With Courage With Fear

by AD Davies

  “Hello, boys,” she declared entering Murphy’s squad room for the second time that day.

  Three “boys” she didn’t recognise looked up from their desks. Detective Sergeant Cleaver, the one boy she did know, was briefing a detective constable—Rebecca Ndlove—whom he met during the kidnap-killer case that triggered Alicia’s decline.

  Decline? Yes. Sort of.

  No kidnap-killer, no meeting the baby’s father, no excellent sexy time, no pregnancy, ergo no maternity leave and no archives. No Backfill Bobby either.

  “All ready to go?” Alicia asked.

  Cleaver nodded and Ndlove did likewise and both rose to follow her to the interview suite.

  Murphy being the chief, it wasn’t routine for him to conduct interviews, especially seemingly straightforward ones. With Omar yesterday, they deemed the crime serious enough to warrant the DCI’s input, but Benjamin appeared to be a nut; a detective sergeant or inspector should suffice here. The junior officer, DC Ndlove, was a risk in Alicia’s opinion, but Stevenson disagreed and Murphy didn’t want to show discrimination. He said that when a black officer interviewed a black man who railed against the police and murdered a civilian support officer, race shouldn’t matter. But if Grodin saw Ndlove as a traitor or conspirator, Alicia feared it could return a negative response. Stevenson argued two white detectives would be worse.

  With no way to read Grodin’s mind, Murphy went with his gut.

  The other reason to use DS Cleaver as lead was that Murphy was already spotting patterns between this incident and the two before. So far, Grodin’s attempted suicide was the only connective tissue, and even that was tenuous. Nobody told Cleaver a thing relating to the other factor, though.

  Courage.

  Fear.

  Cleaver was clearly suspicious of Alicia’s presence and couldn’t understand why Leeds Central kicked it to them, but he didn’t make a fuss. Just accepted the additional questions issued to him, the phrasing to try and slip naturally into proceedings.

  Behind the same glass as this morning, Alicia entered the room to find Murphy and Stevenson with their backs straight and arms folded, watching Grodin. She stood behind them and did the same.

  She said, “Am I doing it right? Am I in the club?”

  Stevenson moved his hands to his hips. “What?”

  “The arm-crossing club. You both looked so stern and serious. I thought I’d join in. See why it’s so popular. Okay with you?”

  Stevenson asked Murphy, “Why on Earth did you request this?”

  Murphy’s arms remained crossed. “Because I wanted the smartest person I know to give me a second opinion.”

  “Aw, you.” Alicia punched Murphy’s arm playfully.

  “He wasn’t available,” Murphy said. “So I settled.”

  “See? Donny-Boy wouldn’t have made that joke a year ago.” Alicia prodded Stevenson in his firm tummy. “Hey, is that an ab? Do you have abs?”

  Stevenson swatted her away. “They’re starting.”

  Cleaver and Ndlove entered the room with the duty brief and sat opposite Benjamin Grodin, who stared forward as if they weren’t there. He wore an identical grey outfit to Omar Jafari, and his hands were secured to the same metal bar, albeit with a longer chain so he could read and sign papers, and a fresh bandage secured his neck. The duty brief, Samantha King, was white and greying, approaching retirement but with a bite as sharp as it was in her youth. Well-known for civil rights cases, she remained on call permanently to members of any community likely to have been racially profiled, or treated more harshly than the average white person in the same situation.

  Alicia didn’t think this counted, but that didn’t matter right now.

  Cleaver commenced the interview, confirming the names of each person present, Ms. King speaking for her client and acknowledging the legality of the arrest. Earlier, she questioned the move from Leeds Central to Sheerton but accepted the two groups of protesters in the vicinity of Leeds Central—the British arm of the Black Lives Matter movement against the impressively quickly-organised counter-group declaring “All Lives Matter”—might not be the best environment for an unbiased investigation.

  As the boring formal preamble droned on, Alicia reflected on why the two groups were involved. Benjamin hadn’t been killed or beaten up. Okay, his speech on the street concerned questions raised by the opposing sides, but the speed with which…

  “Um, Donny?” Alicia said. “I’m having a moment.”

  “A moment?” Murphy said.

  “Yeah, a moment of brilliance. How quickly did the protest spring up?”

  “Today? Couple of hours.”

  “And this morning, the anti-Muslim guys. We only announced it was terror related, when? That morning?”

  “We picked up Omar last night, took his confession, and waited until the commissioner signed off on the press release. It went out at nine.”

  “So a couple of hours at most.” She prodded Stevenson in the stomach again. “Yeah, definitely an ab. Listen, don’t take this the wrong way, but you being gay, you probably paid more attention than me. The protest after the Vaughn killing—”

  “I received a message the next day,” Stevenson said. “I’ll check the time.”

  “Cross reference it with the press release.”

  “You think the protests are connected now?”

  “I’m not sure.” Alicia remembered the pose for their crossed-armed club and hushed Stevenson. “The juicy bit is beginning.”

  Ndlove said, “You were present on Briggate in Leeds, close to the Harvey Nichols department store today at eleven-thirty a.m., correct?”

  “No comment,” Benjamin replied.

  “You brought a machete along with the intention of using it to kill a police officer, correct?”

  “No comment.”

  Cleaver tried, “You caused a disturbance in order to attract attention from a police officer and attacked him or her with the intention of killing him.”

  “Is that a question?” Ms. King asked.

  “Yes or no, Mr. Grodin?”

  Benjamin Grodin smiled, checked the chain’s length would accommodate him, and folded his arms. “No comment.”

  “He’s not joining the club,” Alicia said.

  The interview continued as expected, straightforward fact-based questions with Benjamin no-commenting his way through the whole thing. Eventually, Cleaver paused and Ndlove read the signal. She pulled her papers together as if to pack up and leave, when Cleaver asked for one final question.

  “Why you?” he said. “Why you, specifically? What gives you the right to execute a police officer in front of dozens of innocent people?”

  Benjamin met Cleaver’s gaze. Alicia could virtually hear the killer’s brain ticking over. He clasped his hands together and sat up a little taller. Licked his lips.

  Ms. King looked at him. Raised an eyebrow.

  “No comment,” Benjamin said.

  Alicia dropped her arms to her side. “He was close.”

  Cleaver suspended the interview, and he and Ndlove gathered their things for real.

  “Close isn’t enough,” Stevenson said.

  “Okay, Mr. Spoilsport, why don’t you have a go?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Murphy can’t take over because it’ll look like harassment. I’m not allowed in rooms with violent crims, so you have to break him. You’re a DS, and a psychologist, so we say you’re looking out for his welfare. Maybe the other detectives weren’t trained to deal with people with mental issues.”

  Murphy mirrored her in untangling his arms. “No, if we acknowledge he appears mentally ill, we risk getting social services involved. A section means jail comes off the table. I want something new to take in there.”

  “The protests,” Alicia said. “Bobby, how about you check that timing? Then we can work out your next tactic.”

  * * *

  Alicia waited like a good little girl for Stevenson and Cleaver to ramble through the offic
ial wording of resuming an interview, barely able to see over the wall through the glass, having succumbed to gravity and brought in a chair. No one had been able to locate a cushion.

  Yet.

  People were searching.

  Ndlove and Murphy stood either side of her, Ndlove the newest member of the crossed-arms club.

  The pair in the room walked Grodin through the events once more, Ms. King objecting that her client already answered the questions, but Stevenson pointed out the only replies they received were “no comments” which did not constitute answers. When they reached the conclusion, Stevenson detailed the wounds sustained by Harpinder Rashid, and explained the facts were not in dispute.

  “Talk to us,” he said. “We want to understand. You’re afraid of the police, aren’t you?”

  “No comment.”

  “You have to overcome that, don’t you?”

  Trigger words suggested by Alicia, linked to fear and courage, but nothing direct.

  Can’t put words in his mouth.

  Stevenson said, “The police. You hate us, right? You think we hate you. That’s got to weigh heavy.”

  Benjamin snorted a laugh. “No comment.”

  “What are you, a warrior of some sort?”

  One of his own ideas: stoke the guy’s ego. But it wasn’t ego.

  Benjamin said, “No comment.”

  Ms. King placed a hand on Benjamin’s arm. “Where is this going please? You’re coming awfully close to bullying Mr. Grodin.”

  Stevenson swallowed. Benjamin grinned. Must have clocked the weakness.

  “Time to do something stupid,” Alicia said.

  “No.” Murphy strode to the door and faced Alicia as she heaved herself out of the chair. “You’re not doing this.”

  “Then there’s no point in me being here. I may as well jack it all in now and go home, soak my huge ankles, and wait for this thing to destroy my vagina.”

  Murphy rolled his eyes at the V-word.

  She said, “I’m so useless here.” She sniffed, held her breath and tried to breathe out, forcing her eyes to water. “If I can’t get through there and see what he’s up to, get a good read on him and see him react…” She sniffed again, a real, honest-to-God tear rolling down her cheek. “Either I get in there now, or … or…”

  Sniff.

  Sob.

  Murphy said, “That is not going to work on me.”

  “It totally is.” Alicia wiped her eyes and grinned as wide as she could.

  “Fine, it is.”

  He opened the door and she waddled through, around the side to the interview room entrance, and knocked. Cleaver opened the door displaying a frown and Alicia entered with a serious frowny-face, like the other two showed.

  With a hint of happiness to his tone, Stevenson said, “And … joining the interview is…”

  Alicia finished the comment for the recording. “Detective Sergeant Alicia Friend. Someone give a girl a seat.”

  “You can have mine,” Benjamin said.

  Ms. King shook her head humourlessly.

  Cleaver stood for Alicia and she planted herself opposite Benjamin. “Okay, my little murderous munchkin, let’s talk about life.”

  “Munchkin again?” Stevenson said.

  Alicia winked at him, hoping he’d take the bait. And the hint.

  “Life?” Ms. King said.

  “Yeah.” Alicia sat upright and the baby shifted, settling in the outer section of her belly, as if trying to drag her forward to the floor. It was the most comfortable she’d been all day. “The Murderous Munchkin. Not quite as manly as ‘The Yorkshire Ripper’, but that’s what’s going in the press release.”

  She nudged Stevenson.

  He said, “I’m sorry, I’m not sure where this is going. Interview suspended—”

  “Nuh-uh!” Alicia pointed at Cleaver. “He’s senior. He says where this interview goes.”

  “Not suspended,” Cleaver said.

  “Goodie. Right, so we’re all agreed. Benjamin Grodin is now the Murderous Munchkin—”

  “Hey!” Grodin slapped the table. “Stop calling me that.”

  “Calm down,” Ms. King urged. “They’re doing it to rattle you. Detectives, it’s time to end this.”

  “Benji, Benji, Benji,” Alicia said. “What drove you to this cowardly-custard murder? And why only one? A big strong man like you could surely bump off two or three evil little coppers.”

  “No more,” Ms. King said.

  Silence.

  Benjamin glanced at his brief. Focused on Alicia. “I probably could’ve, yeah. But I only needed one to make my point.”

  “What point?”

  He sat in silence.

  Alicia said, “You know your limitations, is that it? Didn’t want to risk two or three, so you went with the PCSO. For shock value. You could have refused to come down, refused to shut up, wait for a real copper instead of the plastic policeman wannabe.”

  Stevenson said, “DS Friend, I think we should—”

  “I’m talking to the munchkin, not you.”

  “I’m not a munchkin,” Benjamin growled.

  “You could have done a proper copper but you were too afraid, so you carried out your munchkin plan with a guy who looks like a police officer, but who isn’t really.”

  “But they’ll know I could have,” Benjamin said.

  “I need to confer with my client,” Ms. King said.

  Alicia shook her head. “Not while the munchkin is on a roll.”

  Benjamin hit the table again, harder this time. “Stop it!”

  “Yeah,” Stevenson said. “Stop with the munchkin business.” A pause, a touch to Alicia’s hand indicating the penny had finally dropped. He said, “This man is no munchkin. He’s a killer. A cop killer. You should take him seriously.”

  “Right. What he said.” Benjamin nodded at Stevenson.

  Alicia said, “Nah. Don’t be soft. You’re a pretender. But that’s okay. Everyone has limits.”

  Benjamin’s eyes turned on Alicia. “One’s physical limitations should not limit one’s ability to do great things.”

  And there it was.

  She said, “Great things. Are you a spiritual person, Mr. Grodin?”

  “The spiritual and physical are closely linked. As is the psychological.”

  “You have the spiritual goal, but physical limitations.”

  “One can transcend one’s physical limitations. I have to transcend them. Or I will never achieve greatness.”

  “And that’s what this is, munchkin?”

  “Stop calling him a munchkin,” Stevenson said.

  “Yeah,” Benjamin said, nodding. “Gotta stop that. It’s not nice.”

  “One thing, Benji.” Alicia shifted and immediately regretted it as the baby swam back and nose-dived her bladder. She remained composed and asked, “Where did you learn the word ‘transcend’? You failed all your exams, no education since, and a quick perusal of your online activity shows significant shortcomings in your spelling, grammar, and a limited vocabulary. So when did you ever, in your life, use the term ‘one’s physical limitations’?”

  “I don’t … I don’t understand.” He looked to Stevenson as if for advice.

  The DS touched Benjamin’s hand like a true friend would. “It’s okay. I understand. Explain it to me. Who gave you that phrase? Why attempt to kill yourself at the scene? Just tell us. Then I get her out of here.”

  “No priors,” Alicia added kindly. “Never been in trouble, and you have no associations with any group that condemns the police. Nothing before today. Why did you act this way?”

  Benjamin stared at the table. Hands working, fingers tapping away. Finally, he said, “To overcome the fear, I must become the courage.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  After the interview terminated, Robert found the canteen and picked up hot drinks for the team. Three coffees and a green tea in a four-hole carrier plus a regular tea in his spare hand.

  He was in two minds
about volunteering for the refreshments run. One side of the coin suggested endearing himself to the people around him, the other cautioned it may make him appear submissive. He opted for endearing; he could always overcome any misconception of weakness, but could only appear like a nice guy once.

  Cleaver, Ndlove, Friend, and Murphy all convened in the DCI’s office, but hadn’t waited for him to start the meeting.

  “The spiritual and psychological are closely linked,” Alicia said, leaning on the windowsill. Backlit. Unclear if it was intentional. “Indoctrination uses that connection, but also its disconnect. The disconnect being that one relates to belief, the other to the inner workings of the physical mind. Whether this is a group or a few individuals being influenced by a single preacher-type, they are all susceptible to both spiritual belief and tenuous logic.”

  “Tenuous logic.” Steven set down the drinks. “Your speciality, DS Friend.”

  Only Ndlove smiled.

  Murphy said, “Alicia, go on.”

  She continued the lecture. Paulson warned Stevenson about Alicia’s speeches. She’d tried them on the super, usually to get herself off the desk and into the real world. Paulson even fell for them at first, but there are only so many anecdotes and analogies in the world before they wear thin.

  Nothing she was saying was wrong, but the detectives in the room paid too much attention to her. And no one thanked him for the drinks.

  “It’s like a placebo,” Alicia said. “Like homeopathy. The notion that water holds the memory of a disease or affliction, that this tiny dilution can help cure a human being … it only works because the practitioner says it will, quotes real world examples of it working. A domino effect, if you like. One homeopathic doctor a few decades ago makes up a lie and says, ‘Hey, Mr. Patient, this cured the backache of forty people in China last year. Why not try it?’ and hey presto, he gets proof his cure works. More placebos go out, more testimonies, and suddenly it’s mainstream. The more people try it, although only a tiny percentage get cured, it’s all they need.”

  “So what are we looking at?” Stevenson asked.

  “I haven’t finished.”

  “I know, but we’ll be here all night.”