On the expressway to your hummm.
Hummm too crowded.
Won’t look in my direction.
Expressway to hummm heart.
Bernie Rabbit breaks in, “That goes out to the brave men and women of the Highway Patrol. Get down with your bad self.”
“Go ahead, Bernie. You’re the man.”
Mickey gets off south I-95 at Callowhill Street, drives to 8th Street, then to the Roundhouse on Vine.
CHAPTER 10
“Let him who will not have advice have conflict.”
Irish Proverb
Mickey pulls into Headquarters’ rear lot and finds an empty spot on the back row next to the fence. The lot is much more crowded than when he normally reports for duty around midnight. He walks up the access ramp and through the double doors. Man, it feels like I just left this place. Guess that’s because I just did. Mickey waves to Officer Steve “The Answer” Waters, security officer extraordinaire, sitting at the desk behind the bullet-resistant window. Waters recognizes Mickey, returns his wave, and buzzes him into the lobby area.
“Hey, Boss. Don’t get to see much of you anymore. How’s my ex-chief treating you in CIB?”
“Chief Bridgeman is aces. He’s a good man to work for. He does his thing and he lets us do ours.”
“Outstanding! I broke him in up in the double-duce over twenty-five years ago. All the guys liked him when he was a captain in the 3rd. A smart guy with a humungous pair. He wasn’t like some of the bosses walking around this place. Present company excluded, of course.”
In general, Mickey’s not one to bad mouth superior officers. At least not to subordinates. “Takes all kinds, Steve.”
“You’re right ‘bout that. And this place has them all. The good, the bad, and the very ugly. And that’s just the lady cops.”
“Guess I can’t argue with that assessment, Steve. Hey, I didn’t see the commissioner’s Crown Vic in his spot. Did he leave the building?”
“He went to City Council Chambers for some kind of a sit-down with Lazoryszak. Heard her city car got hit overnight. I don’t think it’s a yell at the commissioner kind of sit-down. I heard she’s actually happy with the way the Bosses handled the whole thing.”
Mickey smiles. “We can all use an atta-boy, job-well-done speech once in a while, Steve.”
Mickey’s hoping if the PC is in a good mood, maybe he’ll be a little more receptive to his Ireland trip. Mickey needs to stay on target and play the “we can finally close the ‘We the People’ case” message. An old case that’s hounded the City and the PD for five years.
“Do you have a sense when the commissioner is coming back, Steve?”
Steve grabs for the tiny earpiece in his right ear. “I just got a ‘the Boss is on his way’ heads-up from his driver. So I’d say he’ll be here in about ten minutes.”
“Great. Then I’ll go upstairs and wait for him. Don’t want to blindside him in the lobby.”
“Okay, Captain. I’ll be givin’ his office a heads-up as soon as I see him pull up. So if you’re in the vicinity, you’ll know too.”
“Thanks, Steve. Good to see you.”
“You too, Boss.”
Mickey walks to the double elevators and pushes the up arrow.
Ping. The elevator doors open, Mickey boards, presses 3, and starts to think about how he’ll make his case. Ping. Mickey exits the elevator on the third floor and walks back along the wall of floor–to-ceiling windows on the north side of the building, overlooking Park’s statue of a uniformed police officer holding a small child with pigtails. At the commissioner’s suite of offices Mickey signs in with the security detail.
“Here to see the Boss, guys.”
“Got an appointment, Cap? Or is this an unscheduled visit?”
“Unscheduled.”
“The Boss should be back from City Hall anytime. You can walk over to his office if you like. Lieutenant Rambo is over there.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that. I haven’t seen Creg for a while. Thanks again.”
One of the security detail officers looks at Mickey’s name on the sign-in sheet and reads it out loud to his partner, “Captain Mickey Devlin.” Then he calls to Mickey who’s halfway around the circular hall to the commissioner’s office. “Oh Captain Devlin, sir.”
Mickey stops and turns to see the officer walking toward him.
“Yes, Officer. What’s up?”
“Sorry! I didn’t recognize you out of uniform. I used to work the burglary detail in Central when you were a detective upstairs. Ben Elias, three squad?”
“Sure. Hi, Ben. See you’ve moved up in the world. Guarding the Boss now.”
“Only filling in, Cap. Gonna make sergeant in the next batch.”
“Congratulations! Sergeant’s a good job. When I was hired, I told my background investigator that sergeant was my dream job. It was where I wanted to be in ten years. It’s a lot of responsibility, but it’s also very rewarding. Good luck.”
“Thanks, Boss. But what I wanted to tell you was how much you helped me when I was in clothes. You always had time for me and my partner. We both used to talk about how much we appreciated your help. And we both thought you had a lot of class.”
Mickey smiles a big smile. “Well! Thank you, about-to-be-Sergeant Elias. That’s nice of you to remember me. And I’m sure you’ll be an outstanding sergeant.”
“Thanks, sir.”
Officer Elias puts his left hand to his ear. “The Boss just pulled in, Captain. Should be up here in a couple of minutes.”
“Thanks!”
“Hope to work for you someday, Captain Devlin.”
“Look forward to it, Ben.”
The two men shake hands. Mickey walks back around to the PC’s office and is greeted by Lieutenant Creg Rambo.
“Hi, Captain. Here to see the Boss?”
“If he can fit me in.”
“You kidding? Come hell or high water, I’ll make sure he fits you in, Cap.”
“Thanks, Creg. So how’s life in the West Wing?”
Creg looks around the commissioner’s outer office and whispers, “I hate this place. I’m having a hard time fitting in, Boss. It’s constant bullshit. Way too many private meetings between the Boss and his cronies. And too many secret agenda discussions for me. It’s like there are two different Police Departments. One black and one everything else. I’m trying to get out. CIB need a good lieutenant?”
“I wish. Captains and above only, sorry. I’m sure the Boss can get you someplace you’ll be happy, Creg. You’ve done a good job for him.”
“I haven’t told him I’m trying to get out of here yet.”
“Man! That could be dangerous. These walls have ears. If he thinks you’re trying to make a move on your own—well, you know better than I. Be careful, Creg.”
“I will. I think I hear him coming around the hall.”
Lieutenant Rambo and Mickey greet the commissioner and his driver, Officer Rufus McFly, and his man Friday, Dwight Clinton, code name “The Deacon.” Clinton is an ordained minister and cop wannabe. Rumor has it he failed the civil service entrance exam five times so far. He’s an “ordained” minister via the US Postal Service. You pay your money, you get ordained. Other than the PC, his ministry consists of the civilian, short-order cook in the cafeteria on the first floor, and one limited-duty cop working at Police Personnel and hoping to pray his way into another assignment closer to home.
The commissioner surprised to see Mickey standing in his outer office says, “Captain Devlin, you must be physic.”
Mickey looking puzzled, doesn’t respond.
The commissioner curious at his silence adds, “You know, mind reader. You must be able to read minds.”
Mickey politely smiles, but is embarrassed for the commissioner’s pitiful command of the English language. This guy has deceptive intelligence. He’s dumber than he looks. And all Mickey can think about is Doc Steinberg’s description of the PC, “…an empty shell inhabited by someth
ing pretending to be human.”
Not knowing the exact time of day because of his disrupted schedule Mickey greets the commissioner, “Good day, sir.”
“You here to see me, Devlin? Or just roaming the halls of my building looking up friends and avoiding old enemies?”
Being facetious Mickey responds, “I’m here to see you, sir. And I have no enemies, Commissioner. Only admirers.”
“Well, Devlin, I don’t know about all that but you do have at least one admirer in City Council. How do you know Councilwoman Lazoryszak?”
“Never met the councilwoman, Commissioner.”
“Really? I just came from her office. She wanted to let me know what a great job you did with the Inspector Kuhn calamity overnight.”
“That was nice of her.” But what do you think?
“Did ya know Inspector Kuhn is a good friend of mine, Devlin?”
Man! Just when I thought I was about to be discovered again. And be out of the doghouse.
“I was unaware of that, Boss. But things are what they are.”
“Things?”
Oops! Let me try this guy’s own approach this time.
“The guy screwed up. For the betterment of the Department and to keep our image with the public unspoiled, I did what needed to be done.”
“That’s what the councilwoman said. She also told me that, that reporter friend of yours, Mitchell something or other wants to do a nice little story on the whole incident. Keying in on the Department’s unbiased investigation of one of its own. With, as she put it, ‘a no funny business investigation.’ You think all this bullshit will help keep our image unspoiled, Devlin?”
“Michelle Cunay.”
“What?”
“Michelle Cunay is the reporter the councilwoman referred to. She is an editor. And my thoughts on the matter are that any investigation is only as good as what you do with it. Our image, as far as the public and the councilwoman are concerned, depends on what you do with the Kuhn investigation. It’s your call now, sir. I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”
“No shit, Devlin. I know it’s my call. Thanks to your unbiased investigation. I even got a call from the FOP president this morning. He thanked me for ‘leveling the field when it comes to discipline.’ The guy’s always on me about bosses skating when it’s time for discipline. He thinks I have a double standard. Can you believe that?”
There’s no way Mickey’s getting into that discussion. Not when he’s looking for a little sympathy himself.
The PC really isn’t looking for an answer from Mick. He continues his speech. “Of course he also told me that the FOP will be considering a challenge on any call for discipline on Inspector Kuhn I make. You’re a big FOP guy, aren’t you, Devlin?”
“I’m a proponent of fair and balanced treatment for all sworn employees. And I don’t see the FOP as an enemy. If that makes me an FOP guy, then I guess I’m guilty.”
With that, the commissioner’s cohorts and Lieutenant Rambo get all wide eyed, not believing the bluntness of Mickey’s responses.
The commissioner looks at Lieutenant Rambo. “So Lieutenant, you showing any open spots on my very busy schedule? Wouldn’t want Captain Devlin, my favorite CIB Commander, to come all the way down here in the daylight hours, and not get an audience with his commissioner. So can you fit him in, Rambo?”
Rambo knows exactly what the commissioner is trying to say without actually saying it. He’s heard that speech many times. He wants him to be the bad guy and send Mickey on his way without a so-called “audience.”
Rambo goes to his desk and peruses the commissioner’s daily appointment book and fingers up and down the page a couple of times. Mickey hopes he comes through on his promise to fit him in. Rambo stops and looks up from the book and glances at the commissioner and then Mickey and says, “Yes, sir. You have a thirty-minute window between 2:00 PM and 2:30 PM. I’ll pencil the good captain’s name in for you.”
The commissioner obviously didn’t get the response he wanted. “Oh really, Lieutenant? All right then, pencil the good captain’s name in. Providing nothing else earth shattering happens, I’ll see you at two o’clock sharp, Captain. Don’t be late. I’m a busy man. I have one of them there huge department image decisions to make today.”
In a huff, the commissioner turns and walks through the large, double doors to his private office, followed by his driver and “The Deacon.”
Mickey and Lieutenant Rambo look at each other in silence. Then Rambo mouths, “I told ya I’d fit you in, Cap.”
“You did. I was worried there for a while, Creg. I get the sense the Boss wasn’t real happy with you finding time for me.”
“Fuck him, if he can’t take a joke.”
Mickey and Rambo have a subdued laugh over the lieutenant’s devil-may-care attitude.
Rambo adds, “Besides I’m a short-timer around here anyway, Cap.”
“If you weren’t before, you sure are now. I think you would be wise to put that new assignment search into second gear, Creg.”
“I’ve been in overdrive for the last week. I got two possibilities. And I think I’m ready to pull the trigger. Today!”
“Smart move. Well if you’re still here at two o’clock—”
“Right. I’ll talk to ya, Cap.”
Mickey retraces his steps back around the curved hall of the West Wing, past the two security officers at the desk. Officer Ben Elias writes down Mickey’s departure time in the logbook.
“Nice to see you, Captain Devlin.”
“You too, Ben. See ya at two o’clock. The lieutenant found an opening for me with the commissioner.”
“Okay, Boss. See ya then.”
Mickey walks to the waiting elevator and presses the down arrow. On the way to the lobby he checks the time. Man! It’s one-twenty already. With any luck I’ll hear back from Cliver at the Drum scene. Or from Doc with some preliminaries. Ping. Mickey steps off the elevator, turns right and walks down the winding hall to “Coffee Talk,” the new name for the same old cafeteria on the west end of the Roundhouse.
The Deputy Commissioner of Administration, Lester “it’s my money” Thomas, thought by changing the name of the cafeteria, business would improve. Moves like that are why he’s a cop and not in the private sector. Mickey gets a cola and a pack of peanut butter crackers from the row of vending machines against the wall and finds a seat that gives him a full view of the room. It’s a cop thing.
Nat, the afternoon short-order cook, finishes scraping the grill clean. Obviously out of complete boredom he strikes up a conversation with his only customer, Mickey.
“You’re one of those night-shift commanders, aren’t you?”
“Can’t fool you, Nat. I’m Captain Devlin.”
“Thought so. Sometimes when I’m on the 6:00 AM crew, I see you guys in the lobby. How ya like that night shift?”
“Ya get used to it. And I like the company.”
“Right. Okay.”
Nat, again obviously out of boredom, goes back to work. He squirts some kind of clear oil on his now cold grill and again starts scraping it with a black handle putty knife. For Mickey, sitting in “Coffee Talk” alone is kinda creepy. He has just about decided to leave when Inspector Mark Gallagher walks in toting two thick brown folders. The inspector and Mickey were sector cops together in Northwest Division.
“Hey, Mick. Steve Waters told me you were back here.”
“Hey, Inspector. How ya doing? Haven’t seen ya at the Command Meetings in a while. Southwest Division keeping ya busy?”
“No more than usual.”
The inspector pulls his chair closer to Mickey.
“Keep this under your hat, Mick. I talked to the Boss earlier ‘bout pulling the plug. Gonna run some time. But for all intents and purposes I’m outa here.”
“Sorry to hear that. How many years do you have toward pension?”
“Thirty-three, yesterday. Plus I bought two years military.”
“Guess you got you
r reasons.”
“I’m burnt out.”
“Ya look like you’re still in pretty good shape.”
“Physically never felt better. Mentally, that’s another story.”
The inspector takes a quick survey of the empty cafeteria, then continues in short whispers. “I’m havin’ trouble—remembering stuff, Mick. Little—stuff. That’s never happened—before.”
“I’m no doctor. But aren’t there meds that could help ya? Plus when you get to be our age we all have a bit of that.”
“I think I have a few years on you, Mick. And I can live—with a little bit as you say. But it’s becoming more regular lately. It’s—embarrassing. I went to the annual MPO training—last week and—”
“Right. That’s when I saw you last, at the Academy.”
“Okay! Well ya know how at the end of class—after we take the test? When the instructor writes the last four digits of the flunky’s social—on the board?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I made the list. I’ll tell ya Mick, when I read the questions—on the test it was like I wasn’t even in class. And you know how—the guys from Advanced Training spoon-feed us the material. I tell ya, none of the stuff on the test—even looked familiar. I guessed every answer.”
“They gave you another shot at the test, right?”
“Yes. But even with them holding my hand—a second time—I barely passed. I was really embarrassed. A full inspector can’t even pass a simple—ten-question quiz.”
“It happens. Maybe you should ask the commish to move you out of the division. You’ve been out there over five years, right?”
“Almost six. Figured I’d take the Chief’s test and then maybe ask—the Boss for something a little less stressful and closer to home.”
It’s becoming obvious with the inspector’s constant hesitation when he speaks something is amiss.
“The Chief’s list is out, right? How’d ya place?”
“I didn’t even make the list. I went down to central personnel to look at my scores—and both boards flunked me. Both gave me 69. They probably felt sorry for me. I just couldn’t get it together. And when I went to the garage afterward—I couldn’t remember where I parked my car.”
Dublin Odyssey Page 8