detectives. Whether he’s in the undersheriff’s camp remains to be seen.”

  “I think it would be best to assume he is,” Callen said.

  “I agree,” Farrell said. “Doesn’t really matter if he is or not; he reports to Lieutenant Pickrell. We know where his loyalties lie.”

  “Pickrell is a fucking douchebag,” Kearns couldn’t help but say aloud.

  At that moment Deputy D.A. Derlinger walked out of the undersheriff’s office.

  “Speaking of fornicating feminine hygiene products,” Farrell said.

  Derlinger approached the trio. “I want you to know, Deputy,” he said, “I don’t approve of the language used today by Undersheriff Fresco.”

  “But you approve of what he’s doing?” Kearns said.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. You’re the one who gave him advice on how to legally do it.”

  “I was only doing my job,” Derlinger said. “Following orders.”

  “Lot of Nazi concentration camp guards said the same thing at Nuremberg,” Judge Callen said.

  “I’ve got to go,” Derlinger said. He left the office, looking at the floor.

  When they departed the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office headquarters, Kearns asked Farrell to drive him to Siegle’s Guns, two miles away at Telegraph Avenue and West MacArthur Boulevard. Farrell was more than familiar with the establishment.

  Farrell and the Judge waited patiently while the nimble fingers of master-gunsmith Norm Hynds removed the sideplate of the .45 revolver Kearns had been given at Mrs. Murphy’s insistence. In addition to being one of the best double-action service revolver gunsmiths around, Hynds was a retired police officer, and one of the original cadre of green berets inducted as part of the 10th Special Forces Group. He and Farrell had become acquainted years ago during the days when they both competed in California Police Pistol Combat matches, and he was the only person allowed to work on Farrell’s weapons ever since.

  As a favor to Farrell, Hynds dropped the hunting rifle he’d been repairing and within minutes had detail-stripped and examined Kearns’ revolver. After checking the timing and declaring it in mint and nearly unfired condition, he nonetheless replaced the center pin spring, bolt plunger spring, hand lever spring, rebound slide spring, sear spring, yoke stop spring, and mainspring, due the weapon’s age. He finished by cleaning and oiling it, and thirty minutes after entering the shop handed Kearns back his gun and assured him the martial revolver was now as sound as the day it was manufactured.

  Hynds sold Kearns a Bianchi vertical shoulder holster, a handful of half-moon and full-moon clips to aid in the ejection of the rimless semi-auto cartridges his gun was chambered for, and two boxes of ammunition; one box of Winchester 185 grain Silvertip .45 ACP, and one box of Remington-Peters .45 Auto Rim, which could be fired and extracted without the use of the clips. He only charged Kearns for what he bought, and not his gunsmithing services.

  Within minutes of leaving the sheriff’s headquarters on the way to the gun shop, Farrell announced he’d spotted their tail. Kearns saw nothing but mid-day downtown Oakland traffic. Consequently, when they left Siegle’s Guns, Kearns asked Farrell if he could still spot the protection detail following them.

  “Like a pregnant nun,” was all Farrell said.

  They dropped the Judge off at his home in Alameda, and headed for Pleasanton and Kearns’ second mandatory counseling appointment. During the drive on Interstate 580, Kearns loaded his revolver with six rounds of .45 Auto Rim, and filled two full-moon clips with six .45 ACP Silvertip rounds each. He placed the spare ammunition in his jacket pocket, and spent the remainder of the journey adjusting the shoulder holster to his physique. Satisfied with its fit, he inserted the revolver and put his jacket on over it. Thanks to the V-shape of his torso, the result of years of regular progressive resistance training, the big revolver wasn’t noticeable unless someone specifically looked for it.

  Farrell occupied himself with whistling along to one of his cassette tapes of Frank Sinatra’s Capitol classics.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you,” Kearns said, as Old Blue Eyes sang I’ve got the World on a String. “I didn’t expect you to be in such good spirits. After a couple of days without cigarettes I thought you’d be crawling the walls.”

  “You underestimate my will,” Farrell said.

  “You’re right,” Kearns admitted. “After Vernon Slocum, I should know better.”

  When they parked in front of Dr. Marks’ office, Kearns was surprised to see Farrell extract a bottle of cologne from the glove compartment and liberally apply it. He also popped a breath mint.

  “You want to trim your nose hairs, while you’re at it?” Kearns asked.

  “Let’s go,” he said to Kearns, ignoring the remark and checking his watch. “We don’t want to keep the good doctor waiting.”

  “Whose appointment is it anyway; yours or mine?”

  “Shake a leg,” Farrell said, already out of the car.

  When they entered her office, they found Dr. Marks wearing jeans, a bright yellow, short-sleeved shirt with the collar turned up, and a pair of flat shoes. She wore a bow clipped in her short hair, and looked twenty years younger than Kearns knew she was. She also looked very attractive. She must have noticed Kearns and Farrell appraising her attire.

  “I like to dress down on Fridays,” she explained. “I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all,” Kearns said. “As you can see,” he pointed to his own jeans, boots, T-shirt, and wait-length denim jacket, “I prefer to dress down all the time.”

  “You should try it some time, Mr. Farrell,” she said. “You look rather stiff in that suit.”

  “He’s stiff all right,” Kearns said.

  “You remembered my name,” Farrell said, ignoring Kearns and shaking her hand. “I’m flattered.”

  “Of course,” she said. “A good secretary always remembers the names of her boss’s clients.”

  “I’m sorry for mistaking you as the secretary,” Farrell said.

  “Don’t be,” Dr. Marks said. “An administrative assistant is no less honorable work than a psychiatrist.” Her eyes danced. “I was only teasing you.” She motioned for Kearns to follow her into her interior room. “Will you be waiting?”

  “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away,” Farrell said.

  “I don’t know how long we’ll be,” she said. “It could be a while.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Dr. Marks led Kearns to her cozy office and closed the door. He noticed a thick file on the stand near her big leather chair which was labeled with his name. He waited for her to sit, and then did the same.

  “Take your coat off and get comfortable,” she said, settling in.

  “If I took my coat off you might not be comfortable,” Kearns said.

  “I presume that means you’re wearing a firearm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you think I was going to attack you during our session?”

  “Leaving a loaded gun in a car isn’t safe,” Kearns said. “It’s practically inviting someone to steal it, and against my department’s regulations.”

  “You could have left it at home,” she said.

  “Not likely.”

  “Do you always carry your gun,” she said.

  “Not before two days ago. If you’d experienced the couple of days I’ve had,” Kearns said, “the last thing you’d leave at home is your gun.”

  “So I’ve been told,” she said, picking up the file. “I was notified this morning by the sheriff’s office that you were involved in yet another shooting incident.”

  “That’s what the department is calling it? A shooting incident?”

  “What would you call it?”

 
“Attempted murder.”

  “I wasn’t provided any details,” she said, taking off her glasses. “Only a notification.”

  Kearns shrugged.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Not much to tell,” Kearns said. “Last night two guys armed with a sawed-off shotgun and a machinegun were waiting for me at my former girlfriend’s place.”

  “You told me yesterday your relationship had ended?”

  “It did. I only went back to retrieve something.”

  “How did the gunmen know you were going to be there at that time?”

  “That’s what makes it attempted murder.”

  “What exactly occurred?”

  “The shooters mistook somebody else for me; another deputy who happened by to visit. They blew him to pieces.”

  “I presume you’d be dead if they’d encountered you instead?”

  “They did encounter me.”

  “What was the result of that?”

  “I killed one of them. The other one got away.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Every day,” Kearns said. “My former girlfriend is even luckier. The deputy was killed on her doorstep, probably while ringing her doorbell. If she’d been home, and opened the door, she’d undoubtedly have been blown to hell along with him.”

  “It sounds positively horrific,” Dr. Marks said. “Especially in the aftermath of the experience you had on Wednesday.”

  “I agree. ‘Shooting incident’ doesn’t quite do the affair justice, does it?”

  “No it doesn’t.”

  Dr. Marks patted the folder on her lap. “I learned this wasn’t your first gunfight,” she said. “Was it?”

  “Been doing some light reading, I see,” Kearns said.

  “The file was delivered this morning,” she acknowledged. “I must admit, it makes for an interesting study.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “Your background and experiences explain a great deal.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Kearns said. “I’ve never read it.”

  “I’d like to ask you some more questions, if I may?”