by Chris Culver
He looked at Sylvia and then to Randy. “Now that I’ve said my piece, I feel that I should be leaving.” He looked at me. “Good luck, Lieutenant.”
I watched him leave the room, unsure of what to think. After a moment, I stuck my head into the hall. I couldn’t see Leonard, so I went back in the room and shut the door.
“What the hell just happened?”
“The only thing that could happen,” said Sylvia, looking at the door. “I don’t trust him, though.”
“You shouldn’t,” I said. “He’s a snake. He wants me out of the department because I know who and what he is.”
She shook her head and reached into her purse. “These are powerful men you play with, Mr. Rashid,” she said, pulling out a new lieutenant’s badge. She tossed it to me. “You’d better be careful, or you’re likely to get burned.”
I held up the badge. “What if I don’t want this?”
“You care about this department?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
“Then you’ll take it.” Her voice and face softened. “IA cleared you in the shooting death of Dante Washington, by the way. We’ll hold a press conference this afternoon to announce that along with our findings. Kristen Tanaka wants you—and by extension, our department—on trial in the court of public opinion. We’re going to make sure the public has all the facts before rushing to judgment.”
She looked at my lawyer and then back to me before plastering a huge politician’s smile on her face. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I have other meetings to attend.” She looked at me. “You should probably discuss with Captain Bowers the next step in your case.”
She left the same way Leonard did. I looked at the badge. I had always envisioned myself climbing the department’s hierarchy, but this felt wrong.
“What just happened?” I asked, looking at my new badge.
“A miracle as far as I can tell,” said Randy, reaching to his desk to pick up a thick envelope. “This is yours, too. It’s your new orders and a key to your office. And before you ask, I had no idea what was going to happen until Leonard Wilson showed up. From what I gather, this plan came together pretty quickly. You’re not going to get much free advice from a lawyer, but I’m going to give you some: take the job.”
I hesitated and then slipped the badge into my pocket and took the envelope from his outstretched hands. “I’ll think about it. Meantime, I’ve got work to do.”
Chapter 26
I sat in the reception area outside Randy’s office to read through my new orders. IMPD has five divisions—Operations, Investigations, Administration, Training, and Homeland Security—and every sworn officer, more or less, fits somewhere within those divisions. Our professional standards unit—Internal Affairs—reports directly to the chief of police, but even they have a place within IMPD’s clear-cut hierarchy. According to my orders, I didn’t. I reported directly to Sylvia Lombardo, the civilian director of public safety, so unless I went out of my way, I could likely go through an entire week without talking to another officer.
I read through the rest of the paperwork to see if I could find a loophole or some explanation of what my new assignment would entail. I didn’t find any of that, but I did discover that I now had an office. Unfortunately, IMPD didn’t have an open space, so they had borrowed one from the prosecutor’s office. As of now, I worked out of the building on Alabama Street. Objectively, I should have been happy. The prosecutors had a newer building and fresher coffee, and my coworkers would likely be less surly at eight in the morning. Of course, that’d take me even further from actual police work.
I dropped my paperwork on my lap and brought my hands to my face. I had told Randy I had work to do, but I didn’t, really. Paul had everything he needed to wrap this case up. With what we had, we had a reasonable shot of proving that Carla had murdered Angel Hererra and framed her husband. She, and perhaps Jacob, had very likely killed our other witnesses as well. Paul had a ways to go to prove that, but once we had Carla and Jacob in custody, we’d match them to prints or hair or other fiber evidence found at the crime scenes, and then the prosecutors would agree to refrain from seeking the death penalty in exchange for the two of them rolling over on the rest of their gang. We had them; they just didn’t realize it yet.
And that gave me time to think, the last thing I wanted to do at the moment. I needed a distraction, and luckily, I had a new office to check out. I walked to the building on Ohio Street and took the elevator up. Like IMPD, the floor had a cubicle maze in the center with private offices around the perimeter. Two lawyers sat at desks, watching me, so I held up my badge and nodded to them.
“You know where 1504 is?” I asked.
One lawyer looked to the other and then back to me. “The storage room?”
“I guess that’s it.”
He pointed to the other side of the room. “It’s the one by Jackie Kaminski’s office. Good luck.”
That didn’t bode well for me. I zigzagged my way through the cubicles to the other side of the room and then stopped at a locked door marked 1504 and fished my keys from my pocket. My new home away from home.
I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and almost instantly sneezed. The room had a window facing a brick wall. Little light filtered inside, but it didn’t take much light to see that my new office was a shithole. There were filing cabinets stacked two high along one wall and a low-slung wooden desk beneath the window. Aside from the computer someone had set up for me, a thick layer of dust covered nearly every flat surface. Curiously, there was a bottle in a brown paper bag on that desk, and as I crossed the room toward it, I found a note beside it, almost embedded in dust.
Congratulations. - Susan
I pulled the bottle from the bag. Perrier—seltzer water. Susan and I had known each other for a couple of years now, and while we didn’t always get along, I couldn’t have asked for a more supportive supervisor or friend. She had called me out for my excessive drinking several years ago, something none of my other friends or colleagues had ever done. At the time, I resented her for it and thought she had overreacted, but now, with hindsight, I could see she took a risk to help a friend in need. For that, I respected her more than almost anyone within the city’s law enforcement community. I made a mental note to stop by her office on Monday to thank her.
After that, I sat down on my new chair and spun around. When I had gone to law school five years ago, I had hoped to become a prosecuting attorney. I could still do that, I guess. I wouldn’t work for Leonard Wilson, but I was licensed to practice law anywhere in Indiana, so I could move to Evansville or Fort Wayne or one of the other smaller cities around the state. I wouldn’t be a cop, but I’d have a job that mattered. And that was all I really wanted. It’d be easy to take this lieutenant’s position, to coast for the rest of my life and retire in comfort, but that’s not who I was. At the end of my days, I wanted to be able to say I had led a life that mattered, that I had helped people, that I had made the world a better place. That was all I wanted.
Maybe this was what I deserved, though. The department couldn’t fire me for shooting Dante, at the risk of admitting fault before the inevitable lawsuit his family filed. And they couldn’t keep me in a public position, either, for risk of pissing off our community. So they just put me on a shelf.
I stood up from my chair, knowing that if I stayed in one place, I’d just get more upset. At first, I simply walked aimlessly, but then I found myself heading toward the Indianapolis Artsgarden, a glass and steel atrium suspended above the intersection of Washington and Illinois Streets. I bought a paper and immediately flipped to the obituaries section. Both Michelle and Dante had a listing, but the Penningtons and our two officers hadn’t made it in yet. The Washington family planned to bury their children on the same day in a dual ceremony. As the guy who had shot Dante dead, I had no business going, so I made note of the cemetery. I’d visit on my own time and pay my last respects to Michelle, my friend.
After t
hat, I tried to read the rest of the paper, but I couldn’t focus. I simply sat and watched the cars drive past, thinking. I sat there for maybe an hour before my phone buzzed. The caller had a 314 exchange, which meant it came from outside Indianapolis. I probably should have ignored it considering my mood, but very few people knew my number and those who called usually had a reason. I answered after a couple of buzzes.
“This is Ash Rashid.”
“And you have an interest in Xavier Jackson?”
The speaker had a smooth, low voice, one I didn’t recognize.
“I do,” I said, looking around me quickly to make sure no one had gotten close enough to eavesdrop on my conversation. As befitted such a large-scale atrium, the Artsgarden’s designers had installed trees in pots near the exterior windows as well as smaller plants throughout the space. Shoppers from the nearby Circle Center mall hustled through the area, but few stayed long enough to draw my attention. By all appearances, I was alone. “Who am I talking to?”
“Detective Josh White with the St. Louis Metro Police Department. I got a call earlier from Detective Sergeant Paul Murphy. I couldn’t get in touch with him, but he left your number as a backup. You work with Detective Murphy?”
“Yeah,” I said, glancing down to the badge clipped to my belt. “If you need a name and rank for your records, I’m Lieutenant Ashraf Rashid. You’ve probably seen me on CNN lately.”
He passed for a moment, presumably writing down what I told him. “You’re that guy, huh? The one who shot the home invader?”
“That’s the one.”
“Well, look, for what it’s worth—black, white, purple, orange, whatever his skin color—I would have shot the guy, too. If it makes you feel any better.”
A lot of people had said that to me lately, but then none of them had been in my position. It’s a lot easier to justify something after it’s done than to do it yourself and live with the consequences.
“I appreciate that,” I said. “You mentioned Xavier Jackson?”
“I did. Why are you asking about him?”
I had never liked these get-to-know-you conversations, although I understood why my fellow officers insisted we go through them. As far as I knew, Detective White had no reason for hostility toward me or my department, but few police officers trusted lightly. We existed in a world of lies. Sometimes we perpetuated those lies, but most of the time, we heard them passed off as truth by men and women who lied as freely as they breathed. In our world, trust came slowly and only with good reason.
“About ten years ago, he witnessed a murder I investigated,” I said, settling into my seat. “I’ve heard he moved to St. Louis and cleaned himself up.”
Detective White drew in a breath. “Soooo,” he said, holding the syllable out. “This is a personal call?”
“No. Someone has been murdering witnesses from the case, and I want to make sure Mr. Jackson’s all right. If he’d agree to it, I’ll put him in protective custody.”
I counted to five, waiting for him to respond. “Your call’s a little late. Mr. Jackson’s dead.”
My mind refused to hear that, so I asked him to repeat his answer. White, again, told me Jackson had died. The second time, it sunk in, and I slumped down on my bench and rubbed my eyes. I asked my next question hopefully. That’d make it easier to take.
“He get back into drugs?”
“No,” said White. “Not that I know of, at least. I ran the X-man as a confidential informant. He ministered to the local homeless community and helped them get into shelters. I know at least five guys who got clean thanks to him. Our working theory is that one of our illustrious drug dealers got tired of Xavier meddling with his customer base and decided to take him out. Anything you can tell me about him?”
I glanced up and ran my hand through my hair.
I just need one break, God. Just one break, please.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I don’t know any drug dealers in St. Louis. They shoot him or what?”
“I wish,” said White. He paused, and I heard a metallic clank followed by a soft sucking sound. I had hung around with enough smokers to know he had just lit up. “They poured gasoline on him and then lit him on fire.”
It felt like someone had just hammered a bolt through my spine. My posture shot straight up, and I covered my mouth. Anyone watching probably thought something had bitten me. I didn’t care, but I lowered my voice anyway.
“Tell me he’s the only murder you’ve got with that signature.”
“He’s our only one. What are you telling me?”
I closed my eyes. We were too late. I was too late.
“You still there, Detective?” asked White.
“Yeah,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound too crestfallen. “Somebody killed Xavier Jackson because he testified here. We had a very similar murder recently. A 911 dispatcher who testified in the same trial Xavier testified in ten years ago. Your coroner determine when Xavier died?”
“Medical examiner says four weeks ago.”
I closed my eyes. Even if we closed it today, too many people had died because of this case. “I’m going to have Sergeant Murphy call you. He’s spearheading this investigation, so he’ll likely send somebody out to St. Louis to share information.”
“I look forward to his call, then.”
“Yeah.”
I hung up the phone, not knowing what else to say. Seven people dead now—one of whom was a child—because I sent the wrong man to prison. Part of me wanted to find somebody doing something wrong and punch him out, but another part of me wanted to find a bottle of something and crawl into it for a week or two. I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees. I could have wept, but instead, I balled my hands into fists.
“God damn it.”
I said it loud enough that several people around me stopped mid-step and stared. When I looked up, they hurried off. In normal circumstances, I probably would have felt guilty about that, but now I didn’t know what I felt. I called Paul Murphy, but his phone went to voice mail.
“Paul, answer your goddamn phone next time I call.”
Again, I attracted the attention of several people around me. None of them had kids, so I couldn’t have cared less. They had heard worse. I stood and began pacing in front of the bank of windows overlooking Illinois Street, waiting for Paul to call me back. Evidently, my swearing had received more attention than I thought because approximately two minutes later, a uniformed security guard began walking toward me. A lot of uniformed officers took second jobs as armed security guards, so there was a fair chance the guy walking toward me played for the same team I did. When he got near enough, I pushed back my jacket to expose both my firearm and the badge—now a lieutenant’s badge—at my hip. Paul chose that moment to call me back.
“You got something to say, buddy?” I asked the guard.
He held up his hands and took a step back. “We’re closing soon. I just thought I’d come over and tell you in case you didn’t hear the announcement.”
“Why are you closing? It’s the middle of the afternoon.”
He shook his head and took another step back. “I don’t make the calls, sir. I just do what I’m told. And can you try to keep the swearing down?”
“Yeah, I will,” I said, reaching into my jacket for my phone. I had no business snapping at a man doing his job, so I softened my voice. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”
He nodded and then slowly backed away. I watched him until I didn’t think he could hear me and then answered my phone.
“Thanks for calling me back.”
“You sounded pissed. I was afraid you’d slash my tires if I didn’t.”
I put my elbow on the glass overlooking the street and then leaned my forehead against my forearm. The cars below me zipped by as if their drivers didn’t have a care in the world. On most winter days, I wouldn’t expect to see many people on those sidewalks, but now they were as crowded as the day after Thanksgiving.
&nb
sp; “I’m not in the mood for jokes, so just stow that for now.”
“All right,” he said, his voice serious. “By your tone, I’m guessing you found something and you don’t like it.”
I looked down at my feet and then pressed off from the glass to resume my pacing. “Yeah, I found something. Xavier Jackson’s dead. Doused in gasoline and lit on fire in St. Louis at least four weeks ago.”
“You’re kidding,” said Paul.
“I wish I were,” I said, feeling my exasperation rise to the surface and fuel my temper. “He turned his life around after the shooting. The guy became like a community organizer, tried to get homeless men off drugs. And now he’s dead, and it’s our fault.”
“You said this happened at least four weeks ago. It’d be a hell of a coincidence, but we don’t know if his death is connected to anybody else’s.”
I looked around me to make sure the security guards and mall walkers kept their distance from me. Evidently, my body language was hostile enough to create a ring of solitude in an otherwise crowded atrium. I lowered my voice anyway.
“Don’t even try to go there. Xavier is dead because we screwed up.”
Paul hesitated. “Did you brief St. Louis about our situation?”
He couldn’t see me, but I nodded anyway and switched the phone from one ear to the other. “Didn’t tell him everything, but yeah. I said you’d call. You should send somebody over there to share information.”
Paul muttered something I couldn’t understand, but then his voice became stronger. “I’ll send Nancy Wharton. She went to college near St. Louis, so she’ll know the area. Meantime, where are you?”
“Downtown.”
“Good,” he said, breathing a little easier. “Come on in. I’m a little out of the loop working this case, but something’s going on. Mike Bowers is calling in the troops.”
Whatever the reason, I doubted it’d help us any.
“Fine,” I said, nodding. “Before you get off, I need to tell you something and I only want to say it once. I got a verdict in my disciplinary hearing.”