Nurse comes in at the right time. Numbness is starting to wear off. She’s holding a paper cup with water and a fat pill.
“Take this. It will help with the pain.”
“Motrin?” I question.
“Eight hundred milligrams.”
“I don’t have a headache,” I tell her.
“If it doesn’t help in thirty minutes we’ll try something else.”
She hands me the water. I down the pill. I have what I need at home.
“You’ll be discharged soon. These gentlemen here to give you a ride home?”
“Are you?” I ask.
“Of course,” Millhoff says, voice still tight as shit.
“Do you have hospital pants and a top I can have? I don’t feel comfortable walking out in just my shorts.”
“Of course we do. Let me get you those.”
I give her a smile.
When I’m okayed to leave, we walk out and find Campos outside waiting.
“Where’s your partner?” I ask.
“In the car waiting. Wanted to let you know you’ll probably be called in real soon.”
“So get an attorney?”
“I would.”
“It was self-defense.”
“Looks like it to us, but still. It has to be presented.”
“I understand. And when it’s all done, I’ll get my gun back?”
“You really love that gun, don’t you?” Campos asks.
“We go back.”
“We know it’s registered to you legally, but it still has to go through Firearms.”
“I’ll expect to get it back, then.”
“If there’s no body on it.”
“You can be assured there isn’t.”
I have a .40-caliber Glock at home to keep me safe, so as much as I like the 19, they can take their time.
I convince both Hurley and Millhoff that I can drive, so they drop me off in Old Town, where I parked my car.
“We’ll follow you home,” Millhoff says.
Seventy-Eight
What day is it?
Damn. I don’t even know what day it is.
Couple of Oxys and I’m all loopy. Feeling good, but still loopy. I’m more of an up man, but I enjoy the combination of the two on occasion, especially when I’m hurting.
I look at my phone for the time.
Almost 9:00 a.m.
Did I sleep?
I had to have slept. I don’t remember anything.
No call from Leslie, either. Why should she call? She has to know what happened. It had to have hit the news. Still, why wouldn’t she call? I realize what I did was awful, but I was almost killed. Have I ruined it this bad?
I check out my shoulder. Blood’s seeping through the gauze. I’m supposed to change it, keep it clean. I grab my .40, go downstairs to make coffee. I keep the gun with me wherever I go now, even in the house. Wasn’t like that before all this shit. Now it’s more of a friend than it ever was. I have to remember to pick up my gun from the Alexandria PD when the time comes. It’s an easier conceal-carry, and I’m more accurate with it than with the .40-cal.
After a couple of cups of coffee, I take off the bandaging and replace it with fresh gauze and tape. It’s awkward to do because my hand is still bandaged, but I manage.
Wound is stapled up and looks clean enough, so I don’t need to cleanse it. Damn sore, though.
I swallow a couple more Oxys. I got them from a previous hit. Have more coffee after. Coffee’s useless. Has been for a long time, but I like the taste, and I’m addicted to the caffeine. Get a headache without it.
I always feel like I have to be doing something, but I think I’ll force myself to stay home, loaf around, be a good-for-nothing for a day or two. I need to heal. Not only that, I need to hide from those fucking reporters.
I think about Leslie again, and that keeps me from using for a little while, until I get this hollow feeling inside, along with anxiety, and I break it out—the good stuff I picked up from the boys on Riggs.
Damn good stuff. Might be the best I ever had.
Turns into a binge. A binge isn’t so fun without television or music. I fall back into the sofa and surf the Internet on my phone. Nothing specific. World news, local news, fucking me, latest presidential fuckup, fucking me again, and that’s how it goes. I decide to play Boggle. A good word game’ll free my mind from this shit.
I get bored after an hour, so I get the bag of crumpled-up money out of the stash wall, dump it all on the living-room floor. I find my plastic bag of rubber bands, then start straightening out the bills and making stacks of ones, fives, tens, and twenties.
I’m taking my time, with several breaks, so it takes a while. When it’s all done, I have a floor covered with fifty-dollar stacks of ones, hundred-dollar stacks of fives, and five-hundred-dollar stacks of tens and twenties. All in all, I have twenty-three thousand dollars, which is a hell of a lot more than I thought it would be.
I stack the money neatly on the third shelf in the stash wall, stuff the filthy garbage bag in the trash, and wash my hands thoroughly.
My phone rings. It’s a DC jail prefix.
I hesitate to answer, but decide to risk it. “Marr.”
“This is Robby.”
“You shouldn’t be calling me” is all I know to say, but then, “Everything good?” Because I sense something in his voice. Something not so good.
“I just don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I really need something about now. I don’t know if I can handle it like this.”
I want to tell him this is being recorded, but I don’t want to make it sound like I have something to hide.
“You can do it. You have to. That urge will pass. You cooperate, and you’ll be out soon enough.”
“It’s just…”
“Just what, Robby?”
“I just fucking hate myself like this. I can’t…too much going on in my head.”
I know that feeling well. It’s not like he’s having the shakes or anything you get coming off of heroin. It’s just a mental need. Something to ease all the shit. Self-medication. Something you’re fucking used to. Your body and mind don’t know anything else. I want to tell him I understand, but for obvious reasons…
“They’ll debrief you tomorrow, Robby. And your attorney will work out a good deal. I’m sure you’ll get probation and be released soon. You’ll start feeling better every day. You’ll be clean.”
“I don’t know. I’m not…I have to get out of here.”
“You will. You’re valuable, Robby. Your attorney knows that. The prosecutor knows that.”
“They have to take me back now. I just wanted…I don’t know. You’re probably right.”
“You’ll get through this, Robby. Stay strong, my friend.”
I don’t know what else I could’ve said. But I’d hate to be in his position.
I could be you, Biddy.
What separates us, and keeps me from where you are now, is my meager pension, my skill, and my drug of choice.
Damn.
“Okay. Have to go.” And he disconnects.
I call Hurley, but it goes to voice mail. I leave him a detailed message about the call and tell him that maybe he should look into it.
Seventy-Nine
I didn’t expect Monday when I woke. The phone ringing snapped me out, but I’m not sure it was out of sleep.
Monday. It somehow slipped in without my knowledge. I don’t know what happened to the weekend.
The only reason I answer the phone is because it’s Hurley. It’s late morning, so maybe he got finished with the debriefing or is finally responding to my message.
“How’s it going, Joe?”
“I catch you sleeping?”
“Naw, I’m good. How’s everything?”
“Not so good, Frank.”
“What?” I’m afraid to ask.
“Got a call earlier from DC jail. That’s where we are now.”
“So you got my message?”
“Yes. But I’m afraid Givens hanged himself. He’s dead.”
“What the fuck! No. How? How could that happen?” I ask, even though I know of several ways it can happen. And does.
All the time.
“He was separated from general population for his own safety…”
Pauses after realizing how stupid that sounds.
“Guard found him in the cell. He tore up a pants leg from his prison uniform, tied it to a top bar, knotted it around his neck, and dropped hard, with his butt barely off the ground. So it probably took time, but it worked.”
“And you’re sure that’s how it went down? Suicide?”
“No, but it doesn’t look like there was a struggle. An autopsy will tell us more. Millhoff is handling it. Sorry, man.”
“You didn’t mention the message I left you saying that he called me.”
“Yes. Sorry I didn’t get back. Went to a Nats game with my kids, and you know…”
“He was calling for help, and I was fucking clueless.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Fuck if it isn’t.”
“It’s no one’s fault. How could you know?”
Thinking back on the conversation, I do know, I did know, but I was too fucked up at the time to realize it.
“He called for fucking help. All I did was tell him he shouldn’t be calling me and that everything would be all right. Fuck. I mean, it was so easy. All he had to do was cooperate, and he’d probably get a slap on the wrist.”
“Yeah. I don’t know what to say, bro.”
“So where does this leave you?”
“Floating, almost dead in the water.”
“What do you mean? You got the kid as a cooperator, right?”
“No. Some more bad news there. His lawyer said he changed his mind and would rather take his chances in court.”
“Son of a bitch! Jasper had to get to him somehow.”
“I’m sure he did. More than likely through his brother. We have plenty to work with, though, so we’re not giving up yet. Wyatt’s knife had what appears to be dried blood on a few parts where the blade folds into the handle. Not as fresh. Might be something.”
“He’s dead. How’s that going to help the case against Jasper?”
“Everything is too circumstantial, Frank, not even close to enough for a warrant.”
“Lean on the boys. Press ’em. The younger one will break. Trust me,” I say with a bit too much familiarity.
“We got other evidence from their home. See where it leads.”
He means the guns I left behind.
“If Biddy’s suicide turns out to be something more, you be sure to tell me, okay?”
“I will.”
I want to throw the phone, but then I’d have nothing. Nothing.
It’s my fault. I should have realized. Get him on suicide watch. How could I not see that?
A couple of hours later, before I can fall into complete self-loathing, my phone rings again. This time Luna.
He’s been checking in on me a lot, like the good friend he is. He wants to come over, bring me a sub from his spot off Florida Avenue, Northeast. I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday afternoon, so I accept.
It’d be nice to have a good friend to talk to. All this shit needs to find a release—at least the stuff that can be released.
Eighty
I straighten everything up around the house, make sure there’s nothing to incriminate me. Luna has a tendency to wander, make himself at home wherever he is.
He arrives an hour or so after the call, holding a large brown bag. I haven’t seen him in a while. The bags under his eyes are more evident. He’s wearing tan BDU pants and a light green polo, tucked in. He gives me this What the fuck? look.
We shake hands but don’t follow with the customary knocking shoulders because of my injury.
“Come in, bro,” I say.
“Damn, Frankie. You got messed up.”
“Yes, I did.”
He steps in, turning down the volume on the handheld radio secured to his belt, then setting it on the coffee table so he can hear it. After time, your ears get keen to the dispatcher’s voice and what she says, no matter how low the volume, especially if it’s something related to you or an officer in need of assistance.
I sit on the sofa, and Luna sets the bag on the coffee table and sits on the armchair.
“You be sure to get yourself a lawyer. Better yet, a good-looking lawyer who loves you.”
“Afraid we’re on the skids right now.”
“What the fuck happened?”
“I happened” is all I say.
“That shouldn’t have been enough. She’s tougher than you.”
“Yes, she is, but I fucked up.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
“Sorry, man, but no.”
“Damn. You are being tested, my friend.”
“I’ll see how it goes. If it goes to a grand jury, then I’ll find someone. I know a few good defense attorneys.” I look at the sub. “This looks great,” I say, changing the subject.
“It’s an everyday thing for me,” he says while rubbing his little Buddha belly.
“Better slow down there, buddy.”
“Fuck you. Looks like you lost too much weight. You eating regular?”
“Nothin’ but solid muscle on these bones. I eat well.”
He pulls out two small bags of chips, some napkins, and the two subs.
“You want something to drink? A beer, maybe?”
“That’ll just make me more tired. I got a soda in here.”
He pulls that out.
“I’m going to crack a beer. Be right back.”
He begins to unwrap the beast of a sub he’s got. I grab a good micro out of the fridge, pop the cap, and return.
After a swig I ask, “So you hear anything with my name in it?”
“Usual shit. You keep getting yourself caught up in bad situations.”
“Department doesn’t have anything to come at me with, though, right?”
“You mean your PI shit?”
“Yeah. I mean that and more.”
“Not that I heard. Being at NSID, I’m separated from all that political crap, except for the petty shit they’re making us do now.”
“What’s that?”
“Same as it always is—no long-term investigations, just buy busts and quick hits. Five more years of this, and I’m outta there. Maybe come work for you.”
Uh, not a good idea.
“Yeah, that’d be fun. You hear anything about Wyatt Morris?”
“Only that he’s—was—a piece of shit. He came on in eighty-nine, back when the department didn’t care about background checks, just bodies on the street.”
“Right. Dirty Dozen and all that. Anything about my source, Robert Diamond?”
“Not really,” he says, then takes a big bite out of the sub. Sauce drips on my coffee table. “Shit. Sorry.”
He wipes it up with a napkin.
“Don’t worry about it. This place is a disaster area.”
“I mean that I don’t have good information for you.” Luna smiles. He looks around, notices wires.
“You gonna just put a frame around those wires up there or get around to replacing the TV?”
“I’ll replace it eventually. Sort of nice not having one. Waste all my time watching cable.”
“Don’t know how you can live without it.”
I finally break into my sub. Roast turkey with provolone, bacon, and Brie. Damn; hope my stomach can take it. I bite into it, but I have bad cotton mouth, so I have to chase it down with the beer, which isn’t so good.
“So you’re one lucky son of a bitch, my friend,” he says.
“Yeah. I’m grateful.”
“Don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t around to constantly ask me for favors.”
“You’d be drinking alone.”
“Ha.”
“You kno
w this officer at 1D, Willy Jasper?”
“He’s been on scenes before, but that’s about it. He’s an FTO, right?”
“Yeah. Wyatt Morris also worked for him at the door for a part-time gig he has.”
“No shit?”
“But there’s more. Jasper is related to that officer who got killed in the drive-by at Seventeenth and Euclid. Remember? Cordell Holm’s boys?”
“No shit? You know the FBI managed to connect that officer to the murder of that teenage boy in Virginia, right?”
Yeah. I was the one who made the call to them.
“I heard. Don’t know how they kept that out of the news.”
“C’mon, man, how long you been gone?”
“Apparently too long. Cordell and his crew get sentenced yet?”
“Everyone rolled on everyone. It’s still an ongoing plea agreement. Be a waste of my time if it wasn’t for all the OT I’m getting.”
“You need to share some of that with me. I gave them to you on a silver platter.” I take a smaller bite of the sub this time.
“And I thank you dearly, but fuck you.”
“Call it payback, then, for all the favors you’ve given me.”
“Yeah, let’s call it that. So how is this Jasper involved in all this?”
“Dirty motherfucker, but no way to connect him. This is between you and me, okay?”
He nods. That’s all I need.
“The guy who hit my house was cooperating and giving up Jasper for some bad deeds. Just found out he committed suicide in jail. But get this: I think Jasper’s got it out for me. In some warped way he might hold me responsible for Officer Tommy’s death. He’s connected to all this shit that’s been going on. Hurley and Millhoff even know that, but they don’t have anything substantial. The one good source they had killed himself, and the other one’s pulled out. So for my protection, let me know what you hear. I’m not being paranoid here.”
“I can look at you and see that,” he says, referring to my bandages.
“The other source they had is called Repo. He’s a drug dealer associated with Jasper. I know that Repo and his brother dealt their drugs out of the club Jasper worked.”
“How do you know this?”
“I still have sources.”
“And you never want to share them, do you?”
Crime Song Page 24