“LAPD Parker Center,” a cheerful woman’s voice greeted him.
“Deputy Chief Tom Mayweather,” he said, and a few seconds later got Mayweather’s secretary.
“Is he in?”
“Who’s calling, please?”
His heart was beating fast. Once he identified himself, if Mayweather was in, he’d either have to talk or hang up; neither was an acceptable choice. What he wanted was just to leave an ass-covering message. “It’s Sergeant Shane Scully,” he finally answered, holding his breath.
“I’m sorry, Sergeant, he’s at a breakfast meeting.”
“Breakfast meeting” was department bullshit for “not in yet.” Shane let out a chestful of air.
“It’s really important that I talk to the chief,” he lied, laying it on a little.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Can I give him a message?”
“Will you tell him I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, please? Tell him I was unable to get to Robbery/Homicide last night as he ordered because I fell asleep driving down from Arrowhead. Crashed the car, broke my front fender. It was dangerous to drive when I was that tired, so I stopped in a motel. I just woke up. I have some errands to take care of when I get home, so tell him I’ll get in touch with him later.”
“I’ll be sure he gets the update.” She hung up.
Shane hoped the phone call would give him a little cover.
He looked at his IN box and found half a dozen new cases that had been left for him to copy. He started to pull them out, and as he was arranging them in stacks on the worktable, his eyes scanned each face sheet.
He was surprised to see that Don Drucker had made this morning’s lineup. Apparently Drucker was scheduled for a full board as well. Under the face sheet was an internal notification slip that informed Drucker’s defense rep that his board had just been postponed from April 20 until April 23, as requested. The face sheet had the IAD case number and had been signed by the head of Special Investigations Division, Deputy Chief T. Mayweather.
“What the fuck?” he said softly, thinking, Why was the head of the division signing these charge sheets instead of Warren Zell, here at IAD? Then he picked up his phone and dialed the Clerical Division. He asked for and was transferred to a civilian employee who was a longtime friend.
Sally Stonebreaker was nothing like her name…a sparrow of a woman with a Transylvanian complexion, translucent skin, and thin white hair. Shane had met her in municipal court nine years ago. He’d been testifying in a robbery case, and she was getting a restraining order against her ex-husband in the courtroom next door. Al Stonebreaker had beaten her twice and had been threatening her over disputed alimony payments. That same night Shane had looked him up and explained the new rules. The “discussion” had taken place in the alley behind a neighborhood bar and required Al to get half a dozen stitches and some new bridgework. After that, Al Stonebreaker had left Sally alone.
Shane got Sally on the line. Once he identified himself, he could hear a little pause before she went on.
“I’m sorry about what’s going on,” she finally said. “Ray Molar was some piece of work.”
“Sally, I need you to do a computer run. I’m sort of locked off the system now, and I don’t want a record of this search anyway.”
“Shane, I’m busy right now.” She paused, then added, “Besides, they’ve got new DataLocks on our consoles and it’s real hard to access the mainframe without a case clearance number,” she said, trying to shake him. He was already department poison.
“Sally, I need this favor. You’ve gotta come through for me.”
Another long pause, during which he could hear her breathing. “Okay, but only this once. After that, I can’t do it again.”
“Thanks. I’ve got an IAD complaint investigation CF number for a Board of Rights on a policeman one in Southwest, named Don Drucker. I need to find out what IAD is trying him for. The number is 20-290-12.”
“Just a minute.”
He could hear computer keys clicking, then she came back on the line.
“He’s been charged under a 670.5 of the PDM,” she said.
“What is that? Six hundred codes are like booking and prisoner-escape violations, right?” There were hundreds of numbered codes listed in the five-hundred-page LAPD manual.
“Yeah. Escaped juvenile. Drucker lost him in transit, prior to booking. Gimme a minute to read this,” she said. Then a moment later she came back on the line. “Okay. Prisoner was a teenage Hispanic named Soledad Preciado, arrested in Southwest. According to Drucker’s Internal Affairs complaint, he left the arrestee unattended in the back of his squad car while he went into a drugstore. Drucker claims he was having a migraine and needed to fill a prescription, said he couldn’t drive with the headache and was getting nauseous. While he was in the drugstore, Sol Preciado got out of the unit and walked away.”
“Was this kid, by any chance, a Hoover Street Bounty Hunter?”
“Just a minute,” she said, and her computer keys were clicking again. She came back on. “A suspected Bounty Hunter, age fifteen. He claimed he’s not in a gang, but he’s listed in the Gang Street Alias Index under the name Li’l Silent, so at the very least he’s a TG or a known associate.” TG stood for “tiny gangster” and was basically a killer in training. Shane knew you didn’t usually get a street name unless you’d already been “jumped in the set,” so it figured he was probably a full member.
“Can you punch out another name for me?”
“I gotta go, Shane. My supervisor’s a great white. All he does is swim and eat. Right now, he’s cruising this floor.”
“Sally, I need help. I hate to put it this way, but I helped you once, now you gotta do this for me.” He could hear her sigh loudly on the other end of the phone.
“Okay, gimme it.” She was getting mad.
“A policeman one, his name is Kono. I don’t have his first name. Check him to see if he’s got an Internal Affairs complaint.” He was shooting with his eyes closed, firing on instinct.
“You got a CF number?” Sally asked, frustration in her voice. “It’ll make it a lot easier.”
“I’m sorry, this is just a hunch. There may not even be a board pending on him.”
He could hear keys clicking again, then: “Yeah. Kris Kono. He’s got a CF number, 20-276-9.”
“No shit,” Shane said, his heart beating fast now. He wasn’t sure what was tugging on the end of this line, but he’d definitely hooked something. “What’s IAD got him for?”
“It’s…lemme see…” She was quiet as she scanned the file for a few minutes, then: “It was a gang fight, also in Southwest. Two bystanders got shot. A store owner died. Kono got the BOR ’cause he lost some key evidence. In this case, the murder weapon disappeared from the trunk of his squad car. The case got pitched by the judge at the prelim. The dead store owner’s wife complained, and this complaint has a bunch of community affidavits attached. A city councilwoman in that district is on a tear. I process Southwest complaints on my terminal. The division started heating up about six months ago. Gang-related crime is soaring. The community is getting pissed down there.”
“Was the Kono blown bust also H Street Bounty Hunters?”
“Yeah…same as Drucker.”
“Two more names: Lew Ayers and John Samansky. I think they’re operating in Southwest, too.”
“I can’t. I gotta go. I’m gonna get in trouble.”
“Just tell me if these guys all worked on the same patrol shift or if you see any other common denominators.”
“It’s Southwest. That’s all I can tell you. Look, Shane, I can’t—”
“Okay, thanks, Sally. You’ve been a big help.”
He hung up and sat silently in the Xerox room. His mind was chewing it, looking for the connection. Joe Church, Don Drucker, and Kris Kono were all first-year cops, emotionally distraught over Ray’s death, and all had fucked up on cases involving the Hoover Street Bounty Hunters, a Hispanic gang in
Southwest Division. Ayers and Samansky were policemen working Southwest, but had searched Barbara’s house in Harbor Division, using a warrant supplied by a Mayor Crispin-owned judge. They were also highly emotional over Ray.
He sat in the wooden chair and tried to put it together. What had he stumbled into? Was this just a bunch of stupid coincidences, or something much more sinister? His phone rang. He looked over at it as if it were a coiled snake. Finally he picked it up.
“Yeah.”
“Chief Mayweather calling Shane Scully,” the chief’s secretary said.
“Scully just left. He wasn’t feeling good. Got the flu, I think. If I see him, I’ll tell him the deputy chief was trying to reach him,” he said, and after she bought it, he hung up quickly. He grabbed his coat and left the Internal Affairs Xerox room, locking the door behind him. He passed up the slow-moving elevators and hurried down the stairs. In less than a minute he was back in his Acura and driving out of the parking structure on his way to the Records Division on Spring Street.
19
Den
On his way across town, Shane dropped off the roll of film he had taken at Arrowhead. He told the man at the Fotomat that he wanted one set of normal prints and, if they didn’t come out, a set with the negative pushed two stops. He was told that pushing the negative could permanently destroy the film, but he okayed it. The man behind the counter told him the film would have to be sent out and wouldn’t be ready for six to twelve hours.
Shane drove to the Records Division and parked in the big asphalt lot on Spring Street. He locked the Acura and moved around the front, trying hard not to look at the bashed-in fender. He walked through the door of the large three-story brick building and climbed the stairs to the Criminal Division, where he sat at a table and filled out a records release request.
In order to access Soledad Preciado’s criminal offender record information (CORI), Shane had to fill out a right-to-know/need-to-know CORI release form. Those persons defined in the California penal code with right- and need-to-know authorization included the juvenile court, Social Services, and members of the Special Investigations Section, which now, technically, included Shane Scully, its new unit discovery officer. Since it is specifically mandated that automated and manually stored CORI information not be electronically distributed, Shane had to be at the Spring Street building to tender his request in person.
Juvenile records are further restricted by the Department of Public Social Service (DPSS) and can be reviewed only by order of a juvenile court judge or the Los Angeles County Children’s Services Department (LACCSD). However, the Special Investigations Division was exempted…. Shane was beginning to view his transfer to Internal Affairs in a more favorable light. Since Sol’s case was part of Don Drucker’s Internal Affairs investigation and had a Special Investigations CF number, Shane included that number and fraudulently listed himself as the case IO. He handed the paperwork to the clerk, a small, narrow-shouldered man with wispy blond hair combed over a yarmulke-sized bald spot. Shane hoped that the man was too bored to check the request against his badge number.
A few minutes later a manila envelope was passed over. Shane unwound the string tie, pulled out Soledad (Sol) Preciado’s Criminal Records folder, and opened it. For a fifteen-year-old, Soledad had a very extensive yellow sheet. His arrest record included two CCWs (carrying a concealed weapon), one assault with intent to commit, and one attempted murder. He’d been down twice: once for a year at the Pitchess youth camp on the attempted murder, once for six months at CYA on a parole violation. Sol Preciado had definitely been out there flagging with the homies. Shane kept reading and finally came across the incident involving the escape from Drucker’s patrol car, which was there by virtue of the department’s Alpha Index Criminal History cross-reference system. He scanned Drucker’s commanding officer’s review. At the end of the page he saw that Preciado had not been originally arrested by Don Drucker. He had been called in later only to handle Sol’s transport to Los Padrinos Juvenile Hall, which was all the way across town at 2285 East Quill Drive, in Downey. It was unusual for the arresting officer not to transport his own prisoner. Shane wondered why it had happened. He started flipping back, looking for the original arresting officer’s report. He finally found it; Preciado had been arrested on November 12 by Sergeant Mark Martinez. Shane scanned the arrest report.
Sol Preciado, a.k.a. Li’l Silent, had been alleged to be committing multiple assaults outside the L.A. Coliseum (court appearance pending). The crimes occurred at about 12:30 P.M. as people were streaming in for the USC-Oregon State football game. He had assaulted several women, knocking them down and snatching their purses. Events escalated when a man trying to stop him was knifed in the abdomen, allegedly by the enraged fifteen-year-old. Preciado had been apprehended by Sergeant Martinez, a member of the Coliseum Division police unit.
Since Martinez was working a duty station and could not leave, Drucker had been dispatched to the Coliseum to pick up Soledad Preciado, then subsequently lost him on his way to the city jail with the ill-advised stop at the drugstore for a headache prescription. The report said that Preciado had somehow managed to open the handcuffs and escape.
There was a statement by Drucker describing his chronic migraine headaches, which had become unbearable and had caused him to stop for medication. He had listed several police officers who could attest to his medical problem. At the very top of that list was Lieutenant Raymond Molar, whom Drucker identified as his LAPD den leader.
Shane put down the arrest report and picked up the phone on the scarred wooden desk. He redialed the Clerical Division and, after a moment, had Sally Stonebreaker back on the line.
“Aren’t you happy it’s me again,” he said, trying to put a friendly smile in his voice. It didn’t work.
“Good-bye, Shane.”
“Sally, don’t hang up. This will just take a minute. Nobody else can help me.”
“You’ve gotta leave me alone, for God’s sake. I can’t do this.”
“One little, teeny favor. Just one. Take you thirty seconds. Take you fifteen.”
“Oh, shit,” she groaned, but he knew he had her.
“I just found out Ray Molar was a den leader, and I need to know who was in his den.” He could hear a loud sigh for emphasis.
“Okay, but this is absolutely it. You call me again, I’m hanging up.”
“Thanks, Sally, and don’t get hit by the flower truck ’cause it’s on its way.”
“Don’t send me flowers, just stop calling.”
He heard the keys clicking as she entered Ray’s name into the computer. After a moment she came back on the line. “He had a den in Southwest. Get a pencil, these are his cubs…”
Shane grabbed a pen out of his pocket and turned over the manila folder. “Go.”
“A full pack. There’s six: Lee Ayers, John Samansky, Coy Love, Joe Church, Don Drucker, and Kris Kono. Don’t call again.” And he was listening to a dial tone. No good-bye, no good luck, just a click and a buzz.
But he’d hit the lottery. The connection between all these first-year officers was Ray’s police den.
A few years back, the LAPD had instituted an innovative concept called den policing. The department had discovered that it was difficult to go from civilian life into police work. After graduation from the academy, rookies were assigned a den leader to help them make the transition. As civilians, many of them had never experienced the discrimination and hatred that some elements of society aim at its sworn badge carriers. Often, particularly in the first year on the job, officers were totally unprepared for the abuse heaped on them. It was difficult not to respond when someone called you a pig and spit on you or your police car. Many cops ended up losing their tempers and resorting to violence. The idea of a den was to have a veteran officer who had perspective on the problems of police work assigned as a kind of emotional coach to help these rookies through their transition year. Den leaders were not commanding officers or watch commanders; they
were not responsible for the officer’s performance, only for his emotional stability.
Suddenly Shane could understand why these cops were hovering over Ray’s death. He had been their coach; their confidant, their police department godfather. It was a piece of connective tissue that jerked the hostile emotional attitudes of the six officers into focus.
But it still left several more difficult questions unanswered: Why was Chief Brewer using Ray’s old den to lean on him, and why were they all facing charges at Internal Affairs? What was the Hoover Street Bounty Hunter connection, and why were these six officers all involved in broken cases concerning that one Hispanic Southwest Division gang?
Shane sat there at the table, deep in thought. After a minute the narrow-shouldered wisp of a man who had given him the folder was hovering again. “You through with that?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Shane handed back the folder, with the names of Ray’s den still scribbled on the back. The clerk hurried away with it.
Shane was not sure what to do next or where to go. He couldn’t return to IAD; he was dodging Mayweather. He didn’t want to go home and just sit, taking the chance that the deputy chief would send a patrol unit out there to arrest him.
Finally, because he couldn’t think of a better course of action, he decided to check in with DeMarco Saint.
It was not even ten-thirty in the morning when he got there, and DeMarco was already drunk. Shane was standing in the defense rep’s living room, watching him struggle to get up off his sofa. He almost made it but fell awkwardly, catching himself painfully by an elbow on the coffee table.
“Whoa…” the defense rep said as he tried once more, this time managing to stumble to his feet. Two young boys, about fifteen, were lounging on the sofa on each side of him, watching the proceedings with glazed indifference.
“The fuck’s wrong with you?” Shane asked, looking at his teetering defense rep. “How can you be wasted? It’s not even noon.”
The Tin Collectors Page 14