The Tin Collectors

by Stephen J. Cannell

  “How come?” Ellen asked, brushing a wisp of honey-blond hair out of her eyes. “According to the news, he’s Hispanic.”

  “His mother was, but I think I may be the father.”

  She looked at Shane for a long moment and smiled. “Can’t keep the little head from controlling the big head?” she said playfully, so Shane stuck his tongue out at her and left.

  He had one more stop to make before he went home and slept for a year.

  The freeway was crowded, and he was locked in bumper-to-bumper five o’clock traffic. He finally got to the end of the 10 and found himself back on the Coast Highway. He didn’t have his badge, so this time he had to pay for parking. He left the Taurus, walked onto the bike path and up to DeMarco’s house.

  For once it was quiet out front. The blond beach ornaments were all gone, off playing with somebody else’s mind. Shane passed through the gate and walked up to the front door. He tried to look through the front window, but the blinds were pulled and he couldn’t see anything. Finally he reached into his back pocket and fished out his trusty collection of picks. The lock was an old brass Yale and was a bitch to open, but after five minutes he turned the tumblers, went into the house, then closed and relocked the door behind him.

  He stood in the living room, looking around, remembering his trip here two weeks days ago…. He had stood in this very same spot, watching DeMarco play with his speakers while Snoop Doggy Dogg spewed race hatred. It seemed as though that had been in another lifetime. He walked softly through the place, looking into each room. No one was home, so he entered the office at the end of the hall, walked across the room, then sat at DeMarco’s desk. His defense rep’s case material was sitting there in one half-filled file box. DeMarco had been on Shane’s case for almost ten days, and as Shane went through the material, he was surprised by the lack of evidence he’d collected to support Shane’s position. The defense rep hadn’t yet received all of the discovery items, and there wasn’t even a copy of Barbara Molar’s statement. There was a halfhearted, half-full spiral notebook…. It was all damned puny compared with the mountain of stuff that had been carted out of Alexa’s house.

  He finally stopped looking at the case files, leaned back in the chair, and waited.

  An hour later he heard the front door open; DeMarco was talking to someone. He heard a young boy’s laughter, and then the music came on. Shane waited for a minute, then got out of DeMarco’s chair and continued silently down the hall, into the living room.

  What he saw didn’t surprise him as much as it sickened him. On the living room sofa, DeMarco Saint and one of the fifteen-year-old surfer boys were lying in a romantic embrace. They were both naked.

  “What a total shitbox!” Shane said.

  DeMarco snapped his head around and glowered up at Shane. Then he scrambled up into a sitting position and grabbed for his underwear. The boy made no move to cover himself. Instead he remained lounging on the sofa, glaring his indifference.

  “You didn’t get thrown off the job for drinking. You got thrown off for pedophilia,” Shane said.

  “Nobody ever proved anything,” DeMarco said, now reaching for his beach shorts.

  “I should’ve seen it. First you turn me down, then a day later, all of a sudden, you’re taking on my case. Mayweather got you to do it, didn’t he? He wanted somebody on the inside of my defense. He wanted to find out what I was up to. He knew about this thing you’ve got for underage boys. He could’ve still filed criminal charges and gone after your pension. He forced you to reconsider.”

  “That’s nonsense,” DeMarco sputtered as he got his shorts on and rose to his feet. He was flushed, his complexion a ruby red. Sweat was slick on his skinny white chest.

  “Nonsense?” Shane said reflectively. “I only told one person that I went to the Long Beach Naval Yard. Two hours later I’m kidnapped and taken up to Arrowhead, and Coy Love knows about it. The person who told him was you!”

  “Whatta you…whatta you…gonna…” DeMarco’s lower lip was quivering.

  “Do?” Shane finished the sentence for him. “I’ll show you.” He grabbed DeMarco’s arm and jerked him off balance. As his defense rep fell forward, Shane swung, landing a left hook square on the side of Dee’s face.

  DeMarco went down in a slump and began to weep. The naked teenager was on his feet now, his hands up, fists balled.

  “Don’t try it, Jocko. I’ll make fucking hash outta you.” Shane walked to the door, then turned. “By the way, Dee, you’ve got a subpoena coming. I’m putting you in the mix.” Without saying another word, he left.

  Shane drove back to Venice. The incident hung with him and poisoned his mood.

  He worked hard to shift his thoughts and finally tried to contemplate his future. He thought about his life, about Chooch, and whether he was truly the boy’s father. Shane had been looking for a deeper meaning in his life. Chooch had begun to fill that emptiness.

  In the past two weeks, Shane had had two big surprises, both from unexpected places. Chooch had been one; Alexa, the other.

  He was paralyzed with fear that the blood test would prove that his one intimate moment with Sandy would turn out to be just what he’d always believed it to be—a mindless mistake—instead of what he hoped it was now, a chance for a different kind of future. He parked the Taurus in the garage at his Venice house on East Canal Street, walked past his ruptured Acura, and went into his kitchen. Longboard had slipped a note under the door:

  Shane,

  I got some cold beer and steak.

  I’m tapping the Source.

  You’re invited.

  Longboard

  He put the note on the counter and slowly walked through the house, taking stock of his minimal emotional and physical existence: the furniture—remnants from broken love affairs; the bullet-riddled plaster walls in his front room, reminders of his fragile mortality. He picked up a pen and paper, then went outside and sat in one of the old rusting metal chairs.

  He looked out at the setting sun just dipping below the horizon, dragging the last vestiges of the day across the shallow channels like a burnt orange memory.

  He was in a new place, starting a new chapter in his life. He was not sure where he was going or how long it would take to get there, but for the first time in a long time, he was looking forward to the journey.

  Then he uncapped the pen and wrote a long, personal letter to Chooch.

  46

  Bor

  The news vultures were on the sixth floor of the Bradbury Building, leaning over the rails, blowing white streams of cigarette smoke into the huge glassed atrium. The ancient wrought-iron elevators went up and down, making unhurried stops, measuring each trip with a tailor’s precision.

  Shane was seated in the witness room on the fifth floor because he didn’t want to stand out in the corridor and be pestered by news crews asking about the whole breaking Long Beach story. The NFL had just rescinded the L.A. Spiders’ franchise along with the Web, and the Coliseum was now the likely choice to get the nod.

  Burl Brewer was awaiting trial in County Jail, and the LAPD had a new chief named Tony Filosian, from New York. A short, round man who wore huge pinkie rings and spoke with a Brooklyn accent, he showed up for work in a shiny suit and was instantly dubbed “the Day-Glo Dago,” but he seemed like an excellent choice because of his background of turning around troubled departments.

  Barbara Molar got off the elevator and walked down the hall. Shane saw her through the window. He hoped she wouldn’t come into the witness room, but when she saw him, she smiled and quickly came through the door, her blond hair shining, smile radiant, dancer’s calves flexing as she took a chair next to him in the empty room.

  “Boy, talk about a cluster fuck,” she said, opening the conversation in typical in-your-face Barbara fashion.

  “Yep, it’s assholes on parade,” he said, not showing her much.

  “I’m here to back you up. I did the IO interview last night. I’ve been out, so I sto
pped by and signed it this morning on my way over.”

  “That’s good. Thanks.”

  “So who’s your new DR?” she asked. “I heard you canned DeMarco Saint.”

  “I’m gonna try my own board,” he said.

  “Is that smart?”

  “I’ve been getting that question a lot, so I’m beginning to wonder.” He smiled at her.

  She fished a cigarette out of her purse, lit up, and started smoking in the small room. Shane wished she wouldn’t; he’d never completely gotten over his desire for cigarettes.

  “I figured I know the case better than anybody,” he went on. “Since the department didn’t want to give me more than a four-day postponement, I figured, what the hell…”

  “Right. What the hell,” she said. “Are we finally at a place where we can talk about the future?” she asked, smiling through the smoke.

  Shane thought it’d be bad timing to piss her off just before she was going to testify. On the other hand, the IO had told him that she’d backed his story in her deposition, and he knew she pretty much had to stick to her statement.

  He turned and faced her. “Y’know, Barb, I don’t think we’re gonna get a chance to see that happen.” He watched her as her expression turned sour. “I’ve got some new responsibilities,” he continued. “I took a blood test to see if I’m Chooch Sandoval’s father. I’m expecting the results today. Then I’m picking him up and taking him home for the long weekend. We’re gonna talk it out. After that, who knows? I may decide to raise him. I mean, if everything works out.”

  “Y’know, Shane, our timing was always pretty damn shitty, but you’re not giving this a chance. Now that Ray’s gone, it can work. And a kid? You wanna raise a kid?”

  “Well, yeah, I sorta do,” he finally said. “He and I hit it off.”

  “Kids are a drag,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. “Ray and I never wanted kids. You never said anything about wanting kids…baby-sitters, homework, car pools…You can’t be serious?”

  “Listen, Barbara, thanks for being there for me.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’m gonna see if they’ve got coffee. See you inside.” She got up and left.

  Over and out.

  Then Commander Van Sickle arrived, and a uniformed police officer announced the commencement of the Scully Board, in hearing room one.

  Shane walked out of the witness room and entered room one. It was the largest of the hearing rooms, and there were news crews in all the available chairs in the back. Internal Affairs Boards were public hearings, so there was no way of keeping the press out. They would have to suffer through his clumsy presentation of the defense.

  The room was rectangular, with large arched windows that streamed in sunlight and backlit the three-man judging panel. The two sworn and one civilian panel members were seated in leather swivel chairs at a long table at the head of the room. The American and LAPD flags decorated opposite ends of the stage. A court reporter was in a chair off to the side.

  Warren Zell was prosecuting the case for the department, and there were four IOs clustered around him. Shane was alone at the defense table; his one assigned investigating officer was still out, taking statements and collecting last-minute depositions. Hopefully he would be back by noon.

  Commander Van Sickle opened the proceedings. “Sergeant Scully, are you ready to proceed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To start with, I’m going to read you your rights, from the Police Disciplinary Manual. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have the right to appear in person and present a defense to the charges against you. You have the right to be represented by a department defense representative. You may produce witnesses to testify on your behalf, including character witnesses. You may cross-examine witnesses testifying against you. You have the right to testify in your own defense. You have the right to be present when board members examine your personal history and records. You also have the right to have all sworn testimony at this hearing reported and transcribed by a hearing reporter. You shall be entitled to a copy thereof.” He looked up. “Do you understand your rights?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This board has been convened to determine if unnecessary and escalating force was used in the fatal shooting of Lieutenant Raymond Molar. There are five counts of misconduct, all listed in your letter of transmittal.”

  The door in the back of the room opened, and Alexa Hamilton walked into the hearing. Everybody turned to look at her. She was wearing a tailored black suit coat and skirt over a white silk blouse. A red scarf decorated the collar.

  “Excuse me, Sergeant Hamilton. You’ve been replaced as the advocate on this case,” Warren Zell said. “I thought you’d been told that.”

  “Could I have a moment with Sergeant Scully, Commander?” she asked the board chairman.

  Commander Van Sickle heaved a sigh and nodded. She moved briskly across the room and sat down in the empty chair beside Shane, resting her purse on the defense table. She leaned in to whisper to him.

  “Since I can’t prosecute you, I’d love to defend you,” she whispered in his ear.

  “Are you serious?”

  “You can choose anybody in the department below the rank of captain; the last time I checked, that included me. I know this case from top to bottom. I prepped it for ten days. I know where every piece of bullshit is. Warren Zell is a mediocre administrator and a worse trial advocate. Just say the word, and I’ll kick his vanilla-milkshake ass.”

  “Alexa, will you please represent me?” he whispered softly.

  “Honored.”

  “If you’re through with your little discussion?” Van Sickle asked with irritation. “I’d like to get started.”

  “And I’d like to notify the board that I’m taking over as Sergeant Scully’s defense rep,” Alexa announced.

  “I’m afraid you can’t do that,” Zell said, rising to his feet. “She’s a member of the Advocate Division and, as such, is prohibited from acting as a defense rep.”

  “To be precise, I’m currently assigned to Southwest Patrol,” Alexa said. “I was brought back to try this one case. Once I was replaced as the advocate, I was immediately reassigned to my Southwest Patrol commander, freeing me to fulfill Sergeant Scully’s request that I represent him.”

  Commander Van Sickle looked over at Zell.

  “It’s completely improper, sir,” the chief advocate protested.

  “But not outside of department guidelines,” Van Sickle said. “Sergeant Hamilton is accepted as defense rep.”

  “I’d like a recess for fifteen minutes to get my files on this case out of my car and up here into the hearing room. I reproduced the entire case history and have been working on it all night. Maybe you could get a few officers to help me? There’s a bunch.”

  They adjourned, then reconvened fifteen minutes later. For the rest of the day, Alexa shredded every piece of evidence that Zell put forward.

  The board had been scheduled to go for two days, but by five o’clock that evening, Commander Van Sickle had heard enough.

  “If you have something substantive to add that will make your case, would you put it on now, Commander Zell? Otherwise, I’d like to entertain a motion from Sergeant Hamilton to dismiss this case.”

  “Sir…Due to obvious circumstances, this case has been fraught with monumental difficulties.”

  “This case should never have been brought here in the first place,” the commander scolded. “It should have gone to a Shooting Review Board, which would have resulted in a finding of appropriate use of force. So, unless there is some statement or evidence to the contrary, I’m suggesting that this board immediately dismiss the proceeding. And let Sergeant Scully get back to work.”

  Alexa so moved.

  He stood in the parking lot outside of the Bradbury Building and waited for her.

  She came down at about six-thirty, carrying a stuffed briefcase and a box of paper supplies. He took the box and w
alked her to her car in the adjoining parking structure. They stopped at the trunk of her Crown Vic, and he put the box inside.

  “I have something that belongs to you,” she said. Then she reached into her purse and retrieved his badge, gun, and ID.

  “I want to get to know you better,” he said awkwardly.

  “We killed half a dozen guys together…what does it take with you?” She smiled and then saw that he was serious, so she nodded her head. “I’m free most evenings unless I’m on night watch.”

  “Tonight I’m barbecuing dinner for Chooch. I’m picking him up at the Med Center and we’re going home. We’d love to have you join us.”

  “No…that would be wrong. You should do this one alone.”

  “Tomorrow night, then?”

  She nodded, and he stood there in the garage, not sure what to do. Then he reached out and took her hand.

  “Are you going to kiss me?” She smiled.

  “Probably not good form for the accused to kiss an advocate in the IAD parking garage….”

  “But it’s okay for him to kiss his defense rep,” she said.

  So he took her into his arms and kissed her. The electricity that he felt again surprised him. It made him feel warm inside. His breath got short, his legs weak.

  They finally separated, and she looked up at him. “Wow, you’re a good kisser.”

  “Let’s find another verb,” he said, grinning.

  Then he turned and left her standing there, looking after him, a smile on her beautiful, exotic face.

  The Letter to Chooch

  Dear Chooch,

  I told you once that you were an adult and that you were in charge of your life.

  A man makes his own decisions but is also forced to live with the quality of his choices.

  Your mother wanted a lot for you. She wanted to see you grow up to be strong, valuable, full of integrity and vision. Unfortunately, wanting something isn’t the same as achieving it, but her heart was in the right place. Everything she was doing, she was doing for you. I know that’s hard to envision when you’re spending Christmas vacation alone in the prep school dorm, but I believe she wanted the best for you.