Broken Badges: Cases from Police Internal Affairs Files

by Lou Reiter

  Taylor learned the chief had been in law enforcement for forty years. He’d served in two sheriff departments, had been a correctional officer at a Colorado prison, and worked for three other police departments. He said he’d been in Nam, but wasn’t ready to talk about it with anyone, including himself. He was hoping to finish his career in Juanita Springs, but lately he’d been having second thoughts about that idea.

  “Taylor, you give me some advice?”

  “You gonna give me my lady friend’s car back?”

  Clyde leaned into a corner and laughed. “What kinda fuckin’ you do with your lady friend to score a ride like that?” Then he raised his hands to deny any answer.

  . “No, I really don’t need to know. But you gots to know that it’ll be a couple days before that Porsche will be released, Taylor. The task force took it to the fed impound compound. I gots to go through paperwork, smooth talk the supervising agent, and eat the guff I’m gonna get. They probably think I made a side deal with you to cut them out. But, don’t worry; I got some dirt on them, too. But you got to give me a couple days to work my magic. I’ll get you put up at the Sidewinder Motel. Best place in the Springs!”

  Taylor was thinking this trip to Grand Junction was turning out to be a shitty decision. He wasn’t sure how to break this latest news to Sandy, although he knew she wouldn’t care about the delay. He knew the Juanita Springs Police Department wasn’t carrying the standard for professionalism if they pulled stuff like this. The department could be steeped in corruption or misconduct, but Taylor didn’t have a clue.

  “I did some calling on you, Taylor. Got a hold of one of my FBI academy buddies who used to be with the LAPD. He gave you the thumbs up, but told me not to expect anything from the chief you used to work for. Shit, that might be the best compliment you can get.”

  “What kind of advice you looking for, Clyde?”

  “Had a shooting last month. Actually a couple of shootings involving the same incident. Shit storm of an event. Off-duty cops, a couple of one-percenters, and then my cop. Made for an awful mix.”

  “They all shoot someone?”

  “Just two shooters. My cop and one of the off-duty cops. Here’s the story. Six cops from two separate Utah cop shops came up for a motorcycle drive through our mountains. Unfortunately they got these leather jackets just like the Outlaw cycle gangs wear. On top of that, they’re flying colors on the back. Tri-part. Two rockers. Call themselves the Blue Gravediggers. Center emblem is an image of Father Death with two smoking guns waving. Looks just like the Outlaw one-percenters.

  The really badass motorcycle gangs are commonly referred to as “one percenters” or “OMG, outlaw motorcycle gang.” The origin of the one percenter tag is debated. Most people feel it came into existence back in the 1940s when someone referred to motorcyclists as 99 percent honest, hardworking people. This left the remainder to be considered the outlaw element.

  Clyde continued, “So they roar into the Cliffhangers Bar in the center of downtown. Unfortunately there were two Outlaw MC gangbangers drinking inside. They’re wearing their colors, too. It got rough real fast. The Outlaws ask if the chapter in Utah gave the cops the okay to wear their “Utah” lower rocker. Cops didn’t take that too well.

  “One cop pulls out his gun and an Outlaw draws a fixed blade knife. They all start fanning out like it was the fucking OK Corral.

  “Along comes my cop and sees the bikes parked outside so walks in to check things out. Just as he enters he sees the cop shoot the knife-wielding Outlaw. My cop draws his gun and cranks off three rounds at the guy who has the gun drawn. The thing is, my guy don’t know they were cops. How could he?

  “One round hits the cop in the forearm. Unfortunately another round hits the second Outlaw in the side of his head. Both Outlaws were dead when they dropped.”

  Clyde stopped his soliloquy to take a long draw on his coffee and inched forward in the booth.

  “No brainer for the DA. Hell, didn’t even take it to a Grand Jury. Found all the shooting was self-defense and the one stray round was just an accident.”

  “So what’s your concern, Clyde?”

  “Two things. Utah cop shot in the arm by my cop is suing the department. Apparently the bullet shattered his arm so bad he’s gonna get pensioned off on a disability.”

  Clyde paused, sighed, and leaned back to the cushioning comfort of the booth. He took another sip of coffee, stalling for time.

  “Taylor, you know how you sometimes get a gut feel? Well, I’ve always had that about the Utah cops. Can’t put my finger on anything specific, but just that hinky cop sixth sense. Something doesn’t add up with their stories. I know it.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I think those cops were up to no good, but don’t know what.”

  “Boss, I can’t do much checking without a car. Where’s the closest rental place?”

  “Gunnison, but you can take my pickup. I’ve got the marked unit. She’s not the best running thing around, but none of my cops will hassle you.” Clyde smiled at the thought of his guys going round two with Taylor.

  Typically a local cop wouldn’t hand over a case to an outsider, especially one who wandered in out of nowhere. Taylor figured whomever Clyde called to check him out must have given him confidence in Taylor’s experience. Maybe mentioning he was working on a civil case in Grand Junction had some influence. But probably the strongest motivation was rooted in Clyde’s own suspicions. Being a small town police chief put him in at disadvantage if he planned to challenge the CBI investigation and the local DA. Taylor figured Clyde could always point the finger back at him if further inquiry hit the shit fan and embarrassed somebody big. It was a win-win for Clyde… and he needed to keep Taylor off his back about getting the Porsche back from the feds.

  Investigators sometimes become distracted once they get into an investigation. This is particularly true when investigating potential criminal conduct by another police officer, even if the cop isn’t one of their own. So many police incidents have virtually no witnesses, particularly witnesses without a stake in the outcome. Investigators may be limited by what’s readily available and must evaluate the canned or rehearsed testimony of cops who were on the scene.

  Cops are good at testifying. They do it for a living. Most cops can lie through their teeth and still sound very convincing. Taylor had learned early that you didn’t break a dirty cop with your interviewing skills. You needed to set a hook, that hook being a solid piece of evidence or an undisputable circumstance conflicting with good testimony from witnesses. Some investigators allow themselves to be blindsided by the obvious. When an investigation is packaged from the start, some investigators won’t take the next step which requires searching for less obvious factors and finding evidence that doesn’t jive with the canned version.

  Taylor was made aware of this problem as a new investigator with the IA Unit of the LAPD. He had been a sergeant for a little over a year. He remembered getting a call-out early one morning which involved the death of the live-in girlfriend of a department officer. The death occurred in the officer’s home in Loma Linda in Orange County. The Loma Linda and Orange County Sheriff’s offices were handling the case, focusing on it as a tragic suicide. The story given was the officer arrived home around seven in the morning after his swing shift, 6 p.m. to 2 a.m., at Newton Division.

  Upon returning home, he found his girlfriend in their bed, shot in the head with his off-duty gun in her hand. The local agencies were quick to assume this was just another tragic suicide. They had processed the scene adequately, taking photographs, bagging her hands for gunshot residue analysis, and securing the gun properly to test for prints. The department investigators were waiting for the results of toxicology tests to determine levels of alcohol or other drugs in the woman’s system when Taylor began his independent investigation.

  Taylor was new to IA and was assigned to work with a veteran investigator, Sam Watson. This was Sam’s second tour in IA. He
had nearly 20 years on the job and had been a sergeant for just under ten years.

  Sam wouldn’t have been Taylor’s choice for a partner. Sam always had a fat cigar hanging out of his mouth and most of the time it wasn’t even lit, until Sam settled into the cocoon of a police car. Then the man blazed and puffed like the proverbial chimney. The Sam/Taylor partnership happened way before a smoking ban was instituted at the LAPD. Taylor would try to avoid the heavy stench permeating the car by keeping his window rolled down, but that wasn’t always a practical solution. To make matters worse, Sam didn’t bathe regularly and had a lingering body odor. But after six months of working side by side, Taylor realized he was absorbing years of investigative knowledge which he would carry with him during his entire career.

  By the time Sam and Taylor arrived at the officer’s home, the coroner had already taken the body. The officer had given the local detectives his statement and appeared to be visibly upset over his girlfriend’s death. Sam elected not to talk with the officer initially as he wanted to do legwork on the case first. Sam intended to view the scene and talk with as many detectives and initial responding uniformed officers as could be found before he questioned the bereaved officer. Taylor shared the belief this was a simple suicide, but Sam had other thoughts.

  As it turned out, issues surfaced to cloud what appeared to be a slam-dunk case of suicide. It was determined the Newton Division officer hadn’t finished his shift and had his partner log him out later at two a.m. As it turned out, the “officer boyfriend” was juggling affairs with two other women. One woman was a department dispatcher in the Communications Division and the other was a waitress at a Denny’s in Loma Linda.

  As part of their investigation, Sam and Taylor researched the divorce papers filed by the officer’s former wife three years earlier and found she had accused him of infidelity. Additionally, the officer had a rescinded protective order filed by another girlfriend for stalking after she broke off their relationship. Sam was able to get an investigator in the department’s super sleuth unit to access the dead girlfriend’s Google account. It turned out she was pregnant and was threatening the officer that she would seek generous child support if he didn’t marry her.

  Lab results showed more than anyone expected. The dead girlfriend was two months pregnant. She did have gunshot residue on her hands and the gunshot entry proved to be a contact shot to the side of her head. A strange mixture of medications was found during the autopsy that would have resulted in loss of consciousness. Under that condition, the coroner opined that the woman could not have pulled the twelve pounds of trigger pressure the two-inch Smith and Wesson Detective Special would have required to fire.

  After that finding, Taylor realized the original criminal investigators had jumped to a conclusion far too quickly. They didn’t test the officer’s hands for gunshot residue and that opportunity was long gone. They simply accepted the officer’s version of events without question. Hell, he was a fellow cop. Cops don’t kill their girlfriends!

  Taylor never forgot his first experience involving police misconduct. He no longer would assume the obvious, particularly when it involved police officers. He was willing to offer a degree of doubt, but knew he always had to second-guess in this type case.

  The cop whose girlfriend was shot copped to the murder after being served with a warrant for his personal e-mails and phone records. It was also determined he had been stealing prescribed medications from elderly persons and nursing homes after being dispatched to those calls. When the dead girlfriend’s bank account was reviewed, it was discovered the officer had been withdrawing sums of money using her personal pin number.

  *****

  The Sidewinder Motel might have been the best in Juanita Springs as Chief Clyde boasted, but then again, it was the only motel in town. The style was typical of those built in the 1940s but was a little larger than most, probably 40 units. Most units lined to the front around a large U-shaped drive emptying into the highway. In the center, an open area featuring a large covered picnic area, barbeque pit, kiddie playground, and a half basketball court provided a social setting for travelers. There was a wide entrance bisecting the clustered units that opened onto the second line of rooms strung behind the first set.

  The furniture welcoming Taylor to his room was crafted of hewn pine. The passing of years had stained it golden brown. The shag carpeting was ten years overdue for replacement. Taylor quickly decided not to walk around in his bare feet. Turquoise dated Formica filled the bathroom with the small vanity mirror showing grey patches bleeding from backside deterioration. Taylor had hung his hat in worse places, but not many.

  Once in bed and searching for sleep, Taylor rolled over and tried to focus his eyes on the green glow emitting from the clock on the nightstand. 4:17—Shit! He laid back and toyed with the idea of trying to catch a few more zzzs, but he knew it was a lost cause. These days his routine was not as precise or regulated as the days he was on the LAPD. Back then he had structure and a definite place to go each day. For the past several years, Taylor found himself either overwhelmed with client consultations or scratching his ass wondering what the hell he could do to pass the days.

  With a sigh, Taylor stretched out of bed and decided it was time to conduct a little local intelligence work. At dawn, the old pickup found the way to the Waffle House. Nearly every booth was filled so Taylor took a place at the counter within range of the cook and close to the waitresses.

  “See you got Clyde’s ride,” Gladys noted as she slid a cup in front of Taylor and filled it with dark brew.

  “You pulling a double, Gladys?”

  “Seems like I’m doing that more and more. These young girls got too many complications to make it into work most days, at least on time.”

  “You know the chief for long?”

  “Clyde, yeah, ever since he’s been here in the Springs.”

  “Is he righteous?”

  Gladys stopped, turned, and placed the coffee pot on the waiting burner. She came back and leaned toward Taylor, scratching her ear in contemplation. “I guess so. Say, what’s your name again?”

  “Taylor. Taylor Sterling. Retired cop out of LA. Just passing through, but my car is tied up for a few days.”

  “Heard about that. That young cop Beaver was bitching about the chief messing with his arrest. Said that fine sports car you were driving would have brought in some good income for the town. Seems the chief makes most of his budget from people passing through the Springs. Know what I mean?”

  “Gladys, order up!” the cook announced gruffly.

  Taylor played with his coffee cup as an excuse to survey the crowd. In one corner three large men wearing XXX-sized Electric Company jackets congregated. Two men in Levis, plaid shirts, cowboy boots, and still wearing Western hats were settled in another booth. A group of young twenty-somethings spilled into two booths, jumping from one to the other. Their dress indicated they had been partying hearty and were capping off the night’s fun with breakfast.

  In a back corner, three sheriff deputies sat, elbows on the table. One wore sergeant stripes. Two 80-year-olds were hunched down at one end of the counter arguing about a recent fire started by the Forestry Service during a controlled burn.

  This was a cross section of any community at any Waffle House in the country, Taylor thought. He decided to approach the deputies to see what they had to say.

  “When I was on the job, I used to hate it when some slug came up to me during my Code 7, but anyway, you guys got a minute?”

  Taylor watched each of them study him. The sergeant slowly slid over, making room on the seat.

  “Where?”

  “LAPD. Twenty years. Consultant now.”

  “I got about five ‘til I can go, but I’m not sure I’ll pull the pin. Don’t know what I’d do with myself. Still got one in high school and one in college. Sheriff seems secure. What brings you to Juanita Springs? Long way away, and sure off the beaten track from LA.”

  “Live in
Santa Fe now and was coming back from Grand Junction. Got my ride taken by the local cops.”

  The three looked at each other and started to laugh.

  “Clyde’s highway robbers, huh?” the younger deputy chuckled. “We’ve tried to tell the state ‘bout what’s goin’ down here, but they don’t seem to care. Between them city cops and the drug guys, it’s not safe to be straight and from out of town.”

  Taylor quickly discovered Clyde’s boys were supplementing the city budget with confiscations on the highway and writing an excessive number of speeding tickets. No one left the city without taking care of whatever speeding fine the chief or mayor wanted to assess.

  The sheriff’s department had a hands-off policy and didn’t participate in any joint operations with the locals. Most of the time road deputies wouldn’t even back the city cops on traffic stops. The almighty drug task force had its own sniff dog, so the sheriff didn’t have to offer that service. None of the three deputies thought the city cops were pocketing money, but they felt sure they were manufacturing probable cause for arrests and property seizures.

  Taylor excused himself and shuffled to a counter seat next to the old-timers.

  “You guys mind if I join you?” he asked as he interrupted the discussion which was now centering on the loss of a donut shop in town. They turned and stared at Taylor.

  “You must be a friend of Chief Clyde’s. See you got the use of his truck, unless you stole it.”

  Taylor nodded. “You guys know the chief long?”

  “On and off his whole life, that’s all. Went to high school with his mom. You were there, too, weren’t you, Andy?” His counter companion nodded.

  “Like the cops here in Juanita Springs?”

  “Don’t hassle us town people. Just outsiders. Pretty safe I’d say. Ain’t that so, Andy?”

  Again Andy nodded.

  “What you doing with his truck, fella?”

  “My car is tied up for a while. Chief asked me to look into that shooting down at the bar… what’s the name?”