Bullet Beth (George Hastings police procedural)

by James Patrick Hunt

  “Yes sir,” Hastings said. Though he didn’t seem grateful for the advice.

  Klosterman said, “The trial just ended, what, two weeks ago?”

  Hastings said, “I think they had it planned before the trial. Christ. They must have been pretty sure of themselves.”

  They were in Hastings’s office. Joe Klosterman was his sergeant. They had worked together for several years and Klosterman was his closest friend. Klosterman was a big man with a cop’s mustache. Hastings was of slighter build and of quieter nature.

  Klosterman sat in front of Hastings’s desk, reading over the lawsuit. At one point, he said, “Conspiracy?”

  “Yeah,” Hastings said. “To deprive him of his civil rights.”

  “He won.”

  “Guys like this are sore winners,” Hastings said.

  Klosterman said, “I can understand suing a cop if you’re innocent. But he was guilty. He murdered that girl.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Hastings said. “This is a man who is simply used to getting his way. I testified against him. I put the case together against him. And now he wants to punish me for it.”

  “It won’t go anywhere, George. These suits never do.”

  “Sometimes they do. You’ve heard about the settlements. The suit against Raney and Watkins.”

  “That was a wrongful death case. And they had shot a guy. You didn’t shoot Bradbury. Though you probably wish now you had.”

  Hastings put his face in his hands. Sued by a murderer. A man he wanted to believe was crazy, but who was probably just stone evil. Freed by a jury, continuing his menace.

  “Fuck it,” Hastings said. “Let’s get back to work.”

  The other members of his team checked in on him. They masked their concerns with small talk about progress on their cases. Howard Rhodes told him he had gotten a confession out of one of three killers involved in a drive by shooting. The suspect turned on the other two. He would be in county jail now and wouldn’t make bond which would make it easier to protect him from being killed by members of his own gang. The gangsters were black and Howard was black but the gangsters thought of him as white, being a police officer and putting brothers in prison.

  Tim Murphy, Murph the Surf, updated him on a case involving a boyfriend killing his girlfriend after she filed a restraining order against him. A type of case they dealt with all too often. Murph said a conviction should be pretty easy. Hastings didn’t respond to that one.

  Murph paused then and said, “I’m sorry, George.”

  “It’s not cancer, Murph. It’s just a lawsuit.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Murph said.

  Hastings looked up and saw that Murph had seen what no one else had. Tim Murphy, a fearsome, bantam sized Irishman, with his unfashionable ties and dated sportcoats. Tough as nails and perfectly at ease with people underestimating him. A man who had survived a severe gunshot wound. He was one of the most perceptive detectives Hastings had ever worked with.

  Murph said, “I’m sorry he got away with it. I think that’s what this lawsuit is about. It’s not about money. He just wants to torture you, remind you what he got away with. He saw you cry at that trial. This lawsuit is a pure mind fuck. Don’t let him do it to you.”

  “Thanks, Murph.”

  Hastings drove to his house. He lived in a condominium near St. Francis Park in South St. Louis. He parked his 1986 Jaguar XJ6 and walked to the front door. On the porch, he heard someone approaching him and turned. A man holding papers.

  “George Hastings?”

  “Yes. What do you want?”

  The man handed him the papers. It was the petition of the lawsuit. Hastings said, “I’ve already seen it.”

  “But you haven’t been formally served,” the process server said. He was a young guy and Hastings didn’t like the smile on his face. The server said, “Now you have.”

  “Good,” Hastings said. “Now why don’t you get off my porch.”

  The man skipped away, the smile diminishing. “Okay, okay…”

  Hastings watched the man hurry to his car. He felt his heart pounding, he was that angry. He might have hit the man if the man had stood close to him and tried to say something clever. Standing on his porch, coming to his home. Ryan Bradbury’s agent.

  Hastings went in and tossed his keys on the coffee table. The house was empty. His thirteen year old daughter was on spring break vacation with Eileen and Ted. Eileen was Amy’s mother and Hastings’s ex-wife. They were in Jamaica on Ted’s nickel. Eileen’s present husband, a personal injury lawyer, could afford it. Hastings was angry at Ted for that. Angry that he could afford to do things for Amy that he could not.

  Hastings had had a fight with Eileen before she left. It was about Amy’s future. Amy was a smart girl and she had an opportunity to begin high school next year at one of St. Louis’s most exclusive private academies. Tuition was fifteen thousand dollars. Hastings could not afford to pay that. Before he could tell Eileen that, she told him that “they” would take care of it.

  Hastings had said, “You mean Ted?”

  “I mean us,” Eileen had said.

  Eileen didn’t have a job. She had always had trouble keeping jobs.

  “It’s Ted’s money,” Hastings said.

  “So what?” Eileen said. “Ted loves Amy. He wants to do this.”

  “I don’t care what he wants.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ, George. He wants to help. He’s family too.”

  “But she’s my daughter. I’ll take care of her.”

  “So public school,” Eileen said. Like he would be sentencing her to a penitentiary.

  “The right public school, yes.”

  “So you’re going to sacrifice her education, her future, so you can retain, what? Your dignity?”

  Hastings glared at his ex-wife. He had never said anything truly ugly to her, never told her to fuck off, never even had raised his voice to her. But, God, sometimes she made it hard. What he managed to say then was, “I think I have some say in this.”

  And Eileen said, “We’ll talk about this when I get home.”

  Thus ended another one of their disputes over the proper care and feeding of their daughter.

  Now Amy was in Jamaica with her mother and Ted and Hastings could only hope they weren’t telling Amy how much she was going to love this new school.

  Hastings was glad Amy wasn’t home now. For he was in a foul mood. Goddamn Ryan Bradbury suing him. Not for money but simply for spite. Or, as Murph said, merely to torment him. George Hastings was not a man consumed by self-doubt, certainly not about his work. Generally, he liked being a homicide detective and he knew he was good at it. But the events of the last few months had really brought him down. Personally and professionally. It’s never easy for any homicide detective to deal with the murder of a child. Hastings had worked hard to secure a conviction against Ryan Bradbury. The prosecutors had placed a lot of faith in him to put the evidence together and he wanted to believe he had done the best he could. The fact that certain matters were beyond his control — the jury’s sympathies, the judge’s rulings, the inexperience of the prosecution team, the seeming inability of the victim’s mother to get the jury to like her — these did not bring him any comfort. He could tell himself it wasn’t his fault, but that was a chickenshit way of looking at it and he knew it. Such thoughts did nothing for Toni McElroy. Her killer free, smiling and happy, delighted at having burned justice and decency.

  Rana Bradbury had told Hastings that Ryan would beat Toni with a belt when she left crumbs on the kitchen table. The judge ruled such testimony was too prejudicial and would not allow the jury to hear it.

  That was just one of his rulings. In contrast, the judge seemed content to let the jury hear plenty of evidence of Rana Bradbury’s dubious character. The judge seemed to share the defense’s contempt for Rana Bradbury. To him, she was a bad woman. Though bad women don’t deserve to have their daughters killed.

  Now Hastings felt guil
ty that he felt relieved that his daughter was gone. Amy was the most important person in his life. Yet now he felt threatened that Ted, her stepfather, was becoming a bigger factor in her life. A couple of years ago, Amy couldn’t talk about Ted without rolling her eyes. Now she had developed an affection for him. She even laughed at some of his jokes. At Ted! The buffoon. The man who had stolen Eileen away from him. Had Amy forgiven him for it?

  And now Ted was taking Amy with them on vacations. Doing it because he wanted to, not because he felt obligated to. What was that about? If he paid for her school, would she be indebted to him? Would she start calling Ted dad? While he, Hastings, became a secondary player in her life? Her dad, the bitter, insignificant, fucked up cop.

  He thought about cooking dinner, but didn’t feel hungry. He thought about lying down on the couch and watching television, but then he knew the loneliness and self-pity might consume him. So he made some bacon and eggs just to have something to do. He only managed to finish about half of it. He left it on the kitchen table and went outside to take a walk. When he opened the door he saw Terry McGregor coming down the sidewalk.

  Terry was his neighbor.

  She stopped where she was and looked at him. A look on her face that seemed distressed. Unusual for her.

  “Hi, Terry. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Well, not really.”

  “Is everyone in the family okay?”

  “Yes. That’s not why I came here. George, can I talk to you about something, well, work related?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “My hairdresser, a friend of mine…died.” Her face contorted and she began to cry.

  “Come on in,” Hastings said.

  She sat at his kitchen table while he made a pot of coffee. Her eyes were red and her cheeks tear stained, but she was not sobbing or hysterical. Hastings had never seen her cry before. In fact, he wasn’t sure she had ever been in his home before, except to pick up her daughter, who was the same age as his daughter.

  Take a look at Terry McGregor. At first glance, another cute soccer mom in her mid thirties. Mother of a thirteen year old girl named Randi, married to a man named Chet, a successful but rather dull sales representative who spent an inordinate amount of time talking about when he played high school football. The McGregors had moved into the neighborhood after Hastings wife had divorced him. Hastings was then having to adjust to being a single, divorced father. And though he was a good father, he was not capable of being a good mother on top. Certain girl issues were beyond him. More than once, Terry McGregor had stepped in and helped. Though she never overstepped, was never a busybody. She and her husband were both graduates of the University of Tennessee, both fans of the Tennessee football team. Terry retained the southern accent. She was a good woman, gracious and pretty and considerate and generous. Eileen would have never given her the time of day.

  Hastings was taking a look at her now, seeing her in a way he had never seen her before. Vulnerable and hurt. It occurred to him that she was the type of woman who put on a show of strength for those who needed her. Even when she wasn’t feeling that strong.

  Hastings placed a cup of coffee before her and sat on the opposite side of the table.

  “What happened?”

  Terry said, “For the last, I don’t know, two years, I’ve been getting my hair done by this guy at the salon. His name’s John. John Rodgers. Some of his friends called him J.J., other people called him Johnny. I’m sorry, I’m babbling.…Anyway, he was a really nice guy…funny. A character, you know?”

  “Sure.”

  “And yesterday, I went to see him for my appointment and they told me had died. They didn’t call me. They just told me when I got there. I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks. The manager of the salon said he drowned at the Lake of the Ozarks.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. I — you’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Well, it’s because I’m upset. And Chet’s in Boston for work. And I called him, but he’s, well, he doesn’t understand why I’d get so upset over some ‘fag’, as he would say.”

  “Your friend was gay?”

  “Yeah. Should that matter?”

  “Of course not. Were you close friends?”

  After a moment, she said, “No, not really. I just liked him. George, the reason I’m telling you is that I just think it’s weird, that’s all.”

  “What?”

  “The way he died. I knew him well enough to know he wasn’t the kind of guy to kill himself. I think something bad happened. And I don’t know if anything’s being done about it.”

  “Do you know what he was doing down there?”

  “No. And I don’t even know who to call. The people at the salon, they’re wondering what happened. And I told them I had a friend who was a homicide detective.”

  “Do you want me to look into it?”

  “Would you mind? I mean, I don’t want you to go to a lot of trouble.”

  “It wouldn’t be any trouble. I can make a few calls and tell you what I find out. Okay?”

  “Thanks, George.”

  “If you could give me the number of the salon and the manager’s name, so I can find out his full name and identification.”

  “I’ll do it tomorrow and call you on your cell.” Terry wiped her eyes. “Sorry to bother you with this, George.”

  “It’s all right.”

  He walked her back to her house.

  He was about a half hour into his shift the next morning when a city attorney called him and asked him to come by the City Attorney’s Office. He walked over to the central municipal building and took the stairs up. A security guard checked his police identification at the entrance then let him in.

  Hastings had part of the Bradbury file with him. He also had a copy of the lawsuit.

  A young woman wearing a light blue business suit came out and greeted him. She shook his hand and asked him how he was doing and led him to another attorney’s office.

  In the office a middle aged man with boyish, delicate features and spectacles sat behind a desk. He was smiling into a telephone and when he saw Hastings and the young woman he held up a finger that told them they needed to wait. He laughed into the phone and hung it up. He did not stand.

  The young lady said, “This is George Hastings. The police officer named in the Bradbury suit?”

  “Good.” The attorney waved her off and then gestured for Hastings to take a seat in front of the desk. The attorney said, “Close the door, please.”

  To Hastings he said, “I’m Devin Cloud. Have we met before?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “I see you brought the suit with you.”

  “Yes, I was served yesterday. At my home.”

  “That wasn’t necessary,” the lawyer said. “The City already accepted service on your behalf.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “They just did that to rattle you. A psych game.”

  “I’m afraid it worked,” Hastings said.

  He hoped Devin Cloud would say something then to comfort him. Maybe show some sympathy. But he didn’t.

  Cloud said, “We’ve been discussing your case. And we think it’s best that you have your own attorney.”

  Hastings felt his heart pounding. His mind darted to how much money he had in savings, what it would cost to retain an attorney…

  “I don’t understand,” Hastings said.

  “The City has decided that there may be a conflict of interest. Two defendants have been named in this lawsuit. You and the City of St. Louis. If there’s a finding, a legal finding, that you exceeded your scope of employment in this matter, that would put you at odds with the other party. That is, us. The City.”

  “You mean the City’s going to hang me out?”

  “Hang you out? No, no, no. That’s not what I mean. It just means we’ve decided that you should have diff
erent representation.”

  “Why? What does this mean, ‘exceed scope of employment?’ Everything I did was in my capacity as a police officer.”

  “I understand that.”

  “I didn’t go to a bar off duty and beat the shit out of someone and then say, ‘Hey, I’m a cop.’ I investigated the murder of Toni McElroy.”

  “I understand that.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Hire my own attorney? At my own expense?”

  “No, of course not. The City will retain another attorney to represent you.”

  “You mean a public defender?”

  “A public defender?” Cloud said. “No, you haven’t committed a crime for heaven’s sake.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder.”

  “Besides, a public defender doesn’t know anything about defending a civil rights tort case.” Devin Cloud seemed to chuckle at the very thought of it. “No, the city is appointing outside counsel to represent you.”

  “Do I have to pay him?”

  “No, the City will pay him. So don’t worry about that.”

  Hastings relaxed. A little. Potential conflict of interest. He didn’t like the sound of that one goddamn bit. Hastings said, “Who is he?”

  “Let’s see…” Cloud looked at a note on his desk. “His name is Henry Brummell. Fairly well respected in this community. Does mostly plaintiff’s work.”

  “Plaintiff’s work? Has he defended one of these things before?”

  Devin Cloud’s attention was focused on his desk, writing something. Without lifting his head, he said, “I’m sure he’s very good.” Patronizing. He handed the piece of paper to Hastings.

  “That’s his number. He’ll be expecting your call.”

  Devin Cloud stood up. A cue for Hastings to leave.

  Hastings felt like a fool, sitting there in his chair with his lawsuit and an armful of files on the murder case. He held the piece of paper in one hand.

  Devin Cloud said, “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. And if it goes badly and you get a judgment against you, you can always file bankruptcy.”

  Hastings waited for the lawyer to indicate he was kidding. It didn’t happen.