by Lou Reiter
*****
Later Taylor’s iPhone dropped a red pin at the exact location of Camillus House. It took longer than he expected to reach the facility, having to deal with the beginning of rush hour traffic clogging the streets of central Miami. Brother Lucius fit Johnson’s description. Taylor told him why he was there and asked if he knew Dennis Spencer.
“I didn’t really know him. His father came looking for any trace of his son’s whereabouts a while ago. He was very distraught. His anguish enveloped me. I sensed he was at the end of his search and was looking for anything to give him hope.”
“And were you able to do that?”
“I’m afraid not. All I could tell him was that his son Dennis, I think, had been here on and off. Not enough for Mr. Spencer, I’m afraid.”
Brother Lucius gave Taylor a contact name and phone number for the director at the Greater Miami Coalition for the Mentally Ill. Brother Lucius said she was the person organizing the protests at Playa Diablo.
Pamela Harris, the contact, wasn’t in, but Taylor was able to make an appointment to see her in the morning. He wondered whether traffic would let him get back to his hotel, shower, and be ready for Jenny’s pickup at his hotel.
Exactly at seven, a black 4x4 Tundra pickup with black-shaded windows and off-road tires circled with shiny black rims pulled into the entrance of the Courtyard. Jenny had to lower the passenger window before Taylor realized the truck carried his date for the evening. Pebbles was the name of the restaurant Jenny selected for their date. It was a quiet and casual place with a keyboard and bass playing Brazilian basso nova selections in the lounge.
Taylor suddenly realized it had been far too long between his dates, other than the casual business meetings he had with female clients after hours. It was good to remember past romantic moments tinged with sexual excitement. Taylor decided he would definitely have to do something to jumpstart his relationships with the ladies. He was getting out of practice!
*****
By the time Taylor got up the next morning, Jenny was gone. He eventually got to his car and saw a slip of paper under the wiper blade.
T. A real umami night. Aged yet mellow with full body. J.
Taylor was intrigued, but had to go to his iPhone and Google “umami.” Wikipedia said it meant “a savory taste.” He smiled and thought to himself, damn, I would never have taken Jenny for a culinary gourmet.
Pamela Harris was what Taylor envisioned a female crusader should look like, attractive in an athletic way. Not a hint of makeup, but he knew she spent time on it in the morning. She wore stylish slacks, a crew neck sleeveless sweater, and faux suede short jacket. Her only jewelry was a single diamond pendent hanging from a mixed metal chain around her neck. Taylor estimated the diamond weighed at least three carats. No rings. The Greater Miami Coalition for the Mentally Ill was located in a small suite of offices in a depressed section of Calle Ocho, just off Flagler Street. There was only one other person in the office that time of the morning, a squirrelly mouse of a man missing too many teeth.
“Mr. Sterling, Brother Lucius told me you would be by this morning. How can I help you?” Ms. Harris asked as she firmly grasped his hand.
“That was terrible, what happened to Dennis. A young lost soul. But, I knew it was coming. Not necessarily that, but something tragic.” Taylor continued to meet her eyes as she added to her litany.
“Those two cowboys in Playa Diablo. I told the chief that they were out of control. He told me to get my ass out of his city, but not using those exact words, of course.” She smiled and gestured for Taylor to sit down.
“Why did you think that?”
She studied him for some time. “You’ve been a cop. You know trouble when you see it. I’ve been on the streets of Miami for many years. I know the streets. I know cops. I didn’t always live on Fisher Island.”
Fisher Island was an exclusive small island just off the southern tip of Miami Beach. The community featured a country club, golf course, multi-million dollar condos, and small palatial estates.
“And how did you find yourself on Fisher Island, Ms. Harris?”
“Pamela, please. Hard work and knowing a few influential people. But, come now, that’s not why you’re here. Or, is it?”
“No. It’s the Dennis Spencer death. I’m a consultant with League of Cities Insurance. You said you had dealings with Chief Thompson?”
“Yes, about the mistreatment of homeless people by Batman and Robin,” she suddenly snickered. “Batman and Robin! It should have been an easy giveaway for the chief to know something was going foul. He really thinks he’s some sort of management wiz. Between you and me, the chief is a pussy. Likes that uniform. I’ve known his type before. Up tight and righteous, but easily swayed when necessary. Anyway, that duo liked burning homeless folks’ belongings, pretending it was just trash. Berated them. Ran them out of Playa Diablo. Took some of them out to the Glades and left them stranded in the middle of nowhere. I’ve made at least six separate complaints to the chief. Take a look.”
Ms. Harris pulled out a folder containing police complaint forms and adjudication letters. She was correct. She had carefully documented each complaint with affidavits from the homeless person or persons involved. Each adjudication letter from Chief Thompson came back with “Unfounded” or “Exonerate” stamped across the top sheet. Taylor jotted down the IA tracking numbers for each complaint investigation.
Police citizen complaint investigations have common adjudications. Sustained, of course, means the complaint was found to be legitimate and true. Not sustained means there simply wasn’t enough evidence to either prove or disprove the allegation. Unfounded signifies the incident didn’t occur or it was under another police agency’s jurisdiction. Exonerated normally means the allegation occurred, but the resultant action was proper, legal, and in keeping with the practices of the agency. Some police departments have a variety of other designations, such as pending, administratively closed, or are simply filed.
A newer complaint classification holds that the incident resulted from a policy or training deficiency; thus the allegation occurred and shouldn’t have, but it wasn’t the officer’s fault. Instead it was a failure on the part of the police agency because the agency hadn’t trained the officers correctly or there wasn’t written guidance to instruct officers how to handle a situation. Of course, to offended citizens, classifications don’t really matter. They believe they were wronged and the police were simply covering up agency mistakes.
“Ms. Harris, excuse me, Pamela. What do you think about all this?”
“Cover-up. Whitewash. Nobody wanted to take on that out-of-control duo. They were probably just doing what those rich people wanted them to do. As I said, though, the chief’s a pussy.”
“I talked to the protesters at the Playa Diablo police station. They said someone was paying them to be there. Took them out in a van from Miami, gave them food money, and then picked them up in the evening.” Taylor simply looked at her, but didn’t make accusations.
“Sure, we’re doing that. Using some of that payoff money The Gathering gave us. We’re looking for exposure. We need it. Nobody wants anything to do with the homeless or the mentally ill. You know, Taylor, almost every family has a member who is suffering from one form of mental illness or another. Most just closet their symptoms or self-medicate until the disease is too obvious to disguise. We’re looking to bring good treatment options back. Today the biggest mental hospitals are the local and state jails. Maybe Jackson Memorial Hospital. Sad, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is. Mental health treatment has been eroding since the ‘60s under Kennedy.”
Taylor thanked Pamela Harris for her time and headed for the door, and then turned and asked, “Do you think it would be helpful for me to talk with Dennis’ father?”
“That would probably help him deal with his loss. He’s really hurting. It might be good for him to know somebody is working on his son’s case. But you have to be careful. He’s
a very fragile man. I never met the rest of his family, but they’re probably hurting, too.” Pamela gave Taylor Mr. Spencer’s contact number and smiled at Taylor’s concern.
Taylor wanted to get back to the station. He was really curious to take a look at those IA files. Jenny wasn’t at her desk when he entered, which was probably for the best. Chief Thompson had taken the day off due to family illness, but his secretary was able to give him the files.
It didn’t take long for Taylor to see a commonality in the investigations. In fact, he was hard pressed to consider them to be investigations. All he found were a few typed pages of weak summary. That was it! It appeared the investigator assigned to the homeless cases didn’t bother to talk to the complainant or witnesses. It was obvious when someone was interviewed, it was because they specifically made their way to the station. Most interviews were conducted over the phone.
Garbage, total garbage, Taylor thought. He was also surprised at the number of complaints against Batman and Robin. Sixteen complaint investigations during their six month assignment at The Gathering. Taylor knew most cops didn’t receive one complaint or had only a handful spanning their entire police career. Batman and Robin were stretching for a record. Taylor wrote down the name of one of the complainants.
Sandra Collins had filed a written complaint when her son broke his arm after running into Officer Don Edwards. The Collins family lived in a million dollar home on a cul-de-sac in Playa Diablo. The front door alone probably cost close to ten grand. Rosewood and leaded glass studded the rich mahogany in intricate patterns. Sandra Collins was maybe forty and was wearing a tennis outfit, but didn’t appear to have played many sets that day. She was enthusiastic when she got Taylor’s call.
“My son, Bradley, is a boarder. Maybe a little too fast on his board, but you know the type. There’s not much we can do about it. He loves the sport. Bradley gets good grades and I don’t think he’s into drugs. He hangs with a group of good friends, most from right here in Playa Diablo. I was really upset when I got the call from the hospital asking for my permission to fix his arm. My son suffered a fracture, not a bad one, but the arm was definitely broken.”
Taylor didn’t have a moment to interject a comment or question her. This mother was on a roll. She spoke as if she was high on something. Words just kept shooting out of her mouth. Finally Taylor raised his hand and caught her attention.
“I’m rattling on, aren’t I?”
“A little, Mrs. Collins. Please tell me what Bradley told you about the incident.”
“Well, he was at The Gathering. He had been going there with his friends for the last few months. A group of parents has been after the city for a long time to modify the town skateboard park for the kids. It needs to be more challenging.”
“Friends? I didn’t see anything in the IA investigation about Bradley’s friends.”
“Well, there were three or four of them with my son at the time of the run-in. We gave their names and numbers to the sergeant who talked with us at the station. Bradley had their phone numbers in his cell phone.”
“Just what did Bradley say happened?”
“Well, he was coming around a corner on his board just after he slid down the railing. They have some name for that trick, but I don’t try to keep up with that stuff. Suddenly the shorter officer jumped out from the edge of the building and stuck his arm out. It caught Bradley under the neck and he went tumbling.”
“Did the sergeant record your interview?”
“It wasn’t an interview, Mr. Sterling. He just took what I told him and didn’t ask one question. He didn’t care about the injury. I tried to call the chief after I received his form letter saying his officer didn’t do anything wrong. I never could get a hold of him and he didn’t return my calls. He was always out somewhere.”
Taylor thanked her for the information and sat in his car for a while, thinking about what Mrs. Collins had told him.
Earlier he had called Seth Spencer, Dennis’ father, to see if he would be willing to talk with him. The Spencers lived in Homestead, a good hour’s drive south. Seth didn’t want to meet at his home, and suggested an Einstein’s Bagels spot in downtown Homestead. Taylor suspected this would be a day-ending venture, knowing he would be stuck in horrendous rush hour traffic when he returned to Playa Diablo later that afternoon.
“Mr. Spencer?” Taylor asked as a man slowly rose when he entered the bagel shop. Taylor expected Seth Spencer to be in his late forties, maybe early fifties, considering Dennis’ age, but this anguished father looked closer to sixty. His face was ash grey, unusual to see in south Florida. The man was unsure on his feet as he forced himself out of the stuffed chair in the far corner of the shop. His handshake was weak.
“Mr. Taylor? Yes, I’m glad you called. I hope this place wasn’t too far out of your way. Can I get you a coffee?”
Taylor nodded yes; he thought it would be good for Seth to feel he was on equal footing at this meeting.
They sat without saying a word, each man concentrating intently on the cup of hot coffee sitting on the table before him. Both avoided direct eye contact. Taylor finally raised his eyes and looked straight at Seth for several moments, continuing the silence.
Seth must have felt Taylor’s stare and said flatly without looking up, “Guess you want to ask me some questions.”
“I’d rather you just talk.”
“I didn’t want you to come to our house. I’m trying to keep my family away from these horrors… my personal horrors. I lost my son. I lost him even before he died. I don’t want to lose the rest of my family, too.
“In some ways I’m glad about what happened to Dennis. I’m not looking for him anymore. I don’t sit up whenever I hear a sound in the middle of the night. Is that bad? Should a father say that? Is it wrong?”
Taylor shook his head knowing that Seth really didn’t want an answer. He knew what the correct answer should be. “My son got sick. It wasn’t anything we did, I know that now. There’s a whole lost society out there, Mr. Sterling. Maybe it’s a big part of his generation, but there are many lost souls filling our streets.”
Taylor could see moisture slowly creeping into the anguished father’s eyes. Seth’s hands were shaking slightly when he began to talk, but they stilled as he found his pace. Taylor saw a broken man before him. Seth’s eyes held a blank gaze as he talked and often would close when he gathered his thoughts.
Every now and then Seth would move his hand to cover Taylor’s without grasping it. It was as if Seth wanted to make sure someone was really there listening to his words. Taylor glanced at the wall clock and suddenly realized nearly four hours had passed. It was difficult for Taylor to end his meeting with Seth Spencer.
When the men parted, Seth promised he would continue with therapy and, as is so common in the South, said, “God bless you and thank you for spending this time with me.” Then the man painfully headed to his car.
There was little traffic on Taylor’s drive back to Playa Diablo. It was nearly eight and the rush was long over. His thoughts began to gather during the drive. Tomorrow he would sit down with Chief Thompson and then make his recommendations to Ben Jackson at the League.
Jenny was at her usual station when Taylor arrived at the cop shop the next morning. “Here to see the chief I see from his calendar, Mr. Sterling,” she said in a businesslike tone. Jenny knew how to keep her personal life separate from work. It was probably what allowed her to keep far away from the entanglements surrounding cop fraternization.
Chief Thompson was seated behind his desk, again clear of all paper and file folders. Taylor wondered if his desk drawer was like a jack-in-the-box. Open at your own peril.
“So, getting ready to shove off, huh?” the chief asked.
“Pretty soon, boss.”
“What’d you find down here?”
“Let me ask you some questions first.”
“Fire away.”
“You were with Metro Dade Police before you came to Diab
lo, that right?”
“Yeah, twenty years to the day. Retired when I landed this job. I was a lieutenant with Metro. When I took this job the department had only 15 cops and one secretary. Still got the same secretary, but those first cops didn’t last. Either got fired or moved to greener pastures.”
“Boss, you ever work IA when you were at Metro?”
“Nope. Never wanted to. Headhunters. Badge collectors. That wasn’t for me. I wanted to be out on the streets where the rubber meets the road. I wanted to be with the real crime fighters, not the pencil pushers.”
“Ever handle a citizen’s complaint against one of your officers?”
“Oh, yeah. Mostly as a sergeant. Those chicken shit complaints from motorists usually. Thinking the cop didn’t smile enough or looked at them funny. Crap bitching usually, all trying to get out of a righteous ticket.”
“Ever taken any training about handling citizen complaints or disciplining employees?”
“Some. Had a couple training sessions with Metro. I think they covered that at the Command School at SPI up in Kentucky, too. Got a little more at the FBI National Academy in Quantico. Of course, I’ve read articles in the IACP Police Chief magazine. I’m a member, you know. I’m thinking about putting my hat in the ring for the presidency of the IACP. It’d be good for Playa Diablo. I know I could do the job. You know, there’s a lot of special perks when you get on the IACP board.
“Why are you asking me about IA and citizen complaints, Taylor?”
“Mainly because I’ve looked at all the complaint investigations your department handled on Don and Ricky. Those two had sixteen complaints filed in just six months. You know that, boss?”
“I knew they had some. Didn’t realize it was sixteen. But, shit, they were out there humping and kicking ass like I told them to do. I wanted them to clean that place up, The Gathering, I mean. And Johnson and the business owners really appreciated what I done for them. Made the development a better, safer place.”
“Really wasn’t any crime there, huh, boss?”