Abuse of Power

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  Miller walked around in a small circle, then stopped and smiled. “To be perfectly honest, Ratso, I’ve never liked you. Don’t take offense, but there’s something about you that makes my skin crawl. Right now, though, I feel like kissing you. Do you realize what this means?”

  “I saved Grant’s life,” Ratso said.

  “More than that. It means Rachel has no case.” He slammed his fist into his opposite palm. “Who’s going to believe her stories now, huh? She’s a felon. She shot a fellow police officer. In the back, no less. What a fucking bitch. I knew her story about Grant using the Hillmont kid as a shield was bogus.” He slapped the smaller man on the shoulder. “You’re a hero, Ratso. You not only saved Grant’s life, you solved our problem with Rachel. Good work, pal. You finally made your mark around here. I’ll make certain you get a commendation. Believe me, if the chief knew what kind of trouble was brewing with Simmons, he would probably promote you to detective.”

  “Detective?” Ratso said. He would give anything to make detective. He had never thought he could rise above patrol officer. There would be no more fetching and groveling, no more degrading remarks. Grant would never expose his past. How could he? Ratso had saved his life.

  “Hey, man,” Miller said, “I owe you one.” He felt sorry for Grant, but not deeply enough to dampen his relief. When it came down to clutch time, a man had to look out for himself. “I didn’t sleep yesterday thinking about this mess. What can I do for you? Buy you a beer?”

  Ratso smiled, exposing his protruding front teeth. “I don’t like beer,” he said. “But if you want, you could wash my car for me.”

  Miller stared at him a few moments as if he were insane. “Forget it, dickhead,” he said. “You’re not that big of a hero.”

  c h a p t e r

  TWENTY-THREE

  When Tracy unlocked the front door of the house at eight o’clock Thursday morning, she found her mother sitting on the sofa in the living room. The drapes were drawn and the room was pitch black. “Why are you sitting in here in the dark?” the girl asked, knowing something was wrong. Her mother had always hated a dark house. Even at night, she seldom closed the drapes.

  “Come here,” Rachel said. “I didn’t know where to call you. I was worried about you. I couldn’t sleep. I even drove around trying to find Sheila’s house.”

  “Why would you be worried about me?” Tracy said, finding her mother’s behavior strange. “Don’t you want me to open the curtains, get some light in here? Maybe when I get home from school this afternoon, we can take Joe to the park and let him get some fresh air.”

  “No,” she said, seeing Tracy reaching for the pull to the drapes. “People are watching us. Don’t stand near the windows.”

  Her stomach fluttering with apprehension, Tracy took a seat on the sofa next to her mother. “Did something happen?” she asked. She picked up her mother’s hand, finding it cold and clammy. Her eyes were sunken, burning with intensity.

  “I’m going to send you and Joe to San Francisco to stay with Carrie for a few days,” Rachel said, her voice tinged with panic. “I don’t want you in this city. It isn’t safe.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” her daughter said. “You’re scaring me, Mom. Why are you saying these things?”

  “I can’t explain right now,” Rachel said. “You have to trust me. Go to your room and pack your bag. Throw some clothes in for Joe. I’m going to call Carrie, then see if I can find a flight leaving this afternoon.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” Tracy told her, becoming teary-eyed. “If something’s going on, I want to be here so I can help.”

  Rachel captured her face in her hands. “Listen to me,” she said. “What’s going on right now is serious. I don’t want you involved.”

  Tracy was sobbing now. “I don’t understand,” she cried, her shoulders shaking. “Why are you so afraid? Why do we have to go to San Francisco? I’m supposed to be at school in thirty minutes.”

  Her mother seized her, hugging her tightly against her chest. “Everything’s going to be fine if you just listen and do what I say.”

  “But the cheerleader tryouts are next week.”

  “What day are the tryouts?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “I’ll try to get you back by then,” Rachel told her, “but I can’t make any promises right now.”

  The girl stood, wiping her teary eyes with her fingers. After a few moments, she went to her bedroom to pack.

  Rachel dialed Carrie’s number and got her answering machine. She was leaving a message when she heard cars screech to a stop outside, followed by the sound of muffled voices. Dropping the phone, she raced to the front of the house and peered out through a crack in the drapes. Mike Atwater was standing on the sidewalk in front of her house. He was wearing a tank top and a pair of running shorts, and his hair was disheveled. Rachel wondered why he was not dressed for work, and suspected someone had paged him while he was taking his morning run. Sergeant Miller was speaking to him, along with Captain Edgar Madison.

  The contingent of men headed up the sidewalk. Why were they here? Had they come to force her to recant her statement about the shooting at the Majestic Theater? If so, why would Captain Madison and Mike Atwater be present?

  Tracy came into the living room and walked over to her mother, taking her hand and clasping it tightly. Her back was straight, and her eyes had taken on a fierce, protective look.

  Rachel was weak and in pain. Black spots danced in front of her eyes. The mere sight of a police uniform filled her with loathing. Leaning against her daughter, she whispered, “Open the door.”

  Thirty minutes later, Rachel and Tracy were seated side by side on the sofa. Captain Madison and Mike Atwater had taken the two chairs, leaving Miller standing in the back of the living room. After Captain Madison advised her that Grant had been shot and a witness had identified her as the shooter. Miller stepped forward and read Rachel her Miranda rights off a plastic card. She agreed to speak to them without an attorney.

  “Grant was shot in the back,” Miller told her. “He’s alive, but the doctors aren’t optimistic. If the bullet severed the nerves in his spine, he’ll be a paraplegic.”

  “How could someone say I shot him?” Rachel exclaimed. “Even if I had wanted to, I wouldn’t have had the nerve.” She directed her next statement to Captain Madison. “Maybe one of Timothy Hillmont’s friends came after Grant. They may have seen him using the boy as a shield.” She thought of the beating she had endured. Could she tell them what Grant had done to her? Absolutely not. She was not a fool. If she told them the truth, she would establish a motive for shooting him. He had been shot at a little before seven in the morning. She didn’t have an alibi.

  Atwater leaned forward in his seat. “After I left here last night, you went straight to bed?”

  “Yes,” Rachel said.

  “Where was Tracy?”

  “She spent the night with a friend.”

  “I see,” Atwater said, giving Tracy a fleeting smile. Many of her features were similar to her mother’s. There was a sharper edge, though. He could read it in her eyes. “You didn’t wake up until your daughter came home this morning?”

  “That’s right,” Tracy said, her voice booming out over the room. When she got excited, she had a tendency to talk too loud. “Mom never gets enough sleep. I had to shake her this morning to get her to wake up. I got home a few minutes before seven. I had to come back from Sheila’s house early so I could get ready for school.”

  Rachel’s body stiffened. She cut her eyes to her daughter. Why had she made such a statement?

  Sheila’s mother must have driven her home. Tracy was foolishly spinning a tale that she would not be able to substantiate. It might give her a few hours, a day at the most. When the truth came out, Rachel would look even more culpable.

  Atwater looked over his shoulder at Miller, then linked eyes with the captain. Tracy moved closer to Rachel on the sofa. “Did you look at your watch when you
got home?”

  “Of course,” the girl said, holding up her wrist so they could see she was wearing a watch.

  “What was the name of the girl you spent the night with?” Miller said, a small note pad in his hands.

  “Sheila Ross,” she told him. “Do you want her address and phone number?”

  “Yeah,” the sergeant said.

  “Wait,” Rachel said. “I don’t want my daughter involved in this. Go in the other room, Tracy.”

  “She has to be involved in this, Rachel,” Atwater said. “She’s the only person who can swear you were here at the time Grant Cummings was shot. Don’t you understand how serious this is? We have an eyewitness who saw you with the gun in your hand inside the locker room.”

  “Who?” Rachel demanded.

  “We’re not prepared to release that information at this time,” Captain Madison said.

  Atwater stood, motioning for Miller to follow him into the kitchen. In a low voice he said, “Your man made a mistake. Miller. Rachel was here with her daughter at the time of the shooting. You heard the girl in there. What reason does she have to lie?”

  Miller made a smacking noise with his mouth. He detested Mike Atwater. As far as he was concerned, the district attorney was a pompous prick who treated cops like uneducated baboons. If he had not taken Rachel’s word and filed a case against Grant, none of this would have happened. “How about keeping her mother out of prison, Atwater? Isn’t that a pretty good reason? Ratso’s a cop, for Christ’s sake. The man knows what he saw.”

  “Okay, okay,” Atwater said, holding up a palm. “Track down this Ross girl and verify Tracy’s statement right now. If Rachel’s alibi falls apart, I might take these allegations more seriously.”

  “There are other DA’s,” Miller told him. “My officer was shot in the back. You’re damn right you’re going to take these allegations seriously, or I’ll demand they take you off the case.”

  “Let’s slow down,” Atwater said, determined to control the situation. “Any number of things could have happened. This whole thing smacks of a setup, if you ask me.” He paused, finding it suspicious that the same men Rachel had named in the beach assault were now accusing her of a serious crime. “Your officers have been harassing this poor woman ever since the day she put on a uniform,” he said. “In case you aren’t aware of it, Rachel’s got a ton of dirt, enough to put half your department behind bars.”

  “Setup, my ass,” Miller said, stepping up in the prosecutor’s face. “No one had a bone to pick with Cummings outside of this broad. Don’t tell me you think one of my men set her up. Any idiot would know that doesn’t add up. We have an eyewitness who placed her at the scene of the crime. This is a slam-dunk, Atwater.”

  Atwater’s body grew tense. “Are you calling me an idiot. Miller?”

  “If the shoe fits,” he said.

  “There’s a window broken out in the kid’s room,” Captain Madison said, walking into the kitchen. “The shower door is busted out in the master bathroom as well.”

  The three men returned to the living room. “What happened to the bedroom window?” Atwater asked, dropping back down in a chair.

  “I don’t know,” Rachel said, a vacant look in her eyes. “Is something wrong with it?”

  “It’s shattered.”

  “One of the kids on the block probably broke it,” she told him. “Tracy, was your window broken when you left last night to go to Sheila’s house?”

  “No,” the girl said, shaking her head.

  Rachel shrugged, staring down at her hands. The less she said, the better.

  “Tell me about the shower door,” Atwater said. “It’s broken as well.”

  “I slipped,” Rachel said. “After the incident on Maple Avenue, I was so tired, I passed out in the shower and fell against the door. It happened last night, after Tracy had already left to go to her friend’s house.” She took off her shoes and showed them the cuts on her feet. “This is an older house. I guess they didn’t use shatterproof glass in the shower.”

  Miller went to the kitchen and called the Ross family. “This is Sergeant Miller with the Oak Grove PD,” he said. “I need to ask you some questions about Tracy Simmons.”

  “Wait a minute,” a groggy female voice said. “I’ll go get her.”

  “Tracy Simmons is here,” Nick Miller said, confused. “Did she spend the night at your house last night?”

  “Yes,” Madeline Ross said. “What’s going on? My husband and I had to go to a company banquet last night. I was asleep when you called.”

  “How did Tracy get home?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Do you want me to get my daughter?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  A few moments later, the woman came back on the line. “I didn’t realize how late it was,” she said. “The girls must have already left to go to school.”

  Sergeant Miller copied down the phone number for the school, disconnected and then dialed the number, asking the office to call Sheila Ross to the phone. After ten minutes had passed, the girl came on the line and Miller began shooting questions at her. “You didn’t see Tracy this morning?”

  “No,” Sheila said, “I guess she got up and went home while I was still sleeping. She does that sometimes.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “About midnight when we went to sleep.”

  “You didn’t wake up when she left the house this morning?”

  “No,” the girl said.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Miller said, replacing the phone on the cradle. For a long time, he just stood there, staring off into space. It might appear that Rachel had an alibi for the time in question, but in reality, she had nothing. No one could substantiate the exact time Tracy had left the Rosses’ house. Any jury would realize a daughter might lie to protect her mother. With the father dead, Rachel and her daughter had to be extremely close. Did the girl know the truth? She was only a kid. In most instances, teenage girls cracked easily during interrogation.

  Returning to the living room. Miller said, “I’m taking the girl down to the station for questioning.”

  The captain looked up, but he remained in the same position, his arms folded over his chest.

  “I can’t let you do that,” Atwater said. “She’s a minor. Miller. You can’t interrogate a minor outside the presence of her parents. Surely you realize that.”

  “She’s not under arrest,” Miller countered. “I have an obligation to question her. Since her mother is our primary suspect, how can I get a straight answer with Rachel in the same room?”

  “It’s okay,” Tracy said, looking over at Rachel. “I don’t mind going with him. They can ask me all the questions they want.” She turned back to the men. “My mom didn’t shoot anyone. She was right here with me.”

  “I will not allow my daughter to leave the house,” Rachel said, knowing Tracy was in over her head. “If you want to question her, you’ll have to get a court order.”

  “Want to play hardball, huh?” Captain Madison said, his voice gruff. A master at body language, he decided Rachel might be putting on a good show, but something was clearly troubling her. Her skin was ashen. Her eyes were haunted. She had her arms wrapped around her waist, and on several occasions, he saw her wince as if she were in pain. She kept her hands folded in her lap, a good way to control the jitters. Her daughter was a nervous wreck as well, her eyes darting back and forth from the men to her mother.

  “All I know,” he said, standing and directing his statement to Mike Atwater, “is I have an officer who may never walk again. I find this kind of problem extremely distasteful. Officers accusing one another of crimes. Shootings in the station house.” He turned and faced Rachel. “I’ll take your badge and gun now. Until we get to the bottom of this, I’m going to have to suspend you.”

  “Aren’t you being somewhat hasty?” Atwater said. “I mean, until we know more, is it wise to suspend her?”

  “Wise?” the captain s
aid, his upper lip recoiling. “I’m not sure if it’s wise, Atwater, but it’s department procedure to suspend an officer facing criminal charges.”

  “I’ll have to go out to the car,” Rachel told him, fishing her shield out of her pocket and handing it to him. “I keep my service revolver in the glove box.”

  “Just give me your car keys,” Madison said. “I’ll get the gun on my way out, then leave your keys on the floorboard.”

  “Fine,” she said, going to the other room to retrieve her purse.

  Once Rachel had returned and handed over her car keys, Mike Atwater walked the captain to the door, then stepped outside to speak to him privately. “I don’t have enough to sanction an arrest without conferring with Ringwald,” he said. “Since Cummings is alive, my advice is that we wait until he wakes up and see what he says. Have your men canvas the area near the police station to see if anyone saw a black Pathfinder like Rachel’s at the time of the shooting. It might also be a good idea to check the neighbors here as well, see if one of them saw Rachel leave the house this morning. Once they dig the bullet out of Cummings, send it to ballistics and see what they make of it.” He started to step through the door and then stopped. “Rachel might have a point about the Hillmont boy. One of his football buddies might have decided to seek revenge against Grant for using the kid as a shield.”

  “That’s just fine and dandy,” Madison said, squinting in the morning sun. “But what if the shooter comes back to finish the job? Whoever shot Cummings must have cooked up a pretty good mad, don’t you think? Besides, this was an inside job. The shooter had to have a key to gain entrance to the station. The front doors are kept locked until nine, when the support personnel arrive.”

  “Post a guard outside his door,” Atwater suggested.