Miami, It's Murder

by Edna Buchanan

  “Yeah, I’ve arrested people myself for taking the law into their own hands. I got personally caught up in cases when I carried a badge, but I never thought about killing the bad guys. Not once. Never even thought about it. But now, at this stage of life—”

  He shrugged.

  “What exactly are you working on, Britt?” He raised his coffee mug.

  “A story about what you’ve been doing in retirement.”

  He put the cup down.

  “You’ve been keeping busy.” I stated it as a flat fact, not an accusation.

  “Yeah.” His eyes held mine without wavering.

  “I talked to Ruby Creech last night.”

  Dan shifted his gaze to a point somewhere over my left shoulder, the muscles in his jaw working. “She covered up for that son of a bitch all those years,” he said finally.

  “She was surprised to hear you’d retired, seeing as how you’d been sitting on their place around the time he died.”

  His expression went from bitter to bleak.

  “Farrington, who wasn’t supposed to be found, was shot with a thirty-eight similar to a detective special. The person who did it dropped something at the scene. Amazing, how in all that cement they found it.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “McDonald didn’t tell you he was dead, though you knew all about it when I called.”

  Dan stood up abruptly, startling me. Without a word, he shambled into the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open and close. He came back carrying a can of Budweiser and sat down again.

  “I’m the last one you’re interviewing, right?” He popped open the beer.

  I nodded, a lump in my throat.

  “See,” he said, staring at the label on the can. “I know how you operate. I’ve watched you long enough. I ever tell ya, I always thought you shoulda been a cop? Would have made a great partner.”

  “If you had spaced them out more, I might never have caught on,” I said quietly.

  “I would’ve, but I didn’t have the luxury of time.” He leaned forward as though it was important for me to believe him. “You know I always cared about the job—”

  “About justice.”

  “But in the end I realized there is no justice in the system.”

  “But why? How could you?”

  “How could I not?” His voice became intense. “There is only one type of permanent rehabilitation for creeps like them, and that’s death.” The little wheels turned in the tape recorder. He stared at them and repeated the thought as if to be sure the machine got it right. “Death is the only known sure rehabilitation. This was preventive: proactive police work instead of reactive.”

  “But why you?” I said, anguish in my voice.

  “I have nothing to lose.”

  “What about your reputation, the commendations?”

  “That’s right, I did good. And this was the last good thing I could do in my career. I always tried to stay in touch with victims and their families, to let ’em know somebody still remembered. This was the last thing I could do for them.”

  He took a pull on his beer, then licked his pale lips. “Sometimes life boils down to law and order versus justice. And some of it was probably spite on my part.”

  “How so?”

  “I’d see some son of a bitch who should be sitting on Death Row and think, ‘No way is that bastard gonna outlive me.’ I wanted to read their obituaries before they read mine, okay? The best revenge is outliving the scum.”

  Perspiring, he winced, right hand to his chest, as though in pain.

  “Are you okay?”

  “As okay as I’m ever gonna be.” His voice was a gasp.

  “Can I get you something?”

  “A glass of water.” Fumbling with the pills in his pocket, he withdrew a small brown bottle with the telltale lid.

  I went into the kitchen, ran a cool glass of water, and brought it back. He put two tiny white pills under his tongue and closed his eyes.

  I sat and waited while they dissolved, absorbing through the mucous membranes under his tongue. After several moments he opened his eyes, with a shaky sigh.

  “Feel better?”

  “In a minute. The nitro works pretty fast.” His pale face slowly reddened to a flush.

  “They’re for chest pain,” he explained. “I’ve got it all, nitro, digitalis, diltiazem, aspirin, digoxin, Lasix, Capoten, Maalox. I’m a walking, talking drugstore.”

  “Maybe your medication is what caused you to—”

  His gaze was scornful. “You know how I hate that. People blaming what they did on broken homes, bad childhoods, booze, drugs. It’s all bullshit. We do things because we want to. No excuses.”

  “But in your condition, how were you able to physically—”

  “The gun. I was a cop, so they never really thought I’d do it. Thought I was hassling ’em.

  “Creech was pissed as hell, but he finally agreed to put on his old lady’s lingerie, at gunpoint. I’d seen two of those cases over the years, so it wasn’t hard to set up. I’d seen her leave, I’d been surveilling them and knew their habits. Knew how much time I had.”

  I sat stunned, unable to speak.

  “Same with Farrington. He climbed up on that catwalk, bitching and moaning, swearing to file a complaint with IA in the morning. Didn’t compre why we were going up there. Made him jump and shot him as he fell.

  “Had some chest pains, the angina. Had to take a couple of nitro pills. I got shaky and fumbled the bottle, lost the top. It rolled off and I didn’t see where it went. They found it, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They know who it belongs to?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’re probably the only person who woulda recognized it.”

  “What about Steiner? How’d you rig the wires?”

  He did a double take, raising his eyebrows. “You think I did him?” His voice was full of wonder, his expression incredulous.

  “You didn’t?”

  He shook his head, with a snort that came close to a laugh.

  “You know I don’t lie to you, Britt. Closest I ever came was to hint that Ken had tipped me about Farrington, but, if you remember, I didn’t actually say it.” He aimed his index finger at me like a gun. “I didn’t do Steiner. The dumb son of a bitch did himself. It was so appropriate.” He smiled like a church deacon, inspired by a sermon. “That’s what gave me the idea. So you thought I did him!” He gloated. His expression said I wasn’t so smart after all.

  He saw me check the recorder, then licked his lips. “When you gonna run this story?”

  “It has to be lawyered first.”

  He gave a short, ironic bark. “Why? I’m gonna sue you? Did you forget? We’re friends.”

  “The paper has to have the lawyer go over a sensitive story like this. It’ll probably run Sunday.”

  “This week?” He looked startled.

  I nodded.

  “That soon?” He seemed lost in thought.

  He put both elbows on the table after a moment and leaned toward me.

  “Look, Britt, I’ve been absolutely straight with you. Like always. I couldn’t care more for you if you were my own kid. I know you have to do what you have to do. If our positions were reversed it would be the same thing. Do me one favor?”

  “If I can.”

  “Give me a week. Sit on it for one week. It won’t be any less of a story.” His hands were clasped, eyes pleading.

  I swallowed hard, eyes watery. “Can’t do it, Daniel.”

  He reached over and pushed the recorder’s STOP button, eyes grim. “Say you’ve got more reporting to do. Tell your editors it’ll take you longer than you thought to write. One last favor for an old friend. We go back a long time. Trust me, Britt. I’m just asking for a week.”

  “I can’t. My editors already know about it.”

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “You know
all hell is gonna break loose when it hits the street. You always were stubborn. Always had to do things your way.”

  “I’m sorry.” I held back the tears.

  “You’re just doing your job,” he said wanly. “That’s something I always liked about you, kid. You were always pushing, looking for the truth, reaching for the light.” Slowly, he got to his feet. “More coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He took my empty mug anyway.

  He returned from the kitchen with two full mugs and set one in front of me. He lifted his to his lips. “What’s the matter?” he asked, as I hesitated. “You don’t trust me?”

  “We’ve been friends too long not to trust each other,” I said, raising the cup.

  The coffee was strong and good.

  “You still carry your gun?” I asked.

  “Nope. Only when I have to use it.”

  “Where do you keep it?”

  He turned in his chair, opened a drawer in the sideboard against the dining room wall, lifted out a worn leather shoulder holster, unsnapped it, and withdrew the weapon. He placed it gently on the table, gleaming dark-blue steel, a handsome well-polished weapon, a tool for those who dispense justice. I imagined how it had looked to Farrington and Creech.

  I reached across the table, touching his hand. “Dan, can I take the gun with me?”

  “No. But don’t worry, I won’t get rid of it. And I won’t eat it if that’s what you’re afraid of.” His smile had no humor.

  “Promise you won’t try to hurt yourself.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, and I’m telling you true.” His eyes were steady.

  I finished my coffee and he walked me to the door.

  “So the story’s gonna run Sunday?”

  “As far as I know,” I said.

  “I’ll need a lawyer,” he said matter-of-factly. “What can they do to me? The death penalty? Sentence me to life? Nobody else sees the story till then?”

  “Nobody outside of me and my editors and Mark, the paper’s lawyer. I may have questions as I’m writing. Is it okay to call you?”

  “Any time. I’ll be here, Britt.”

  We hugged. I caught my breath and stepped out into the scalding sunlight. He’s not afraid, I thought. He knows his life is ending, and he doesn’t care.

  Chapter 21

  The news meeting took place in a conference room. Fred, several assistant city editors, the managing editor, the state editor, the photo editor, the national editor, and Mark Seybold, the paper’s in-house lawyer, attended.

  They were elated by Dan’s staggering admissions and by the fact that the police still had no clue that two of the three deaths were murders, much less by the same man, one of their own. I didn’t share their exuberance.

  “Will he pose for pictures?” asked Joe Hall, the photo editor.

  I hated the thought. “We have a good one taken about two years ago when he broke that murder-for-hire case,” I offered. “The one where the husband hired a hit man to kill his wife through a magazine ad.”

  I liked that photo: Dan, strong and in charge at the microphone at a press conference, the chief standing behind him.

  “But we should have something new. Especially since you say he looks so different now,” Hall said.

  “He looks terrible,” I said. “His heart is failing.” This meeting was much more difficult than I had imagined.

  “Let’s get art of him at home,” Fred said decisively. “You can talk him into it, Britt.”

  “Well,” I said, uncertainly. “He knows Lottie. He’d probably agree if she was the photographer.”

  “Any chance he’ll run or kill himself before we get into print?” the managing editor asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, exhausted. “He promised he wouldn’t. Where would he go? He’s been straight about everything else.”

  “What if he dies?” somebody asked.

  “Then we’ve got a deathbed confession,” Fred replied.

  This whole scenario seemed unreal, in a spacious conference room, bright sky and bay dominating the picture windows, discussing Dan’s life and death with strangers who didn’t know him, like he was a slab of meat, simply story fodder. He would never mean more to them than a Sunday headline.

  “Worse, what if he picks up the phone and confesses to his old buddies in the department? Or spills it all to some TV reporter before we run the story?” asked the news editor.

  “If investigators showed up, he wouldn’t lie, but he won’t call them—and I’m the only reporter he talks to.” My voice sounded as weary as I felt. “He doesn’t like TV.”

  “What are the chances of his hurting anybody else?” asked Mark, eyes thoughtful behind the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Not when he knows we know. Besides, the guy’s in bad shape,” Fred said. He turned to me for confirmation.

  “His feet and ankles are so swollen he couldn’t even put his shoes on today,” I said in a hushed voice. “He had to take a couple of nitro pills while I was there.”

  “Think it’s true he didn’t kill that German guy, the first one?” The news editor’s eyes were narrow and suspicious.

  “Yes. He says Steiner’s accident gave him the idea.”

  “Maybe he’s been doing this for years, all along, while he was still carrying a badge,” said the state editor, a man I have never liked. “Who knows how many he’s killed? What about his wife? Think he killed her? What did you say she died of, Britt?”

  “She collapsed and died on the street of an aneurysm. He loved her very much. He’s not a monster. He was a good cop, an honest-to-God hero who worked hard all his life.”

  Something in my tone of voice, or in my eyes, made him glance away and shut his mouth.

  “A good cop.” Fred nodded. “That’s what makes this such a great story.”

  “We should call the cops for reaction,” the managing editor said.

  “If we do they may move fast, to defuse the impact of the story,” Fred said.

  “Right. Remember how the chief scooped us and called a press conference in the Brown case?” the news editor said. “That son of a bitch.”

  Muttered resentment echoed around the table.

  “We can’t give him that chance,” the news editor said.

  “Let’s run it in the state edition, then have Britt call him for comment before the final.”

  “Yeah, he can’t get the jump on us once it’s already in the paper,” Fred said. They all made sounds of agreement.

  Fred turned to me. “Start writing, Britt. See if we can get art of the victims, Steiner as well, and set up art of Dan. We need the story as early as possible so we can look at it before leaving tonight.”

  “It’s gonna take some time,” I said reluctantly. “We’ll need space. I want to do a sidebar on the big homicide cases Dan has solved over the years.”

  “Good idea. But do the main first.”

  I wanted readers to know how much more there was to the man and his life than just this summer. Reporting Dan’s achievements was not only fair, it was the right thing to do.

  “I’ll be in promptly at ten in the morning to go over the copy,” Mark told me.

  “What do you think will happen to Flood after it runs?” Fred said. The editors, scraping back their chairs, paused.

  “He’s stoic,” I said quietly. “Homicide will go into high gear because of the publicity. Detectives from the city and the county will surely meet with the state attorney and the medical examiner on Monday. They’ll probably bring Dan in for questioning by Tuesday, Wednesday at the latest. I guess he’ll be arrested and charged with murder…” My voice trailed off. Fred’s sharp glance forced me to continue. “They’ll book him, but they won’t put him in general population because as a cop he’d be in danger. It’ll probably be a single safety cell near the nurse, where he can be watched because of his health.”

  I felt a catch in my thr
oat. Saying it aloud made Dan’s future real and imminent. It was impossible to envision him behind bars like the criminals he had put away for years. “Maybe his doctor will get involved,” I said, “and they’ll put him in the hospital. If his lawyer creates enough delays he’ll never stand trial because of his physical condition. His life is over either way.”

  The room was silent.

  “That’s why he did it,” somebody said. “A last hurrah.”

  “Hell of a story,” somebody else muttered.

  “I’m glad it’s ours,” Fred said. “Nice work, Britt.”

  I forced a smile.

  Heavyhearted, I returned to my desk and reread all the old clips on Dan, the clips on all the cases, and my own notes before beginning. A rough version of the story was in the system by 6 P.M. and the sidebar by 7:30.

  I thought about calling Dan to set up his picture but put it off. Onnie found mug shots that had run when Dieter Steiner and Benjamin Farrington were arrested. She also came up with a more recent likeness of Farrington, lifted from a group shot that had appeared in the business section.

  We needed one of Creech, but I couldn’t reach Ruby by phone and wondered if she had already left town. Onnie pulled the picture file of Darlene Fiskus, the murdered niece, and hit pay dirt: a news photo of the victim’s family, shot near the site where her body was found. The mother was weeping, face in her hands, her husband’s arms around her. Uncle Dirty, wearing a plaid shirt and a baseball cap, face averted from their pain, seemed to be gazing into the distance. He looked guilty as hell in retrospect.

  I would go home, I decided, get some rest, and come in early to reread the story with fresh eyes before Mark arrived at 10 A.M. Then I would call Dan to ask any final questions and set up his appointment with Lottie for about eleven. I knew he would want to shave and dress for the picture. Any photo Lottie took would be less demeaning for later use than a police mug shot with a number under his chin.

  Lottie and I talked about it back in photo, before I went home.

  “Damn it to hell, Britt, you were right. A-course, they probably should pin a medal on the man. Betcha somebody starts a Dan Flood Defense Fund.”

  “A lot of people will feel that way,” I said bitterly. “We all want to rid the world of scumbags. Why didn’t he just deny everything or refuse to talk to me?”