Bullet Beth (George Hastings police procedural)

by James Patrick Hunt

  “Yes, he was wounded.”

  “And you were aware, I presume, that your actions crippled Mr. Bryant for life?”

  “I was aware that he suffered permanent damage to his leg. It was my understanding he could still walk.”

  “Your understanding. But you admit that you inflicted permanent injury to Mr. Bryant?”

  “I don’t know how to define permanent injury. I’m not a doctor.”

  “Objection. The answer is evasive. Isn’t it true you inflicted permanent damage on Marcel Bryant?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Isn’t it true you permanently damaged Marcel Bryant?”

  “Objection,” Brummell said. “The question has been asked and answered.”

  “Answer the question, Lieutenant.”

  “Objection. He’s already answered the question.”

  Hastings said, “I believe I’ve answered the question, sir.”

  Cray asked, “You were investigated for this incident?”

  “Anytime there’s a shooting in the line of duty, there is always an inquiry. That’s not the same thing as an internal investigation.”

  “My question was, were you investigated internally?”

  “I was questioned pursuant to a non-disciplinary inquiry of the shooting. I was informed, after that, that Mr. Bryant had filed a complaint for excessive force. I was questioned briefly about it and cleared.”

  “Just like that.”

  Hastings did not respond.

  Cray said, “I understand you were awarded a medal of valor for that shooting.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Tell me, lieutenant, what was valorous about killing an eighteen year old African American and permanently maiming a nineteen year old African American? What was valorous about that?”

  Hastings had to take a moment then. Brummell had told him not to get angry, no matter what sort of shit Cray threw at him. But God, it wasn’t easy.

  Hastings said, “I didn’t ask for that medal. The department issued it. To be honest, I didn’t feel particularly good about killing Durfee. That was my first — that was my first shooting. But I had no regrets about it and I still don’t. Jason Durfee had shot and killed a pawn shop clerk two weeks before that. I ordered him to drop his weapon and he refused. It was his decision.”

  “Witnesses say you gave him no warning. You just shot him.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “So you’re testifying those witnesses would be lying?”

  “Yes. And I’m pretty sure those witnesses you’re talking about are Bryant and the other one who was with him.”

  Brummell leaned forward and glared at Hastings. A signal that he was answering beyond the bounds of the question and he needed to stop.

  Hastings said, “I didn’t want that medal. I didn’t want it.”

  Cray said, “Isn’t it true that after the shooting, you said, ‘Fuck em’, they had it coming?’”

  “No, that is not true.”

  “And if a witness says you did say that, he would be lying?”

  “Yes, he would.”

  “Isn’t it possible that you were young and inexperienced and you just panicked and shot those men without warning? That you made a mistake?”

  “No, it’s not possible.”

  “Not possible?”

  “No.”

  “Isn’t it possible that you jumped to a conclusion on this case?”

  “You mean the McElroy case?”

  “Yes,” Cray said. “Isn’t it possible that you were assigned to the homicide investigation of Toni McElroy and instead of investigating all the possibilities, you just went right after Ryan Bradbury?”

  “No, sir. That’s not what happened.”

  “Mr. Bradbury is a high profile figure, isn’t he?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Would have been quite a feather in your cap to bring him down, wouldn’t it?”

  “Are you asking me, or are you making an argument?”

  “Asking you. I’d like you to answer.”

  “No, sir. I did a thorough investigation.”

  “There were other suspects, though. Weren’t there?”

  “There were other people we checked out. I would not have called them suspects.”

  “You wouldn’t, huh? But the jury didn’t agree with you, did they?”

  “The jury made its decision. Why they acquitted him, I have no idea.”

  “Isn’t it true, lieutenant, that the reason you didn’t check out these other suspects is because you didn’t want to take the focus off Ryan Bradbury?”

  “No, that’s not true.”

  “That you didn’t want the truth to get in the way of convicting this prized, high-profile figure?”

  “No, that is not true.”

  “So you’re smarter than the jury? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Hastings sighed. Exasperated, he turned to his lawyer. Brummell shrugged at him, as if to say, Yeah, you have to answer that too.

  Hastings said, “I’m not saying I’m smarter. But I believe they made the wrong decision.”

  “And I suppose the judge was wrong too?”

  “I think he allowed you a little too much latitude in going after the girl’s mother, yes.”

  “I see. So you would have preferred that Ryan Bradbury not receive a fair trial?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “So…the jury screwed up and the judge screwed up. But you’re not willing to take any responsibility yourself, are you?”

  “Responsibility for what?”

  “For pursuing the wrong man.”

  For the first time, Hastings looked directly at Ryan Bradbury, who was seated next to his lawyer. Bradbury looked back at him and Hastings said, “We didn’t pursue the wrong man. Ryan Bradbury murdered that child.”

  During the lunch break, Brummell got onto him about not keeping his cool.

  Hastings said, “For Christ’s sake, the man is asking questions about my divorce. My child custody arrangements. What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

  “George, will you calm down? I told you before: don’t let these fuckers get you rattled.”

  “You told me that discovery was broad. But I didn’t know they could ask anything. Can’t you object on some of these things?”

  “Most of it, no. I can object to form, but that’s about it. If I go much farther, the judge can sanction me and maybe even you for refusing to cooperate in the discovery process.”

  “Well so what? What’s the judge going to do? Take away my birthday?”

  “No, what he can do is make you take this deposition over again. I don’t want to go through that and neither do you.”

  “Marvelous.…And how did they know about that Durfee shooting?”

  “They must have hired a private detective. Maybe an ex-cop.”

  “Well that’s just fucking great. They probably got someone following me too.”

  “It’s possible. George, you are going to have to relax. Listen to me: here’s what they want to do. They want to portray you as a hothead incompetent. A cop who acts on emotion and doesn’t investigate the facts and then jumps to conclusions.”

  “I thought I was a glory seeking publicity hound.”

  “Yeah, that too, I guess. George, don’t help these guys. You get upset and emotional, you help them.”

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Listen, before we get back, tell me something. And this is attorney-client privileged. Did that Durfee shooting bother you?”

  Hastings hesitated. The memory coming back to him. A teenage boy lying dead, most of his midsection blown apart. The boy looking very much like a boy when he was on the ground. The boy’s mother at court a couple of months later, screaming things at him…

  Hastings said, “Yeah. I’d never…I’d never done something like that before. Doing it didn’t so much bother me. It was just so quick. So sudden.…Or maybe it did bother me. I d
on’t know. But…the medal of valor afterwards. God, I really hated that. All of it. The ceremony, the congratulations, the attaboys from other cops. It was hard not go home and hide in a room and cry. I couldn’t tell anyone how I felt. Not even the department shrink.”

  Brummell said, “You felt ashamed?”

  “Ashamed?…I don’t know. Just sort of bad. Bad — sorry. If that makes any sense. And maybe scared. The months after that, that was the only time I ever seriously considered resigning. I just didn’t think it should be something that should be celebrated.”

  “Did you ever tell anyone?”

  “No. You, I guess.”

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

  “I was embarrassed. Everybody was telling me I was a hero. And I knew that Durfee would have killed me as easily as he did that pawn shop clerk. Or killed one of my partners. But it ate at me, being praised for that. Honored for it. A couple of cops told me they envied me. Which I never understood. If I’d been a soldier in another country or something, shooting and killing an unseen enemy, it probably wouldn’t have bothered me at all. I’m not that nice a guy. I’m not that…deep. Yet seeing that kid’s mother, who looked like she was still in her thirties, seeing her wail and weep…”

  Brummell asked, “Did it ever occur to you that, on some level, you considered that medal a stigma?”

  “…I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you?”

  After a moment, Hastings said, “Yeah, I guess that’s possible. Yes. It’s possible.”

  Brummell said, “It’s in the past, George. You’ve nothing to feel guilty about. In a way, false praise can mess up a man as much as false censure. Especially an honorable man. If you feel the medal has some sort of bad karma or bad medicine attached to it, get rid of it. Don’t tell anyone else about it and move on.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Good. Now when we go back in there, I think Cray’s going to go over the police reports, a lot of which were written by you. He’s going to pull you over them line by line, like a cactus patch, and try to point out little inconsistencies. Just go along with it. Act as if you could sit there all week if need be. Answer his questions and do not — do not — get upset. Hold your ground, defend your position, but do it coolly and professionally.”

  “Okay.”

  “And think about your answers before you speak. There’s no taking back what you say. Part of you, and this may happen unconsciously, part of you will want to hurry this thing up so you can be done and go home. But when you do that, you start agreeing with the lawyer just to keep going. To get out from under the question. It’s an unconscious surrender. Don’t do that. Don’t help them build their case.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good. You ready?”

  “Yeah, I’m ready.…Henry.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks. I’m — I’m glad you’re my lawyer.”

  “Don’t get maudlin, George. We’ve got another four hours left.”

  Four hours later, they were done with the deposition. Hastings went to the washroom. When he was finished relieving himself, he washed his hands at the sink. He looked in the mirror and saw Ryan Bradbury’s reflection.

  Hastings did not turn around.

  Bradbury said, “Handled yourself pretty well during the second half, George. You were real cool. But it isn’t over yet. Not near over.”

  Hastings moved over to the towel dispenser. He pulled out two sheets and began drying his hands.

  Bradbury said, “Even wore your gun to the deposition. My lawyer asked me if he should ask you to put it away. Thought I might be scared of you. But I told him, ‘Don’t worry about it, Simon. He’s not going to do anything.’”

  Hastings dropped the paper towels in the trash.

  Bradbury said, “I thought, no, he’s not going to do anything. Not him. He’s a police officer. He’s got a daughter to take care of.”

  Hastings stopped. He took a breath then stepped very close to Bradbury.

  In a very quiet voice, Hastings said, “I’m going to tell you this only once. You come within a mile of my daughter, even accidentally, there won’t be any trial. You’ll just vanish.”

  Hastings walked out.

  It was a half hour before he could find the will to check his messages on his phone. The first one was from Henry Donchin, from the Medical Examiner’s office. Hastings returned that call as he peeled off the interstate and started down Hampton Avenue to his home.

  “George,” Donchin said, “on your body that was found in the Mississippi, I think I’ve found the cause of death.”

  “What is it?”

  “He drowned.”

  “Oh.” His tone suggesting they’d kind of figured that out already.

  “No,” Donchin said. “I don’t think you understand. He drowned in a swimming pool.”

  Hastings stepped on the brake as a car cut in front of him.

  He said, “Excuse me?”

  “Aaron Peterson drowned in a swimming pool, or something like a swimming pool. We found chlorinated water in his lungs.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. What do you think, I’m an idiot?”

  “No, sorry. You’re putting that in the report?”

  “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I? It’s what we found. I’m going to type it up in the morning. But I thought you’d like to know.”

  “I did, thanks. Say, did you ever find his car keys on him?”

  “No.”

  Hastings called Andy Kustura, an FET (field evidence technician) he had worked with several times. He had asked Andy if he could examine Aaron Peterson’s car. Andy was a short, stocky man of about fifty and he did a David Caruso impersonation that was spot on.

  Andy answered his cell phone and Hastings asked him if he was still at the tech lab.

  “Yeah. I wanted to be home by seven though.”

  Hastings said, “You got time to talk to me for a minute?”

  “You mean on the phone or you want to come down?”

  “I’d like to come down if you don’t mind.”

  “Ahhhh…can you be here in about twenty minutes? I don’t want to stay here long.”

  “No problem.”

  Hastings made a left turn and hustled the Jag up Southwest Boulevard, then took Kingshighway back to the interstate and downtown.

  There was a tech standing on a stepladder by the bookshelves, looking for a text on blood samples, and he was telling Andy Kustura a story about something that happened at a Beatles appreciation weekend he went to in Chicago. A lot of good memorabilia and they had this battle of the bands that was just outstanding. Two bands facing off for the best cover and the band with the younger guys did a rockin’ version of Hey Bulldog while these fifty year old guys did the instrumental cut of This Boy, you know, the one that was in Hard Days Night when Ringo got pissed off and played hooky and the others had to go looking for him?

  Andy Kustura holding up a hand then, saying, “Spare me the foreplay. Who won?”

  “Well, the young guys won,” the tech said. “But it really wasn’t fair.” The tech looking mildly wounded now, his story not fully appreciated.

  Andy turned to Hastings who had patiently waited through it.

  “You a Beatles fan, George?”

  “Was that the band Paul McCartney was in before he was in Wings?”

  “Philistine. You want to see the car or the diagrams we’ve drawn up?”

  “The car first.”

  “Okay, follow me.”

  Andy led him to the Toyota Solara. The trunk was already open.

  Hastings said, “Donchin said he was drowned in a swimming pool. They found chlorinated water in his lungs.”

  “Ah, very inter-esting.” Andy Kustura doing his faux German. “Well, I’m not surprised.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No. It would explain the moisture we found in the trunk of the car. And a few other things. Chlorinated water in the lungs, huh?”


  “Yes. Donchin’s sure of it. What else would it explain?”

  Andy led him to a table and showed him the crime scene sketch. An area with a rectangle marking a car and positions of bodies and footsteps.

  Andy said, “Ah, just look at it. They don’t know, they just don’t know the work that goes into these things. I am an artist, a craftsman stuck amidst the career purgatory that is civil service.”

  “Yes, Andy, it’s a very pretty drawing. What does it mean?”

  “The M.E.’s office says Peterson was drowned in a swimming pool. That is, dead before he was in the Mighty Miss. Which means that he was placed in the trunk of his own car and brought to the river. We see footprints here. Someone wearing tennis shoes. Peterson was wearing street shoes. Nunn Bush loafers, to be precise. We found mud in those shoes in the sides. At least what wasn’t washed out by the river. And we found drag marks. So. Mr. Peterson was dragged out of the trunk of his car by tennis shoes wearer and put it into the river.”

  Hastings asked, “Did you find the keys to the car anywhere?”

  “We did not.”

  “And you looked? Thoroughly?”

  “Don’t insult me. Of course we looked. Your killer used the keys to open the trunk. Likely, the killer was wearing gloves.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well, I guess he left. Walked off.”

  “That’s a rough area. I wouldn’t walk there at night.”

  “You wouldn’t have to,” Andy said. “And if you did, you’d be armed. So. I’m told you think this may be linked to another drowning.”

  “Yeah. A guy who was found in the Lake of the Ozarks.”

  “Similar pattern, I guess. Any witnesses?”

  “None.”

  “Any suspects?”

  Hastings thought of Jeff Lacroix. “I kinda doubt it,” Hastings said.

  Murph knocked on the door and Hastings said to come in. Murph said, “They started yet?”

  “Yeah.”

  They were in a room across the hall from the polygraph examination room. Murph took a seat and he and Hastings watched a black and white television monitor.

  On the monitor they could see Jeff Lacroix answer questions put to him by the polygraph examiner. Jeff Lacroix’s breathing was labored and he was obviously stressed. But in Hastings’s experience, that in itself was not evidence of deception.