by Brad Cooper
The stress of the shock created another byproduct for Kara: anxiety. “Thanks for the analysis guys but what are we supposed to do with this thing?”
Lisa spoke up for the first time. “Yeah, it’s not like we can call the cops on the cops.”
“That is such a good point,” Ryan said.
The silence was deafening and the few quiet seconds seemed like hours as they tried to concoct a solution.
Finally Adam spoke up and said, “The counties? I know the county sheriffs are always around here pulling people over. What about them?”
“They’re here but what are they going to do with it? Look, if this has anything to do with people that are flying in on helicopters and shooting cops, I doubt county sheriffs are going to crack the case. They’re small potatoes just like the locals are,” Clark said. “I don’t mean to be such a cynic but their hands would be tied.”
“Good point. Then who?”
“State police?” Kara proposed. “I mean, they’re statewide so they should have more power or whatever.”
“Plus they might have a guy already there or something. I know one of the locals from here went over there a while back,” Adam said.
Ryan nodded and said, “Right.”
The next hour was spent discussing how to turn everything over to the State Police. Would they even believe it? How would the tape be delivered? Dropping off a video tape showing the murder of a police officer was not an everyday occurrence and it could turn undue attention to those who provided the tape rather than complete attention being concentrated on those who were featured on it.
One thing, however, was agreed upon. Nothing could be done at the moment. It was Friday, and almost night time at that, so the top ranking officials would not be in. Everything would wait until Monday but the first business day of the week would bring the truth to light.
CHAPTER
11
The cloudless blue sky of the afternoon became streaked with pastels of divergent hues and intensity during the evening. Sparks turned off the television, satisfied to have completed another day of work. He got up from his chair and walked to the outside of the building. Looking into the sky he admired the beauty of the small remainder of yellow at the horizon line that blended into red-orange as he looked higher only to become midnight blue directly above his head. A shade of purple was tucked in just below the outline of the moon but was beginning to fade into black. He reached into his pocked at retrieved the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, ready to light one before making his way home.
The air was cool and a slight breeze blew as Sparks lit the cigarette only to be interrupted by Carl Lilly.
“It never fails,” Sparks didn’t say, rushing to get in one quick drag before the impending conversation that he had little interest in.
Lilly got out of his truck and walked toward the entrance where Sparks was standing. He was out of uniform, wearing a red golf shirt, one that had grown tighter because he’d added more than twenty pounds since buying it, and a pair of worn-out blue jeans with the cuffs tucked into the top of his tennis shoes. He walked toward Sparks and said, “You see the news tonight?”
“Naw,” Sparks said, “I was covered up with paperwork and phone calls. Idiot reporters keep calling until you answer their obvious questions. I bet I answered the same question ten times. It was ‘Chief, how will the department recover from this?’, and I kept answering that the same way over and over. Made me sick. I wanted to just come right out and say ‘Oh, Hell’s bells, we’ll probably just pack up shop and declare martial law!’ but I couldn’t. Had to keep calm, show some courtesy.”
“Whatever works. Well, the Morgan girl was on there. Looked like she was over at Clark’s house from what I could tell.”
Sparks took a deep breath before speaking. “At Clark’s? What did she say?” he asked.
“Nothing. At least nothing interesting really. She said the same things as everybody else has. ‘It’s a shame’ and ‘I hope they catch whoever did it’ and all that stuff.”
“Well, Carl, if she did know something I doubt she’d come right out and say it on TV.” Sparks blew a breath full of smoke out his mouth. “She seem nervous or anything?”
“Not really. She acted liked she liked the camera. It sure liked her, that’s for sure. That’s one good lookin’ girl.”
“Down boy,” Sparks said with a grin. “If she was over at Clark’s and she don’t know anything that means there ain’t anything to know. Seems like that group is together all the time and I doubt they have many secrets.”
“Right,” Carl said, listening for the rest of the Chief’s thoughts.
Sparks chuckled and said, “I guess we’re okay, then. That other chick must have just gotten lonely and took off because she wanted some more action before she went to sleep or something.”
“I wish girls would’ve been like that when we were that age.”
“Hell, I wish they were like that now,” Sparks said.
Both men laughed aloud. Sparks finished his cigarette, smothered the smoldering butt on the ground with the tip of his shoe, and walked back into the building to wait on Frank Amick’s arrival.
Twenty minutes later, the door opened and Frank walked into Sparks’ office. He flicked a piece of lint from the collar of his shirt as he entered.
“You sure took your sweet time getting back here. Mind telling me the answer to our little problem that you came up with?” Sparks said before Amick had a chance to be seated.
Frank sat on the couch with his posture slouched for comfort. He let out a groan of comfort, and said, “Alvin Willis. That’s our answer.”
“Alvin? Alvin Willis?” Sparks said with a chortle of disbelief. He leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on the desk. “The great answer you came up with is an old war vet that went shit nuts thirty-some-odd years ago? You’re jerking me around, Frank. You gotta be.” Sparks leaned back into his chair, his hands interlocked behind his head. “You’re smarter than this.”
“If you’d kindly let me at least tell you what I had in mind, you might not think it’s so dumb.” Amick took his can of snuff from his pocket and placed a pinch of the product behind his bottom lip.
“I’m not impressed so far.”
“Look, Darrell, he just wanders the streets. The only time he sleeps under a roof is when he stays in one of our cells and even that don’t happen too often. So, the way I see it’s that we’re doing him a favor really.”
“Have you started the great plan yet?” Sparks asked impatiently.
Amick’s patience with Sparks’ impatience was running out as well. Frank leaned forward, lowered his voice and said, “We just set it up like he done it. Nobody has any idea what’s going on with all this, and nobody saw anything, so what’s the difference?”
“First of all, I’m not for sure that the girl doesn’t know anything. Second, you still haven’t told me anything yet. Come on, out with it.”
“Ray got shot with a police issue handgun, right?”
“Right.”
Amick spit into an empty plastic Mountain Dew bottle and said, “So, we pull one out of storage, fire it somewhere, and plant it on Alvin while he’s asleep. Either that or plant mine on him and I’ll claim the new one. Whichever one. No gunshot residue but that can be explained away.”
“And?” Sparks asked, waiting for the rest of Amick’s idea.
“And we just find it on him, interrogate him, make him think he done something he can’t remember, and everything’s fine. We’re in the clear and Alvin’s got a place to stay every night.”
“So our way of doing him a favor is framing him for a homicide and sending him to prison? That’s rich, Frank.” Sparks rose from his seat and stretched before walking to the window.
Amick got up from the couch and walked to the other side of the window where Sparks was standing. “Look, it takes care of us and that’s the main thing. His life is no good the way it is and it’d be good for him. This’ll get him of
f the streets, at least. It’s an easy fix when we’re the ones doing the investigating.”
Sparks looked directly at Amick and said, “And all the while he’s screaming that he’s innocent. We’d have the ACLU and Jesse Jackson all over our asses in no time, screamin’ racism and lawsuits and it ain’t worth it. We can come up with something else, I’m sure.”
“Who’s gonna believe him? We tell him he shot a cop. He’ll deny it at first but I think we can get him to cop to it, no pun intended. That dumb nigger won’t know the difference. Just trust me on this.”
“Trust you? You’re not giving me a reason to be full of confidence.”
“Just think about it. It can’t hurt things too bad. We just need to get all this behind us, Darrell, and the sooner the better.”
Sparks closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled. “Fine. Go get another sidearm and fire it out back somewhere. It’ll look used that way. Keep it as quiet as you can without a silencer though. We don’t need any more attention on us anyway. Plant yours on Alvin. We’ll put it on him tonight and go through the whole arrest deal tomorrow.”
Frank left the room and walked to the storage room at the back of the building. Security was clearly not a necessity, much less a priority, for the room. Only a partially rusted padlock, which was at least twenty-five years old, was in place to keep potential intruders out of the half-empty supply closet. Inside the room was equipment suitable for any small town police organization in the southern United States but little else. The room housed only the bare necessities. Kevlar bulletproof vests hung on thick metal hangers from a rod inches from the ceiling that spanned the small room. There were only five of them and none had ever been struck by a bullet. Boxes of nine-millimeter ammunition were stacked on the shelves, only used when an officer would make the monthly trip to the local firing range. Marksmanship is a priority in law enforcement, even in a town where guns were rarely fired in the line of duty.
Emergency equipment had its own section in the supply room, otherwise known as the back corner under a quarter-inch of dust. The tear gas canisters, gas masks, and other items had done nothing more than collect dust since their arrival in the 1990s. Spring Creek was not much of a hotbed for riots, race wars, looting, professional sports championship celebrations, or terrorist activity.
On the bottom shelf, and nearly out of plain view to anyone who did not know the specific place in which to look, sat three handguns. All were identical, the nine millimeter variety, the matte finish still looking brand new. None of the three had been used in more than two years but were cleaned on a semi-regular basis by whichever officer became utterly bored during the course of a work day.
Amick picked up one of the handguns and placed several rounds in his shirt pocket before turning off the light and leaving the room. He closed the padlock and continued down the hall, back to the chief’s office. Sparks was arranging the papers on his desk, organizing everything so it would be easy to work through at the start of the next day. The media would be hounding him again but this time he would have breaking news to deliver.
“Alright, I got one. I’ll be out back getting it ready. Make sure everyone’s occupied, alright?” Amick said with his voice still lower than normal. Sparks nodded approval and Amick was quickly out the door.
A moment later Sparks shook as a muffled bang rang out, disrupting the silent evening. At a quarter after seven in the evening that sound would surely pique the interest of those within earshot, especially after the events of the last thirty-six hours.
Before Sparks could walk outside, Amick opened the front door of the building and met him halfway.
“It’s done,” Amick said, looking around. “All we got to do now is put it on him and we’re home free.”
Sparks held up his index finger and said, “You better hope to God this works, Frank. We don’t need another complication to fool with.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Amick said, waving his hand.
“Don’t give me that Shinola. Don’t worry about it? It’s not that easy and this hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing so far.” Sparks took a couple of steps forward and was eye-to-eye with Amick. He closed his eyes to a squint, pointed his finger at him more aggressively, and said, “You screw this up and we got lawyers all over our asses, not to mention the feds, the court system, and God knows how many pissed-off slant eyes with guns. Just get it right.”
“Relax, boss. I’ve done gone over all this in my head. It’s simple. Just let me handle it, alright?” Amick said uneasily.
“Relax? I don’t relax when we’re dealing with what some people call the Japs’ version of the mafia. These sorts of people run their government over there. We’re nothing to them. Pardon me for being a little uneasy.” Sparks took a step back and said, “Fine. You handle it but, if you cause more problems instead of fixing the ones we already got, it’s your ass that will burn for this. Understand?” He kept his index finger pointed at Amick. “I’m not getting my life completely wrecked for this because you decided to play hero. Just get it right.” His lips quivered with anger for in the seconds after he finished speaking.
Sparks walked back into his office, leaving Amick standing in the reception area of the building. For the first time, Frank Amick felt the pressure of the situation. That feeling would not last much longer, he thought as he walked to his desk. He laid the handgun on top of the stack of files that went unopened during his shift. It would soon be nighttime and, in the late hours of night, Alvin would lie down in one of his customary spots to catch a few hours of sleep. However, he would awaken in the morning with one more possession than he had when he fell asleep. His newfound possession would be life-changing, for him and for countless others.
CHAPTER
12
The sky was overcast and the clouds moved slowly westward but continued to obscure the view of the moon. Rain drizzled intermittently, annoying Frank Amick as he stood outside the police department building on Main Street. Behind him were the sounds of the moving waters of the creek, the level slowly rising with the rainfall.
As is the case in most towns across America, Spring Creek was devoid of activity after 11 PM. The occasional sounds of a passing car carrying someone whose shift started in the early morning or of a dog barking in the distance were the only audible disturbances in the night. Every business is closed by 10 PM, even the two gas stations in town. No one purchases gasoline or overpriced snack items while sitting in the living room or lying in bed.
Amick hated the rain. Nothing ruins a good day like rain, he’d often said. It was just another annoyance in a life teeming with annoyances. The rain was not sufficient to force him to take immediate cover but just steady enough to be a nuisance. He would have to work through it on this night, however. This would be his best and possibly only opportunity to make his move on the homeless man who was now an unsuspecting target.
An aging non-descript white sedan rolled down the street. Its muffler was barely functional and blue smoke rolled from the exhaust pipe. The inconsiderate driver spotted Amick beside the road and honked the horn in the early and silent morning, likely much to the chagrin of those attempting to sleep somewhere nearby. Amick choked as he threw up a hand in recognition. A thought was directed at the driver that was less than complimentary to his level of intelligence.
The smoke from the car left Amick coughing but he could still make out the faint outline of the subject he was eyeing, even with eyes full of tears. The Spring Creek branch of the United States Post Office was possibly one of the smallest in the country and most certainly the state. It was enough to accommodate the current population and mail flow but should there be a spike in population, a new building may be in order. A single small wall of post office boxes was to the right of the entrance, the counter straight ahead after walking through the door, and the mailing supplies were to the left. Everything else was taken care of in the rear of the building, outside the view of the patrons. At 1 AM the building was completely dark
and free of inhabitants. Frank Amick’s attention was fixed on a figure outside of the entrance. In the covered doorway of the building, curled up on the ground was a sleeping, and ostensibly comfortable, Alvin Willis.
Amick looked to the area underneath one of the streetlamps lining Main Street. The rain continued to drizzle and small puddles formed in the contours of the roadway. He started to move but thought better of it upon realizing that his shoes were not tailor made for covert activity. Moments later, after a quick run back to the car, he was back in his original spot wearing a pair of worn sneakers that were not easy on the eyes, stained with everything from grass stains to bleach, but had a soft rubber sole perfect for virtual silence while walking on smooth concrete.
He was now completely out of uniform. Amick wore a slightly undersized polo shirt covered by a forest green cotton-lined waterproof nylon jacket and a pair of blue jeans. His faded baseball cap was pulled down tight, the bill obscuring the view of his eyes. From a distance, he was inconspicuous; a nondescript figure walking in the rain on a cool, rainy night. Such an appearance was as good as being invisible, he thought.
“It’s like I’m not even here,” Amick smiled and whispered to the quiet night around him. The deputy then considered his circumstances and morosely added, “I wish I wasn’t.”
Frank unzipped the pocket on the right side of his jacket, checking one last time to see that he had remembered the handgun. The nine-millimeter pistol had been fired only hours before and wiped clean of any fingerprints. Even the ammunition in the magazine was from the same box which provided the bullet that killed Ray Kessler, although Amick had loaded it while wearing a latex glove. The minute details were not important. No one would ask questions about the investigation because no one would suspect foul play from those in charge of it. This was not the Los Angeles Police Department and the person in question was not an ex-football superstar. Eccentric, possibly mentally ill war veterans accused of shooting a police officer did not merit such attention from the public. They were normally judged quickly in the court of public opinion.