The Betrayers

by James Patrick Hunt

  Murph said, “We know you didn’t report it, ma’am. But Deputy Hummel did help you out, didn’t he?”

  “I really don’t remember.”

  Cain said, “You remember Trudy West, don’t you?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “We’ve already spoken with her. She told us about it.”

  “Told you about what?”

  The detectives were silent.

  And Sharon said, “I mean, I haven’t seen Trudy in over two years.”

  Murph said, “Trudy West told us that you had trouble with a neighbor three years ago. That she put you in touch with Chris Hummel, and Chris Hummel had some words with this neighbor of yours and then the trouble stopped. Now, we want to know more about that.”

  “About what happened over three years ago?”

  “Yes,” Murph said.

  Cain said, “Ms. Dunphy, you seem awfully nervous. Is there something you want to tell us?”

  Sharon Dunphy had a husband in prison, had known men who had been criminals. But she was at root a decent woman. She was not a practiced liar. And this was apparent now to the two detectives.

  “No,” she said. “Seriously, I have to pick up my children.”

  Murph said, “Do you know why we’re here?”

  “I—”

  “You know Deputy Hummel was killed a few nights ago. You know about that, don’t you?”

  “I … Yes, I saw it on television.”

  Cain said, “What do you know about it?”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Ma’am.” It was Murph speaking now. His voice firm, yet almost kind and solicitous. “You seem like you’re about to cry. Is there something you want to tell us?”

  “No. Look, Chris helped me out years ago. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Murph said, “When’s the last time you saw Chris?”

  “What?”

  “When—is—the—last time—you saw Chris?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Cain said, “Was it in the last two weeks?”

  “—it—”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” Cain said. “You saw him in the last two weeks.” He was aware now that they had stumbled on something.

  She could not even look at them anymore. Tears forming now.

  Murph said, “Are you scared?”

  She gave out an involuntary sob. “I have to … my children …”

  “Tell us,” Murph said. “We’re here to help you. Are you scared for your children?”

  She tried to stop crying. Tried, but she couldn’t stem it. She hadn’t been ready for it. Hadn’t been ready for two detectives to just march up to her front door and start asking questions about Chris Hummel. If she had known they were coming, she could have prepared for it. She could have done something.

  Murph said, “Where are your children now?”

  “One is at basketball practice. The other is at a friend’s house. I have to get them … . I have to …”

  “We can go with you,” Murph said. “We can pick them up together. We won’t let anyone hurt them. Do you understand that? We won’t allow it. But you know something about this and you have to help us.”

  “I can’t help you,” she said.

  “I promise you,” Murph said, “I swear to you, we will protect your children. You have to let us help you.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  Cain said, “You saw Chris recently, before he was murdered, didn’t you?”

  She didn’t answer. Looked away.

  Cain said, “Did he hurt you?”

  A moment before the woman shook her head.

  Cain said, “Was he trying to help you?”

  No response.

  “He was, wasn’t he?” Cain said. “He was trying to help you and it got him in trouble, didn’t it.”

  She was crying. Crying and she couldn’t stop.

  “Didn’t it?” Cain said.

  “Jesus Christ,” Murph said to himself, not believing it, but it was there in front of them now and they had it in their hands. He looked over at Cain. He said, “We’re going to have to take her downtown.”

  “Right,” Cain said. He had discovered the biggest break of the most important homicide case in years. Yet he felt no exhilaration. Only a sadness. He looked back at Murphy. “The children,” he said.

  Murph said, “We’ll call dispatch from the car. Have units pick them up.” He looked at Sharon Dunphy. “They’ll be safe now.”

  Minutes later, they were out on the front porch. The Dunphy woman in her coat, locking the door behind her. The detectives in front. They heard the lock click into place. And when they turned, there was a man on the pathway leading up to the steps, between the porch and street. The man was middle-aged, wearing a black jogging outfit. About thirty feet away. The detectives heard the Dunphy woman gasp.

  The man stopped and turned around to walk away.

  “Hey,” Cain said. “Stop.” He moved down the steps. “Hey, come here,” he said.

  And then it was happening.

  The man turned back and Murph saw the glint of steel in the darkness. Cain reached inside his jacket but it was too late. Dillon shot Bobby Cain twice.

  Murph saw the sergeant go down. He grabbed the woman and pushed her down behind the low brick wall with his right hand, then used that same hand to reach into his jacket for his service weapon. Dillon shot twice more and the second shot caught Murph in the upper thigh, and Murph shot back once, twice, three times, shot out in the dark, shooting at Dillon, who stood shooting at him before he gave it up and started running away and Murph collapsed on the porch, looked to his left to see the shadow fleeing in the night. Murph shot another round at the shadow, and then the shadow was gone.

  THIRTY-SIX

  There was the sound of the burbling engine, its pitch increasing as it accelerated away from the stop sign, decreasing as the Jaguar slowed to a stop, its headlights beaming on patrol cars and ambulances.

  Hastings and Rhodes got out of the Jaguar.

  They ran up to the front of the house and a group of patrol officers and a paramedic standing around a body, a second paramedic crouching. One of the officers held his cap in front of him.

  A young patrolman turned and recognized them.

  “He’s dead, Lieutenant. He took two shots, one pierced his heart.”

  Hastings exhaled.

  “Where’s the other detective?”

  “He’s in the ambulance. He took a shot in the thigh. It went out the back.”

  None of the patrol officers or the paramedics offered the consolation that it was only a “flesh wound.” They all knew that a bullet that goes through the front tumbles out the back with a mass of blood and flesh and muscle the size of a fist. If you’re lucky, it misses the bone.

  The young patrolman said, “We’ve got the woman in the unit over there. In case you want to talk to her.”

  Hastings nodded.

  Bobby Cain lay on his back with his face to the heavens. His mouth and eyes were open. His overcoat was open and the sides lay on the ground like a beach towel.

  “Howard,” Hastings said, “take the woman out of the patrol unit and put her in my car.” Hastings handed Rhodes his car keys. “Take her back to the station. Keep her there. Don’t let anyone talk to her. No one. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to the hospital with Murph. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Rhodes walked off to the patrol car.

  Hastings moved closer to the body.

  Forty minutes ago, the man had been in front of his desk, giving him shit. Talking, arguing, being Bobby Cain. Living. Angry because he believed Hastings was giving him a chickenshit assignment, trying to put him in his place. It wasn’t a personal thing, but Cain acted like it was. He had not understood that all of the tasks could seem meaningless and pointless until they weren’t. Hastings had to assign men to certain jobs and if egos got bruised, that was tough. And now the
re was this.

  Hastings lowered himself to one knee, got closer to the man.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Hastings said. “Cain.”

  Cain. What was it about Cain? What was it that had always bothered him? Had Cain betrayed him in some way? Had Cain not respected him enough? Hastings feared that it was neither of those things. He knew the answer and it shamed him. In fact, he knew the answer had little to do with the fact that Cain was pretty much impossible to like. The truth was, Cain would frustrate him by surprising him. Hastings had wanted Cain to be dumb, but he was smart. He had wanted Cain to be lazy, but he was diligent. Had wanted him to be a bad detective, but the man had had good instincts for the work. Try as he might, Hastings could not deny that.

  Why? Why had Cain done this? He could have been a lawyer. He could have used his father’s influence to coast through life. He could have passed this by. Why did he choose to do it? What possessed the stupid son of a bitch to go into law enforcement? Why couldn’t he have just remained a punk?

  Hastings choked it back. Then he reached out and placed a hand on Robert Cain’s shoulder.

  “Rest in peace, brother.”

  Murph lay on a stretcher in the ambulance. The back doors shut and the ambulance began to move. Hastings sat next to the paramedic who was attending to the victim of the gunshot. They had Murph on an IV, finger probes measuring oxygen and saturation.

  “Murph,” Hastings said. “We’ll be at Barnes soon. You’re going to be all right.” He said, “Can you to talk to me?”

  Murph squeezed his eyes shut then open. He was going into shock. Murph said, “Cain …”

  “He’s dead.”

  “ … thought … so …” He closed his eyes again.

  Hastings said, “Murph, I need to know what happened. Please.”

  “We got … there … right … away, we … knew … knew she knew … something …”

  “She knows Hummel?”

  Murph nodded.

  “ … She’s seen him … lately … . She was … trying … to lie to us … couldn’t lie …”

  “What did you get out of her?”

  “ … Not much … . We were going to … bring her in … got outside … the guy, coming up the walk …”

  “The guy that shot Cain?”

  “ … Yeah … . Middle-aged, average height … black track suit … tried to walk away. Cain … Cain said ‘stop’ … turned around and … shot … shot Cain … me …”

  “You return fire?”

  Murph nodded. “I didn’t … hit him, I think …”

  Hastings set his fingers lightly on the detective’s forearm.

  “Cain,” Murph said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Hastings said.

  “ … Kids …”

  “Yes?”

  “The woman … she’s worried … about her kids … scared, I believe …”

  The siren wailed through red lights at intersections, slipped through parting traffic.

  Hastings said, “I’ll have someone call your wife.” Hastings would have preferred to do it himself, but there wasn’t time.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  A black and red Laclede cab came to a stop in front of downtown headquarters. Hastings paid the driver and ran into the building. When he got upstairs he found Karen Brady waiting for him. Standing in the hall with her hands in her pockets.

  She said, “What happened?”

  “Cain is dead. Shot.”

  “I know that,” she said. “What happened?”

  “They went to interview a witness. Sharon Dunphy. A woman Chris Hummel knew. She knows something of this. They were leaving and they got ambushed.”

  Karen Brady, red-faced and scared, would not be able to tell the brass to refer their questions to Hastings. They would expect to hear it from her first. She said, “Did you send Cain there?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I sent Cain and Murphy there.” It seemed necessary to point that out.

  She stared at him.

  And Hastings said, “Captain, I have to go.”

  “Go? You got a date?”

  “Sharon Dunphy’s here. I need to question her immediately. She’s the key to this. It’s our first real break.”

  “Is that what you call this?”

  “I’m sorry, Karen. I have to talk to her right now. Please.”

  “Maybe we should wait.”

  Hastings took a breath, exhaled. “Why?” he said.

  “The assistant chief will be here soon. He wants to talk to you.”

  “Then let me know when he gets here,” Hastings said. “Excuse me.”

  He walked away before she could say anything else. Hopefully, she would think he had misunderstood her. If she didn’t, fuck her.

  Down the hall, he went through a door and shut it behind him. An interrogation room. Rhodes stood on this side of a two-way mirror. On the other side of the mirror was Sharon Dunphy. Wearing her coat like a blanket. Her face was tear-stained.

  Hastings said, “We get her children?”

  “Yes,” Rhodes said. “They’re downstairs with a uniform.”

  “Who?”

  “Bennett.”

  “Okay.”

  “What’s the word on Murph?”

  “He’s in ICU. Lost a lot of blood, but he’s stable.”

  Rhodes said, “George, I—”

  “How is she?” Hastings said. He knew Rhodes was going to say something about Cain, but he didn’t have time for it right now.

  Rhodes stopped. For perhaps the first time, he wondered if he liked the lieutenant.

  Rhodes said, “Scared.”

  “Okay.” Hastings turned toward Rhodes. “Is the videotape running?”

  “Yes.”

  “Turn it off, will you?”

  The quiet request made Rhodes wonder again. “Yes, sir,” he said. He switched off the recorder.

  Hastings said, “I’d like you to stay out here, if you don’t mind.”

  “Okay.”

  Hastings walked into the interview room and shut the door behind him. The Dunphy woman looked up at him. Hastings remained standing.

  “I’m Lieutenant Hastings. Homicide. Who was the man on your sidewalk tonight?”

  The woman shook her head. “It was dark,” she said.

  Hastings said, “Do you want your children to die?”

  Behind the observation window, Detective Rhodes winced.

  The woman said, “No.”

  “Is that what you’re afraid of? Or is that just some line of shit you give policemen before you get them killed?”

  The woman’s face twisted as she tried to hold back tears. “What are you talking about?”

  “Answer that question.”

  “I … didn’t want to hurt anybody.”

  “Whether you meant to or not doesn’t make much difference. Not to Detective Cain or the other two officers.”

  “You think I planned that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You … you’ve no—”

  “No what?”

  “ … No right …”

  “Lady, I’ve got three dead police officers and at least two of them are connected to you. Don’t speak to me of what’s right. Let me lay it out for you: I am this close to charging you with conspiracy to commit murder. You’ll be placed in county until trial and I will ensure that any bail will be denied. Who will protect your children then?”

  “You can’t … you can’t do that.”

  “Lady, it’s done unless you tell me that man’s name right now.”

  “Where are my children now?”

  Hastings said, “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t—but they promised me they’d pick them up. They promised.”

  “I’m the dealmaker now. Give me that man’s name and I’ll have them picked up immediately. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You can’t do that.” She was on the point of wailing now. “What are you?”

  “The name,” Hastings said.
“Now. Or I walk out the door.” He started walking.

  When he was at the door, she said, “Mike.”

  He stopped.

  “Mike who?”

  “Mike Dillon. He’s from Chicago.”

  Hastings read reports, national dispatches in his spare time. He looked at the window, knowing that Rhodes was watching him. Maybe wanting to strangle him by now. Hastings said, “You mean Mike Dillon the mobster?”

  The woman slowly nodded.

  Hastings looked at the window again. He lifted his arm and made a flicking switch with his index finger. On the other side, Rhodes flipped the recording device on.

  Hastings said, “Did he kill Hummel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Chris ran into me … at a convenience store. He’s … he was an old friend. He could see that something was wrong. But I wouldn’t tell him. So he came by my house that night to talk to me. I didn’t tell him about Mike. About Mike being in my life. Mike must have seen him there. I swear, I swear on my children I did not set him up. I swear on my children. I had no idea Mike was going to do that. I saw it on television, like everyone else.”

  “Why didn’t you come forward? After it was done, why didn’t you come forward?”

  “What would you have done? Police, mob, it’s all the same. You just threatened to let my children die.”

  Hastings sighed.

  “Your children are downstairs,” he said. “They’ve been here the whole time.”

  She stared at him for a moment, a look of complete revulsion.

  “You bastard,” she said.

  Hastings said, “Cain had children too, lady.” He motioned for Rhodes to come in.

  Hastings said, “Detective Rhodes is going to bring your children in here so you’ll know I’m telling you the truth. You get ten minutes with them. Then you and I talk some more.”

  “I have rights,” she said.

  “No one’s arresting you,” Hastings said. “Now, tell us where this man lives.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  They packed into the station briefing room. Hastings stood at the front of the room, still in plainclothes, Karen on one side of him, Rhodes on the other. Hastings had insisted Rhodes stand up there with him. Beyond them was a sea of cops, most of them dressed in the green military-looking jumpsuits with black turtleneck sweaters underneath. In black stencil on their backs, it read POLICE TACTICAL UNIT. There were about thirty of them. Another twenty cops, some in uniform, some in plainclothes. Facing them was Charlie Day, captain of the tact team, Ronnie Wulf, chief of detectives, Chief Mark Grassino, and Assistant Chief Fenton Murray. Aaron Pressler, the department’s media spokesman, leaned against the door with his back, as if to keep civilians from interrupting. The St. Louis county sheriff and his chief deputy were there also. Everyone aware of the others in the room, of the task before them. Scared, but excited and hungry too, wanting to bring this fiend down. In their more honest moments, they would admit personal dislikes for at least someone else in the briefing room. At other times, the normal human emotions of envy, resentment, pettiness, and anger would surface among them. But on this night, they all took comfort in the fraternity, the brotherhood. On this night, they shared the same determination.