The Betrayers

by James Patrick Hunt

  “We shouldn’t have to take that shit.”

  Hastings shook his head. He was not comfortable giving lectures. But he was getting irritated now. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Bobby, but are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “This. Police work. You got a college degree. You could go to law school, work in your father’s firm. You’d make more money and no one would call you names there.” Not to his face, anyway, Hastings thought. “I mean, why would you choose to do this?”

  “Why would you choose to?”

  “I’m not you.”

  “Not gonna tell me, huh? That’s cool.” Cain said, “Well, I don’t want to be a fucking lawyer. I’d die of boredom.”

  “This work can be boring too.”

  “I don’t think so. Still,” he said, “don’t you ever think of, you know, getting even?”

  “With who?”

  “With Treats? People like him. Don’t you ever think about that?”

  “No,” Hastings said, and meant it. “Getting even isn’t part of it. Treats is a loser. He’ll die in prison or he’ll die of old age. It makes no difference to me. You start thinking about getting even with people like him, you’re gonna ulcer a hole right through your stomach.”

  “Christ, didn’t it bother you?”

  “Didn’t what bother me?”

  “What he said about Hummel? You’re okay with it?”

  “No, I’m not okay with it. He called a brother a crook. I’m not okay with that.”

  Cain said, “I don’t understand; now you’re saying it does bother you?”

  Shit, Hastings thought. Of course it bothered him. It bothered him anytime a cop was accused of being dirty. It bothered him more if it was true. Because if it was even remotely true it reflected on every police officer in the city. Him, Klosterman, even Bobby dickhead Cain. That was why it was necessary to investigate every dumbass complaint that came down the pike. Hastings suddenly felt tired. He prayed there was nothing to it. If there were, it would make everyone unhappy. The brass, the patrol officers, the sheriff’s office and, of course, Hummel’s poor wife. He pictured the nightmare headline: CROOKED COP HAD IT COMING.

  He remembered the patrol sergeant and Murph fighting back tears at the crime scene. He remembered his own rage and despair upon seeing the two young officers slain like animals. Young men who would never feel the melancholy of middle age, never reach the age where they would talk about their days of young turkdom with the cop’s mixture of self-deprecation and pride. Members of his own tribe, his own team. How would it be to add the taint of corruption to their murders? Fucking right it bothered him.

  Hastings said, “That’s not what we were talking about.”

  “Okay,” Cain said. “What Treats said, you going to put that in your report?”

  “Yes.” Hastings looked at the younger cop, corruption on Hastings’s mind now. He knew what Cain was suggesting: that the report could become exculpatory evidence, maybe even help the person that killed the police officers and that maybe it would be better for everyone if they just forgot what they had been told. But what had happened at Marion had happened and there could be no lying about it.

  “You do the same,” Hastings said. “Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cain said. He stared straight ahead when he said it, letting Hastings know what he thought of him.

  They drove in silence, Cain saying no more about his father or sports or women that he had given a good ride. He did not talk about anything.

  Still, Hastings felt better to get it out. He didn’t have to worry anymore about this coming back on him. He believed the Bobby Cains of this world were just the sort who would blame a false report on someone else. The lieutenant told me it was okay. Those concerns didn’t go away when you advanced in rank; they got worse, in fact.

  FOURTEEN

  When he returned to his office, he found Justin Elliott sitting at his desk.

  “Hey,” Elliott said, “What’d you find out?” Elliott did not seem at all embarrassed.

  My, my. Hastings thought of the dumbass who had lectured Bobby Cain on keeping your cool. He silently counted to five so he wouldn’t pitch Justin Elliott out the window. He was aware of Cain watching him.

  Hastings said, “Get the fuck out of my chair.”

  “Hey, man,” Elliott said, “take it easy. We’re all on the same side.”

  Hastings said nothing. After a moment, Elliott got out and moved around the desk to the front. Hastings remained standing.

  Elliott said, “You need to mellow out.”

  Hastings said nothing. He moved behind his desk and took his seat back. Then he said, “What do you want?”

  “You didn’t call me,” Elliott said. “I wanted to know what you found out.”

  Hastings said, “Listen, I’m glad you want to help. But let’s get something straight right now: I report to Captain Brady, not you. You got a problem with that, you file a complaint.”

  “Goddamn, what is wrong with you?”

  “This is my desk. My investigation. Accept it.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Elliott said. “I forgot this was homicide. Shit doesn’t stink around here.”

  “I’m not checking in with you, Elliott. I’m sorry you lost a friend, but I’m not checking in with you. I’m not going to seek your okay on things.”

  “I’m not here to take credit, detective. You want all the glory, you can have it. I just want justice.”

  Christ, Hastings thought and almost smiled to himself. Again with the glory. He had had a good run a couple of years ago. Caught a serial killer and hooked a group of home invaders. Good police work that he was proud of. And there were newspaper articles about it. He never had his photograph in the newspaper or appeared on television, but more than one officer had called him “glory boy.” Partly he was annoyed, partly he was flattered.

  Hastings looked at Elliott for a moment. Then he said, “You want some coffee?”

  Elliott looked back at Hastings for something else. Finally, he said, “Yeah, I’d like some coffee.”

  “Bobby, will you get us some coffee? Then let’s all sit here and talk about this thing.”

  Bobby Cain’s heart had been in his mouth. He thought he was going to see the two policemen start swinging at each other. He had never seen Lieutenant Hastings fired up. And then like that, it was over, and the black guy was taking a seat in front of Hastings’s desk.

  Cain came back with two coffees and set them on Hastings’s desk. Hastings gestured for him to take a seat too.

  Hastings said, “Treats told us Hummel was dirty.”

  “What?”

  “He said Hummel was selling cases. Taking money from dealers.”

  “That’s a fucking lie.”

  “I’m just telling you what he said.”

  “You believe it?”

  Hastings said, “I’ve got no reason to believe it. No proof of it. Yet. But I have to check it out.”

  “What the hell you mean, yet?”

  “I don’t want to believe any of it. But I have to check it out.”

  Elliott leaned back in his seat. “So check it out,” he said.

  “What do you say?”

  “I say it’s bullshit.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if Chris Hummel were taking money, I would have known about it.”

  “Any way he could have done it and you didn’t know?”

  “Lieutenant, I’ve got informants around this city you’ve never heard of. If Chris had been taking money, I would know.” Elliott said, “Here I thought you were smart; do you believe everything a convict tells you?” Elliott looked over at Cain after he said that, attempting to mutiny the other cop against Hastings.

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, Elliott, don’t hand me that shit,” Hastings said. “You think Treats is just gonna tell me this? He wants to dirty Hummel’s name, he’s gonna tell everyone he can. You think I want to help Treats with that, you�
�re insane.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to clear it up. There’s a difference between doing that and hiding it. Now, you want to help me do that or not?”

  A moment passed and then another. Then Justin Elliott shook his head and said, “How do I help you do that, Hastings? How do I prove he didn’t take money? It’s like proving a negative.” Elliott looked at Cain. He said, “You’re going to put it in your reports, aren’t you?”

  Cain’s expression answered the question, involuntarily.

  Elliott stood up to leave. “I told you Treats was smart,” he said, “but you didn’t listen. You’re letting him play you.”

  “No,” Hastings said, “I think you are.”

  “Fuck you,” Elliott said and walked out.

  When he was gone, Cain picked up the coffee cup he had left. There was still coffee left in it. He set it next to the coffee pot.

  Cain said, “Wow. Do you know that guy?”

  “I know of him.”

  “What a jackass.”

  “He’s got a good reputation,” Hastings said.

  “He acted like you were accusing him of something.”

  “Did it sound like I was?”

  “No,” Cain said. “No, not to me.” Cain relaxed a little. The ugliness had passed and the men had not tried to hit each other or drawn their weapons. He regarded Hastings.

  “Do you?” Cain said.

  “What?”

  “Do you think Elliott’s on the take?”

  Hastings looked over at Junior Cain. He had picked up on a distinction between showing and thinking.

  “I don’t think so,” Hastings said. “The guy’s paranoid. It happens to narcs.” Hastings left it at that. But he knew that paranoia was not limited to narcotics work. It happened to detectives and patrol officers too. When he was younger, Hastings had worked under the supervision of a patrol sergeant, Merl Davidson, upon whom he’d foisted superhero status. To the young patrolman Hastings was then, Merl seemed infallible. Brave, smart, wise, tough, and cool. A man born to lead men. And then three years ago, he ran into Merl at an FOP meeting and Merl had become a shell. Questioning the most minute things, unsure, his skin pale, his body language and eye movement fearful and anxious. The same man Hastings had looked up to, now broken. Merl told Hastings about an internal affairs investigation on something that seemed and, indeed, turned out to be inconsequential. Yet Merl kept asking Hastings, “What do you think? What do you think?” Seeking affirmation from the police officer he had once mentored. It made Hastings feel ill. Hastings had heard that Merl had gone through a nasty divorce, his wife fed up with constant accusations of infidelity that had no basis in reality. No tragedy or death scare had befallen Merl Davidson. A decade and a half of watching and questioning and suspecting had simply taken its toll. Hastings did his best not to judge because he knew it was a hazard of the profession and that no one was immune from it and you were a proud fool if you thought otherwise.

  Hastings said, “He did come to me first.”

  “Elliott?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay,” Cain said. “But maybe that was for his benefit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, sooner or later we’d’ve found out about Hummel working undercover. So maybe it was in Elliott’s interest to, you know, put us onto Treats.”

  “It’s possible,” Hastings said. A lot of things were possible. “But it’s not likely. It’s more likely that Treats wants to start a rumor, piss on Chris Hummel’s grave.”

  “What difference would it make to Treats? Hummel’s dead.”

  Hastings shrugged. “Upset his wife. Embarrass the Department. Look at it from the perspective of an evil man.”

  “So you think Treats did have Hummel killed?”

  “I think it’s a lead. But the problem is, Treats spoke to us.”

  “So?”

  “So, he’s not stupid. He spoke to us without an attorney. That’s something dimebag dealers do. Not a major player like Steve Treats.” He said, “Not if he’s guilty.”

  “So you’re saying Treats is using us?”

  “Well, he succeeded in pissing off one narc already. And he’s more or less ruined my day.”

  “You said earlier, ‘Not if he’s guilty.’ Again, you think Treats had nothing to do with this?”

  “I don’t know. I think Treats sang hallelujah when he heard Hummel was killed. But I don’t know that he had it done.”

  “Why not?”

  “Like I said earlier, if he had, there’s no way he would have talked to us. I reviewed his jacket. Not once did he agree to an interview with the federal investigators. No deals. He went to trial.”

  “Yeah, and he was convicted. Things’re different now.”

  “Okay, they are. But did you hear him ask for anything today? Did you hear him offer to give us anything? Did he ask us to reduce his sentence, make any calls for him?”

  “You admire him?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Sorry.” Cain recovered, said, “All right then, what was in it for him?”

  “Vengeance.”

  “Okay. But what about Elliott?”

  “What about him?”

  “Is he lying to us?”

  “I don’t think so,” Hastings said. “He thinks Treats is evil, and he’s right about that. The guy wants to make Hummel’s widow suffer. But Elliott believes Treats was responsible. But, as you know, you can prove murder without motive. But motive on its own—”

  “Is not enough,” Cain said. “Yeah, I know.”

  Rhodes and Murph came in to the squad room. They had spent the morning continuing the canvass of the neighborhood. Hastings asked them how it went.

  Murph said, “Nothing substantive. How about you?”

  “Treats didn’t give us anything. Told us Hummel was taking money.”

  “Ah,” Murph said. “What a shock.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t take it so nonchalantly myself. This is going to get out; Treats or his lawyer will make sure of that. I don’t think there’s anything to it, but we’ve got to investigate it anyway before it’s all over the news.”

  Rhodes said, “But how do you prove a man’s innocence?

  “You know,” Hastings said, “people keep pointing that out to me.” He said to Rhodes, “You busy now?”

  “Well, we’ve got to write our reports.”

  “Why don’t you do that later? I need you to come with me.”

  FIFTEEN

  They rode out west in Rhodes’s take home Crown Vic, Rhodes driving as Hastings told him how he came to know Kody Sparks.

  Hastings said, “Kody and a buddy of his were at a honky-tonk in South County. Norm’s. You ever hear of it?”

  “Oh, yeah. Go there all the time.”

  Hastings shrugged. Okay, Howard Rhodes wasn’t partial to Toby Keith or Garth Brooks. But neither was Hastings. And hadn’t Willie Nelson once kissed Charley Pride on the mouth in front of a bar load of cowboys? Ah well, leave it alone.

  Hastings said, “Well, Kody and his buddy—Reggie was his name—they get in a pissing match with this other turd at the place, his name was Charles Lane—they start throwing fists and the bouncer throws them all out. So they continue the fight outside and then more bouncers come out and tell the guys to get in their trucks and go. So they do and half a mile down the road Charles Lane starts bumping his pickup into the back of Kody’s. Now, it’s Kody’s truck, but he’s not driving it, Reggie is. Reggie decides they’ll finish it and he stops at Carondelet Park.”

  Rhodes said, “I heard about this.”

  “So, if it were left to Kody, they wouldn’t have stopped. He doesn’t want to fight. He wants to go home or go someplace else. So he told us. So Kody and Reggie get out of their truck and Charles and another guy get out of their truck and I guess Charles Lane and his pal just start getting the shit knocked out of them. Charles Lane and his buddy get back in their truck, Charles gets behind the
wheel and runs Reggie over. Killed him. Then took off.”

  “Killed him?”

  “Yeah. Well, it was a fairly easy case. Witnesses from the bar, motive, Lane had a few assault and battery arrests, etc. Charles Lane hires this hotshot lawyer and they wouldn’t take any deals from the district attorney’s office. None. Could have taken eight years in on a second-degree manslaughter plea. But no, they wouldn’t do that. The DA gets pissed, charges Lane with second-degree murder. We go to trial and Kody is one of the prosecution’s chief witnesses. Well, Kody had about four or five arrests for drug possession, intent to distribute. Crank, mostly. DA couldn’t keep it out of evidence, so he admits upfront to the jury that Kody has a record. And we had to more or less babysit the guy during the trial. Buy him a nice suit, you know the drill.”

  “They convict Lane?”

  “Oh, yeah. Lane claimed self-defense, but the jury didn’t buy it. Luckily, the victim was pretty clean. That helped.” Hastings said, “Kody was a pretty good witness, actually.”

  “So you kept in touch with Kody?”

  “I’ve talked with him a couple of times. He’s still underground and he hears things.”

  “Still cranking?”

  “I don’t ask,” Hastings said.

  Howard Rhodes did not judge. Rare was the detective who did not use an unsavory witness in a criminal trial. He said, “Well, people don’t change.”

  Hastings looked at Rhodes and wondered if he was experienced enough to be forming that opinion. He remembered Klosterman saying the same thing to him. It was around the time Eileen moved out, and Klosterman was trying to suggest, in a diplomatic way, that Hastings shouldn’t expect her to come back.

  Hastings said, “Turn here.”

  They pulled up to a gray covered house in Dogtown. There were two county patrol cars in front. A large woman stood on the front porch, yelling at the police officers as they led a short, fat man away in handcuffs. There was an Arab yelling back at her, the officers keeping him back.