The Tin Collectors

by Stephen J. Cannell

  “Stay put. Use the boat for cover!” Shane yelled. They all huddled behind the beached hull, keeping the Chris-Craft between them and the chopper. The overheating inboard engine finally coughed and quit.

  Then the nose of the Bell Jet Ranger dropped and, like a bull in an arena, made its deadly charge. Shane unloaded the .38 as the chopper streaked over them. He could hear the shotguns firing, in a steady ka-boom, ka-boom, ka-boom! He knew they were using police-issue, Ithaca pump-action 12-gauge riot guns. As the shots continued, the engine compartment on the beached boat blew open…the last shot hit the exposed gas tank.

  The next thing Shane knew, he was flying through the air, the sound of the exploding gas tank ringing in his ears. He landed ten feet away and saw that Alexa, Chooch, and Brian had also been blown off their feet by the blast.

  Shane had been nearest the tank, and he now realized that his clothes were on fire. He got up and made a stumbling run for it, then dove into the shallow Little Bear River. While he was rolling in the water, trying to extinguish the flames, the helicopter turned back and made a low pass at him. He was now sitting upright in the middle of the shallows, an easy, stationary target, when the shotguns started again. The first pattern went wide, turning the river water to the left of him foam white with the pellets. In his peripheral vision, he could see Alexa splashing across the open ground toward him, limping slightly, favoring her right side. She was slamming her last clip into the Beretta, chambering it as she ran.

  The helicopter flashed over her now, getting closer to him. As it went over, she peeled the full clip straight up into the belly of the chopper, hitting the Bell Jet Ranger with all nine shots.

  Shane didn’t know what the hell she hit, but it was certainly something vital, because the helicopter immediately began spinning on its axis, wobbling around like a slowing top, going out of control. Then it slammed, nose first, into the water and went down fast.

  Shane got up out of the river, his burnt clothes steaming in the cold night air. He joined Chooch, Longboard, and Alexa at the water’s edge. They looked out at the spot where the chopper had crashed. The engine housing and rotor were all that was still above water. There had been no explosion and no attempt by anyone to get out. Then it disappeared, sinking quickly.

  “Fuck you,” Shane said softly to a bubbling spot in the water where the helicopter had been.

  A few minutes later, while they were still watching the Bell Jet’s last air bubbles rising to the surface, exploding trapped air, they saw the black-and-white Hughes 500 approaching, coming in low over the lake. The belly-light on the sheriff’s chopper snapped on, and they were caught in its blinding glare. Shane and Alexa immediately threw down their guns and assumed the position, placing both hands behind their heads. Shane instructed Longboard and Chooch to do the same.

  They were all standing out in the open as the sheriff’s helicopter hovered overhead, churning up rocks and river water. “On your stomachs. Facedown on the ground!” they heard Conklyn’s voice shout over the bullhorn.

  All of them proned-out on the sand and waited.

  It was only moments before the first squad cars arrived. They drove off the road, their tires squishing on the wet river sand, their cherry-colored bar lights flashing. Then, as patrol officers swarmed them, the police chopper landed.

  “Watch it, she’s been wounded,” Shane said as sheriff’s deputies cuffed Alexa and dragged her to her feet. They ignored his instructions and pushed her roughly toward the squad cars. Shane was cuffed and pulled to his feet, then found himself looking at the jacked-and-flacked Sheriff Conklyn. “Glad to see you, man,” Shane said.

  “What the fuck? What chopper? She said there was a chopper shooting at you….”

  “There was,” Shane said, nodding to the spot in the river where the Bell Jet Ranger had gone down. “But you’re gonna need to come back with divers, a crane, and some body bags if you wanna see it.”

  Shane watched as Chooch and Longboard were roughly cuffed, then put into squad cars. “They’re victims. You don’t need to throw them around like that. They were kidnapped,” he complained, but Conklyn didn’t seem to care.

  “You’re really some kinda jerkoff, Scully. This is a quiet town. Every time you come up here, I gotta throw a fucking cherry festival.” Conklyn pushed Shane toward the squad car. “I can hardly wait to hear this one.”

  “Right,” Shane said softly. “But you better send out for pizza, ’cause it’s a long and complicated story.”

  45

  Exculpatory Evidence

  Police misconduct is defined under Section 805 of the LAPD Manual and falls into one of four categories:

  Commission of a criminal offense

  Neglect of duty

  Violation of department policies, rules, or procedures

  Conduct that may tend to reflect unfavorably upon the employee or the department.

  After their arrest, Shane, Alexa, Chooch, and Longboard Kelly were taken to the Arrowhead substation. Alexa’s bullet wound was stitched up and bandaged by EMTs in Sheriff Conklyn’s office. Then she was returned to a holding cell.

  A pissed-off Bud Halley arrived at two A.M. and reluctantly did Shane’s DFAR. They were in one of two windowless FI rooms.

  After he heard it all, Halley leaned back in the wooden chair and glowered. “Shit, Scully, I’m supposed to believe that the mayor of L.A., the Super Chief of our department, and one of the largest developers in the state of California, along with a dozen or more sworn or terminated LAPD personnel, are involved in murder, blackmail, kidnapping, fraud, and a buncha other criminal misconduct,” Halley said, looking at Shane through tired eyes. He didn’t want any part of it. This was the ultimate red ball.

  Shane had asked for Captain Halley for three reasons: One, with Tom Mayweather sure to get indicted, he was Shane’s most recent CO. Two, the captain was well respected in the department, and Shane needed a trusted “rabbi” as his advocate. And three, he knew that Halley was deeply religious, with a highly developed sense of morals and ethics. Underneath all the police bullshit, he was a stand-up guy. If Halley could be made to believe Shane’s story, he would come aboard, regardless of the consequences.

  Shane had started his DFAR talking about the kidnapping of Chooch and Longboard, finally convincing Halley that they had been hit over the head, tied up, videotaped, and abducted from his Third Street apartment. They had then been taken to Logan Hunter’s mansion in Arrowhead and held there for two days by current and former LAPD officers.

  Shane, Alexa, Chooch, and Longboard all volunteered to take lie-detector tests, and after Halley agreed, Conklyn rolled a big, new Star Mark polygraph machine into the FI room. One by one they were given the test, and one by one they passed.

  Shane could see the building frustration in Bud Halley’s hazel-green eyes as night turned to day.

  By ten o’clock the helicopter had been pulled out of the Little Bear River. Inside were the remains of the pilot, as well as Logan Hunter and Joe Church. Kris Kono had been found in the shallows with Alexa’s 9mm slug buried deep in the Hawaiian officer’s chest.

  It was all exculpatory evidence, further sustaining Shane’s statement.

  Alexa and Shane described the events that occurred in Miami, starting with their attempt to rescue Sandy Sandoval and ending with the attack by Drucker, Love, and Calvin Sheets. Alexa handled their escape from Elton John’s Biscayne Bay estate, then Shane explained about Ray’s Arrowhead house and how Molar had been blackmailing the Long Beach City Council so Los Angeles could get control of the naval yard. Halley listened, took notes, and groaned as the scope of the corruption grew larger, reaching all the way up through the chief of police to the mayor’s office.

  Halley kept the startling events under wraps as best he could, but of course Logan Hunter’s death had leaked out. News crews from L.A. were arriving in vans and helicopters. The newsies were already picking up other shreds of the story, sharking for details, sensing that much more was at stake. />
  “I don’t know what to do with this,” Halley admitted to Shane and Alexa after he’d heard it all. They were no longer being kept in holding cells and were seated in Sheriff Conklyn’s office. He had promoted them from suspects to witnesses.

  Out the window they could see a small TV uplink antenna farm being constructed on the vacant property across from the police station.

  “I’m gonna call in Erwin Epps,” Halley finally said, referring to the Baptist minister and political activist who had just been elected head of the L.A. Police Commission. “Under Section 78 of the city charter, the board of commissioners has the power and responsibility to supervise, control, and regulate the department.” Halley quoted the section from memory.

  “Good idea,” Shane said.

  Shane asked for and was given a chance to talk to Chooch. The boy was staying in the Arrowhead Motel with a sheriff’s matron. Shane was driven over and let himself in.

  Chooch was watching the news, his legs stretched out on the bed. He snapped off the television as Shane came through the door.

  “Man…can you believe the coverage this is getting?”

  “Chooch…I wanna talk to you about your mom.”

  “I know about Sandy…it’s on the TV.” His voice was guarded.

  “I’m sorry you had to hear it that way. I wanted to tell you, but they wouldn’t give me a chance until now.”

  Chooch nodded, his black eyes showing little. “I’m sorry she’s dead,” he said. “I didn’t want that to happen…. I just wanted her to…” He stopped, then shook his head in frustration. “You know what I mean.” He looked up. “You and me are the same, Shane. I got nobody, same as you.” The way he said it, Shane couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Chooch, like Shane, had become good at hiding his emotions.

  “I want you to know something—something important about your mother.”

  “That she loved me?” the boy said, but his tone said he found it hard to believe.

  “Yeah, she loved you, and she died trying to save you. She gave herself up for you, Chooch.”

  Chooch got up off the bed and moved to the window, his muscular body silhouetted in the morning sunlight streaming past him into the room.

  “You were the one who saved me,” he said softly.

  “I never would have known where to look if your mother hadn’t gotten that information for me. She gave up her life to get it.”

  There was a long moment, then finally Chooch turned and faced Shane. “I want to cry for her…. It seems like I should. Am I being an asshole?”

  “No, Chooch. I just wanted you to know. Whatever you feel about Sandy, in the end, when it counted, she was there for you.”

  Chooch nodded; suddenly his eyes filled, and he moved quickly to the bathroom and closed the door.

  At two that afternoon, Chooch was picked up by the Child Protection Section of the Social Services Department and whisked away. Shane was back at Sheriff Conklyn’s office and found out about it an hour after it happened. They said that since Chooch had no mother or father, he was being remanded to Juvenile Hall.

  Shane knew he couldn’t claim Chooch without a DNA test, and that would take time. Besides, the more he thought about it, the more he was beginning to suspect that Sandy had lied about his being Chooch’s father. It was just what she would do—just like her to say that to get Shane to look after Chooch once she was gone. Either way, he couldn’t get a DNA analysis up in Arrowhead, so it would have to wait until he got back to L.A.

  Three hours later, Reverend Epp arrived and conferred with Bud Halley. He was a tall, dignified African American in his fifties who had tremendous credibility in the black community and had been put on the L.A. Police Commission to help deal with the charges of racism that had plagued the post-Daryl Gates department.

  The two devout Christians listened all over again as Shane, Alexa, and Longboard Kelly retold their story.

  Slowly, over a period of hours, it became distressingly clear to both Captain Halley and Reverend Epps that much of what Shane and Alexa had been describing was undoubtedly true.

  The two tired sergeants were finally allowed to move into the Arrowhead Motel to get some sleep. They had rooms right next to each other but were too exhausted to even say good night.

  One by one, other members of the L.A. Police Commission quietly arrived in town. They had decided to hold their meeting in the Arrowhead Lodge, away from the sheriff’s department and the hovering press corps.

  At the end of their first meeting, after Shane, Alexa, and Longboard had retold their stories, Sheriff Conklyn got a district judge to issue a search warrant.

  On Monday evening they broke the front-door lock and entered Logan Hunter’s lakeside mansion. What they found in his office files pretty much confirmed everything Shane and Alexa had been saying.

  At ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, Reverend Erwin Epps chaired a meeting in his Arrowhead Lodge hotel room. Shane and Alexa were both present, along with Captain Halley, Sheriff Conklyn, and the entire seven-member L.A. Police Commission.

  “I think we now have to consider Section 79 of the L.A. city charter,” Epps said gravely. Then he took that bound document out of his briefcase and opened it to a paper clip marking the section.

  “Let me read this to refresh you: ‘A simple majority of the Police Commission is necessary to enact the provision of Section 79, which grants the commission the right to appoint, as well as to remove, the general manager of the department. However, the chief of police shall only be removed under the terms and conditions in city charter, Section 202.’ ” He flipped to that section and read the paragraph pertaining to the removal, suspension, or demotion of sworn police officers, then:

  “I think we need to instruct the head of the Internal Affairs Division to draft a resolution to suspend the duties of Chief Brewer and bring him up on administrative charges. The head of IAD should further notify the district attorney of the possibility of criminal misconduct.”

  Shane couldn’t help a small smile thinking of the panic that “resolution” would bring to the vanilla features of Commander Warren Zell.

  The news was leaking from Lake Arrowhead to Los Angeles, and, little by little, shreds of it were showing up in the press and on TV.

  The case went further into frenzied hyperspace when Tom Mayweather’s body was found in the main salon of his boat anchored off Avalon Harbor in Catalina. He had put a police-issue shotgun into his mouth and blown his head off.

  The subpoena control desk at Parker Center was flooded with paperwork issued by Warren Zell and the fifteen IOs he had assigned to the case. John Samansky and Lee Ayers, the two surviving members of Ray’s den, had hired criminal attorneys and were both clamoring to cut a deal.

  Samansky won that ugly contest and became the department’s star witness against Chief Brewer, Tony Spivack, Mayor Clark Crispin, and the surviving officers. The district attorney petitioned the department for the right to sit in on the upcoming BORs under Section 21.2 of the L.A. city charter—a sure sign that criminal charges would be forthcoming.

  One day after Logan Hunter’s helicopter was fished out of the river, Mayor Crispin was arrested at the airport on his way to a “vacation” in Mexico.

  Chief Brewer staged a press conference after his subpoena was served. He denied any wrongdoing had taken place and promised a victory in court. Nevertheless, at the district attorney’s request, two detectives from Special Crimes were assigned to his house, and he was ordered to remain at home, pending further investigation.

  A day later the district attorney finally filed murder one charges against them all.

  Alexa and Shane had been released, then went back to L.A. and watched the rest of it on her TV, since he didn’t have one. She had cooked a remarkably good Italian dinner for them, and after they had two glasses of red wine, Shane was lying on the sofa in her anally neat living room, watching Dan Rather talk about him. Alexa was in the kitchen doing dishes, hoping her mother was watching over them
all.

  Shortly after the news ended, an investigator from IAD knocked on the door to pick up the files Alexa had gathered for Shane’s BOR. The IO notified her that she was no longer the advocate prosecuting Scully’s case.

  “What case?” Shane asked, coming up off the sofa like a Harrier jet. “You mean, after all this, they’re still planning to terminate me?”

  “Just because you two turned this department upside down doesn’t mean your unnecessary use of force on the Molar shooting goes away,” the IO said. Then he took the four crammed case-file boxes and left.

  “When will it end?” Shane growled.

  “Shane…you’ll prevail at that board. With all this going on, believe me, their case won’t stick.”

  He looked at her and again felt something stir inside him. She saw it in his eyes. “I know, but this time let’s wait,” she said. “Let’s not do anything again until all this calms down and we know if it’s real, or if we’re just pulsing ’cause we’re glad to be alive.”

  “It’s real,” he said. But she was right, now was not the time.

  Shane had heard that Chooch was being held under IDC—Intake and Detention Control—at Juvenile Hall. So he called Captain Halley and had Chooch moved to PNP—USCMC, which was the patient-not-prisoner section of the Juvenile Detention wing of the USC Medical Center. They were talking about assigning him to a foster home.

  Shane slept on Alexa’s couch, and the next morning, after she cooked him breakfast, he had her drop him off at the police impound garage, where he reclaimed the rented Taurus he had left on the movie set the night he got kidnapped. Then he drove down and gave blood at the USC hospital. He couldn’t see Chooch, by order of the district attorney, who was still interviewing him as a witness, so Shane found an old friend named Ellen Webb, who worked in PNP as a nurse. He gave her his blood sample number and asked her to get a match from Chooch.