by C. J. Lyons
Thomson shook his head. “Closest one that will accept Negroes is Altoona, and I don’t have the manpower to transport him and guard him long enough to get him there alive. Not with what the Greer boy is accusing him of.” He looked up at Samuel. “If we take him to the station, can you help him? I can protect him there.”
Samuel wasn’t naive enough to ask who the injured boy needed protection from. He sighed. Jo was going to kill him, getting involved.
“This boy didn’t hurt that girl. You know that, right?” Why was he sitting here arguing with a white policeman? Trying to save a stranger he knew nothing about from a town he knew nothing about. It was insane. But somehow Samuel felt like Thomson understood, knew how wrong this was.
“No. It was her pa. It’s always her pa. But Winnie will never say nothing. She always runs to the Rawling home when things get too bad. Usually it’s the women who shelter her until it’s safe for her to go home, but looks like today she ran into Henry, more’s the pity.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Help me get him into my vehicle?”
The boy, Henry, regained consciousness as they moved him into the car. He seemed disoriented and in pain, but his breathing stabilized once he was sitting up in the backseat of the police car.
“I need to return to my family,” Samuel said, closing the door on Henry. He was uncertain about leaving the defenseless teenager in the care of the law, but Thomson seemed a better option than the hooligans out in the street. White boys allowed to act like that meant white men who’d taught them.
“Hold on, now.” Thomson’s voice carried the authority of his office. “Thought you said he needed doctoring.”
“He’s stable until you—”
“Look around you. This look like a town that can support a doctor? Closest we got is Bruce Macauley at the mill, and that’s only because he was a corpsman in the Army. It’s you or no one. At least not until Henry’s folks get off shift tonight and can drive him over the mountain to Altoona. If those boys don’t bring their fathers back and take him first.”
Samuel drew up short. This was the twentieth century, this was Pennsylvania. Not the deep South where Jim Crow reigned. “You’d let them do that? You’re an officer of the law. You’d let them take him?”
The look on Thomson’s face said it all. Same look Samuel had seen on Korean prisoners of war right before the anesthesia took them under: utter defeat. They were certain the white devils—or in Samuel’s case, even worse, a black devil—were about to butcher and torture them, yet they’d lost the will to fight and surrendered to their fate.
“Not sure I’ll be given much choice in the matter. Philip Greer’s dad pretty much owns this county. The chief is best friends with him. I’m just one man. We got two more part-time officers I can call in, but they aren’t about to risk their paychecks, much less their lives, not for a colored boy.”
“And neither are you.” Samuel glanced around at the run-down houses, the lack of any adults, the general feeling of a town ground to dust. His own hospital was in one of the poorest sections of DC, but even it didn’t seem as hopeless as this place.
“Doing the best I can. You can leave, or you can stay and help. But we need to move now.” His voice snapped through the air like Samuel’s old drill sergeant. Samuel was immune, but before he could answer, a small figure crept from the shadows of the house across from them. The girl. Winnie, Thomson had called her.
She darted closer, stopped at the edge of the street, her body wavering as if the slightest breeze could blow her back into the shadows. “You gonna help him?”
Her words barely carried to him. With them came the fear and courage it had taken for her to step forward.
Samuel drew in a breath. “Let me get my family. We’ll follow you to the police station, stabilize him, and then I’ll drive him to the hospital in Altoona myself.” Jo was not going to like it, but it was the boy’s best chance for proper health care—and to avoid another beating. Or worse.
Thomson nodded. “Station’s two blocks over. Brick building beside the courthouse.”
Winnie said nothing, merely tightened her lips in determination, and marched over to the police car, climbing into the back seat beside Henry.
Lord help him. What had Samuel gotten himself into?
Chapter Five
TK remained silent, waiting for Karlan to continue. They crossed through an intersection and continued into another residential area, this one a step up, not by much but a little, from the last neighborhood.
The people here weren’t as angry or indifferent to the sight of the police car; many waggled their hands in acknowledgement or nodded their heads. Except the kids—they were just like the ones in the other side of the square, laughing and yelling and playing. No counting coup here; only a few middle fingers raised as Karlan leaned on his horn to break up a football game so he had room to roll past.
“Most of the segregation around here isn’t racial.” Karlan steered them past post-war colonials, mid-seventies ranch houses, and Craftsman bungalows. “It’s economic.”
TK nodded, although she noticed there definitely seemed to be more whites on this side of Main Street, but also African-Americans, a few Hispanics. There was no new construction but plenty of obvious repairs and fresh paint.
Karlan continued, “Last century we had the railroad, the quarry, paper mill, even an electronics assembly plant once upon a time…all that’s gone. Now our biggest employer is the college. Most folks who work there, the professors and the like, they don’t live in town. They live up the mountain, where you have a view of the river or in one of the fancy gated communities built on what used to be old family farmsteads. But those of us in town, we’re victims of geography. Hemmed in by mountains, the river and the college. Leaves people feeling trapped. Powerless.”
She was silent for a moment. Had a feeling he was talking about a lot more than geography or economics. “The officer-involved shooting you mentioned, I’m guessing the victim—”
“Was black. And the cop was white.” He gripped the wheel as he plowed over a pothole rather than steer around it. The struts squeaked, the car groaning at the impact.
“I was Jefferson’s T.O.” A training officer was any police officer’s first real mentor after the academy. “Kid’s a damn fine cop.” His sigh rolled through the car like a tsunami. “Was a damn fine cop. Even if he’s in the clear with the grand jury, no way he’ll come back from this. Not in this town. Maybe not anywhere, way the news and everyone keeps putting his face and name all over the internet.”
His lips tightened, and it was a moment before he continued. “This town, this department has a target on it right now. I need you to understand why it’s important to keep our calling you in for assistance on this case as quiet as possible. We don’t need any rumors that we’re incompetent, can’t do our jobs.”
“You need? Or your chief?”
“Actually, it was Mayor Greer.”
“No problem. We prefer to stay out of the limelight.”
“That’s what the Justice Department said. Right before their press conference where they about crucified Jefferson.”
“It’s not your fault,” she tried but immediately regretted it as the wrong thing to say.
“Of course not. Not anyone’s fault except the actor’s.” Police slang for a person taking action to commit a crime. “He put himself there in that alley that night. Jefferson did nothing except do his job.”
“What happened?”
He was silent as they came to an intersection with a four-lane highway. On the other side, nestled in the curve of the mountains behind it, was Greer College.
She could see what Karlan had meant about the geography working against the town’s working-class population. The streets surrounding the college had mature shade trees, and the homes were larger, a few new, mostly well-maintained classics: Tudors that resembled fairy tale gingerbread houses, Craftsman-style bungalows, large Colonials with lawns mowed in meticulous diagonal patterns
visible even from the street.
Karlan followed her gaze. “College already expanded up the mountain as far as it could—razed an old mobile home park and took over some State Game Lands in a deal with the government. Now there’s nowhere left to go but headed into town.” He gestured at the pristine houses they were passing. “Because no way are the professors and folks over here going to give up their pretty homes.” His tone turned bitter.
TK waited, understanding that Karlan would tell the story at his own pace.
“Call came in as a routine domestic. Which are never routine. But Jefferson knew the address, knew that usually by the time the cops arrived, the fight would already have burned itself out and the guy would be sitting on the porch nursing a forty, waiting for the missus to let him back inside, and she’d be on the phone complaining to her friends about her low-life, low-rent guy who maybe really wasn’t so bad and what the hell were the cops doing banging on her door disturbing her peace. Seen it so many times, Jefferson could practically run the script word for word in his head as he cleared the job he was on—a vehicular collision over on Broad—and started to the domestic.”
“No back-up?” TK hated domestic disputes—when she was stateside, between deployments, she’d occasionally pulled that duty as an MP. Never knew the right thing to say or do to help the victims, especially the ones who didn’t act like victims, who just wanted to be left alone.
“None available.” He waved a hand. “We’re stretched pretty thin, usually do okay, but sometimes a busy Friday or Saturday night can overwhelm the system. Not much you can do except keep clearing calls and moving on.”
“So, Jefferson responded to the domestic.”
“Yeah. Thinking about what he was going to say—you know the drill. You assess the situation, and if it’s nothing actionable, you have your words of wisdom, trying against all odds to prevent being called back again later that night. You talk to the man, telling him to stop stealing his woman’s money, spending it all on booze or drugs, to appreciate his hard-working beautiful lady the way she deserves to be appreciated. You chat with the woman, invite her to leave with you if she feels unsafe, let her know there are people ready to help if she feels trapped or things get violent—that usually is the last thing you say because she’ll kick you out of the house then, yelling at you that she’s no victim, the cops are useless, and why the hell did she call you to begin with. But you do it anyway because sometimes they take the card you give them and make the call and rarely they’ll leave with you. All part of the job.”
“But not that night.”
“Not that night. Jefferson arrives just in time to see Eggers run out the front door, gun in his hand, blood on his shirt, neighbors screaming, shouting. Jefferson runs inside, finds the wife, beaten but alive, holes shot up in all the walls, place trashed. Calls for EMS and back-up, puts out an alert on Eggers, starts his pursuit, first in his vehicle, then when he spies Eggers hopping a fence, crossing through yards, waving his pistol at anyone who pokes their head out, he follows on foot.”
They continued down the highway, passing a few shopping centers and a large commercial office park. Within less than a mile of leaving the college, they were surrounded by cornfields on one side and trees on the other.
“You ever been in a foot chase after an armed felon?”
TK shook her head. When she’d been deployed with the Female Engagement Team, she’d been in active combat situations—most still classified, couldn’t talk about them even if she wanted to—but never had to chase someone through the night, jumping obstacles, trying to keep from tripping in the dark, little cover, unable to see much of anything, never knowing when the guy you’re chasing is going to take a breath and turn to shoot at you. “I would imagine that it’s a lot like being in a close-quarters firefight.”
“Damned right. Pulse racing, chest heaving, hauling your butt over fences, stumbling through yards and alleys and trash heaps, trying to keep up on the radio so you don’t get mistakenly shot by one of your own guys, hoping the guy you’re chasing doesn’t decide to make a stand and start shooting civilians or you or your backup. Most foot pursuits don’t last more than a minute or two—this one lasted about three. But then Eggers runs down the wrong alley, one the city had barricaded for demolition.”
“The one near where you found me this morning?” TK remembered her path being blocked by the future demolition project.
“Exactly. Jefferson catches up to his subject. Finds enough breath to yell at him to put the gun down and raise his hands over his head.”
“But the guy didn’t?”
Karlan paused as he slowed and turned onto a narrow two-lane road marked only by a sign that read: Greer Quarry and Stone Works. Hazardous Conditions Ahead. Danger: No Trespassing
“Eggers still had the gun in his hand when he turned to face Jefferson.”
“So, pretty clear-cut. A clear and present threat, right? Bodycam video would show that.”
He grunted. “We can’t afford decent squad cars; think we can afford bodycams?”
“So it’s Jefferson’s word only? Were there any witnesses?” She guessed not.
Karlan shook his head. “Jefferson ordered him to not move, to freeze and not turn around. Three times told him to slowly lower the gun to the ground in front of him—away from Jefferson. Instead, Eggers turned around.”
They stopped at a chain link gate at the entrance to the quarry where a uniformed officer waited with a clipboard in hand. The police wanted to minimize traffic to the crime scene—evidence recovery scene, really—which was the whole reason why TK was riding with Karlan, but she cursed the timing. One thing for sure, Karlan was a damn good storyteller.
“Good timing,” the officer told Karlan as he made a note of their particulars for the evidence log. “Divers just got the float bags under and are bringing her up now.” He waved his pen to a spot on the other side of the gate. “We’re asking everyone to park on the far side, away from the action. The forensic folks and coroner are already at their tent, ready to process the vehicle and whatever’s inside it.” His grin turned ghoulish. “My money’s on a mob hit.”
Karlan shook his head, rolled his window back up, and waited for the officer to open the gate for them. “Mob hit, my ass.”
“You were telling me about Jefferson.”
He eased the car through the gate. “Oh, right. Eggers turned all right. With his hand coming down with the gun. Monday morning quarterbacks like the DA say he was he trying to lower the gun to surrender. Or maybe he was just too damn tired and disgusted and knew he was caught and was trying to end it all by forcing Jefferson to defend himself.”
“And Jefferson shot him.”
“Yes, ma’am. Jefferson shot him. By the time it was all said and done, turned out Eggers’s gun was empty—no way Jefferson could have known that. No idea if Eggers even realized it. But technically, that made him an unarmed man. Then the woman came forward, said the domestic disturbance call was a mistake. That it wasn’t Eggers who’d beaten her and shot up their place, it was an unknown intruder.”
“She defended him? After all that?”
“Love. Or greed. Maybe she sees a chance at a new life after she sues the city. Who knows with domestics? But her story now is that Eggers wasn’t threatening her or Jefferson, he was chasing this unknown, apparently invisible intruder that no one else saw and that was never caught on any traffic cams or surveillance of the chase. Not that anyone cares about evidence when you’ve got a juicy story to tweet about, right? Blue on black murder victim was the hash tag.”
He hauled in a breath, his chest expanding, shoulders lifting. The kind of deep breath you take before battle. Then he released it, the weight of it so heavy it collapsed in on itself without even a hint of a sigh. “Jefferson got to stay alive, go home to his wife and kids, and live another day. But if the grand jury indicts, he may end up losing everything. Hell, even if they don’t, he’s already lost.”
With that sorrowful
sentiment echoing through the air, he parked the patrol car between a van from Greer College’s forensic anthropology department and an ambulance emblazoned with the county coroner’s shield.
TK climbed out of the patrol car and blinked into the bright morning sun reflected from the walls of the quarry. The granite acted as a natural reflector, sparking the light in a myriad of directions before it was swallowed by the shadows deeper down the steep walls. They’d parked to one side of the inclined area of hard-packed stone that had once allowed excavation equipment to enter the quarry’s lower levels. A police tow truck idled there, waiting for the divers to finish their work in the deep sapphire water beyond.
Along the edge of the cliff, a group of eight college students crowded, watching the events unfolding out in the water—they weren’t that much younger than TK, but somehow seeing their enthusiasm made her feel old.
When TK had learned the county coroner was a college professor and that she and her students would be responsible for the crime scene, she’d had her doubts. Bringing up an antique car without unduly disturbing its occupant from a hundred and twenty feet below the surface? And do it all while preserving any evidence? She couldn’t even begin to imagine the logistics—and all only two days after the body was discovered.
“Dr. Madsen really knows her stuff,” Karlan said, following her gaze. “We’re lucky she took on the job of coroner,” he continued. “Before then, it was always one of the mortuaries—more than a few times, I had the feeling they were more interested in saving money than getting to the truth. Guess they did the best they could with a limited budget.”
“It’d be nice if Pennsylvania had a real medical examiner system like other states.” The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they crossed the empty expanse to the idling tow truck.
“Hell, most of our county sheriffs still only serve papers, leave the real police work to the locals and the Staties.” Karlan nodded a greeting to the tow truck operator, also a police officer, thus able to maintain the chain of custody once the vehicle was excavated, preserving any criminal evidence.