Shallow Grave

by Brian Thiem

  Sinclair turned to Shumaker. “Call the watch commander. Tell him I want enough officers for a perimeter twenty times larger than what we have. We need every evidence tech in the city up here. I want this scene processed just like we see CSI do it on TV. I’ll handle the other notifications and have my lieutenant try to get the lab out here.”

  Sinclair pulled out his cell and called Maloney. By the time he finished telling him what little he knew, Braddock had returned to his side wearing fresh makeup and a look of sheer determination on her face.

  *

  Sinclair and Braddock ducked back under the crime-scene tape and crossed the parking lot to a cluster of unmarked Crown Vics in a makeshift staging area. Lieutenant Maloney stood by his car with a phone pressed to his ear.

  Within an hour of identifying the victim as Phil Roberts, more than fifty people had descended on the scene. In a perfect world, the full resources of the police department and coroner’s office would respond to every murder, but with the sheer number of homicides in Oakland, it was impossible. Sinclair could count on one hand the number of times a pathologist from the coroner’s office and a team of criminalists from the crime lab responded to a crime scene, but the murder of a police officer pulled out all the stops.

  Being accustomed to solving problems with action, the officers at the scene would have preferred to scour the city for the responsible party and bring him in dead or alive—preferably dead—but Sergeant Shumaker focused his officers on expanding and securing the perimeter.

  “The chief will be here in a minute,” Maloney said. “Anything new to report?”

  “Phil was wearing a holster on his belt, but his gun’s missing,” Sinclair said. “They didn’t find his badge, phone, or any keys on his body.”

  “Should we put out a comm order on his car?” Maloney asked.

  “Already done, Lieutenant,” Braddock said.

  “If we don’t notify Phil’s wife pretty damn quick, the word’s gonna get out,” Sinclair said. “You know everyone in the PAB already knows. Some RO’s gonna tell his spouse, who’s gonna call Phil’s wife.”

  “There’s not much we can do here while they’re processing the scene,” Braddock said. “Matt and I can take off and see her.”

  “Hang on a sec,” Maloney said as a black unmarked Ford police interceptor sedan, one of the few new unmarked cars the department had received that year, pulled into the parking lot. A man unfolded himself from the passenger seat. Chief Clarence Brown’s dark-brown complexion complimented his expensive dark suit. With a shaved head and standing a head taller than Sinclair, Brown could pass for a former MBA star, but Sinclair knew the police chief’s athletic ability was limited to political gymnastics, in which he excelled. The department chaplain, a pear-shaped man dressed in an ill-fitting police uniform with dress tunic, got out of the back seat and followed Brown as he strode their way.

  “Tell me you have some inkling of who did this,” Brown said to Maloney.

  Maloney shook his head.

  “Do you know if he was on duty last night when the murder occurred?”

  “Not that we know of. His officers tried to call him last night about the biker murder,” Sinclair said. “But he never returned their calls.”

  Brown ignored Sinclair and turned back to Maloney. “Which investigator is primary on this?”

  “Sergeant Sinclair,” Maloney replied. “He was assigned the case before we knew it was Sergeant Roberts.” Maloney shuffled his feet, as if to muster the courage to continue. “And I see no reason to change that.”

  “I can think of plenty,” Brown snapped.

  Sinclair had butted heads with the chief plenty of times. It was Brown who demoted and suspended him two years ago when he crashed a city car while drunk. Brown was none too happy when the city arbitrator ordered Sinclair’s sergeant rank and position in homicide restored six months later. If it hadn’t been for the media’s love affair with Sinclair, Brown would have pulled him from the Bus Bench Killer investigation, his first case after returning to homicide. And if the stakes weren’t so high during the Thrill Kill Murders last year, Brown would’ve relieved Sinclair of duty for targeting a city councilmember who had an extramarital affair with the victim. But Sinclair had solved both murders, preventing many additional deaths. Even the chief had to admit that although Sinclair ruffled plenty of political feathers and often created a wake of damage in his path, he produced results.

  “Wasn’t Roberts Sinclair’s partner?” Brown asked. “We’ve pulled investigators previously when there’s a personal relationship.”

  “They were partners over two years ago,” Maloney said. “Roberts spent nine years in homicide and partnered with half the unit during that time and worked with everyone at one time or another. If you’re looking for a homicide investigator who didn’t know Roberts personally, you won’t find one at OPD. And I doubt you want to turn this over to another agency.”

  Brown locked his eyes on Sinclair for a few beats. Then he said to Maloney, “Okay, but I don’t want to see any of his Dirty Harry shenanigans this time. Everything by the book.”

  “Always,” Sinclair said.

  “What’s your first move?” Brown asked Sinclair.

  “Talk to the officers in Intel. See if he was working something last night. If nothing pans out, interview his wife and look into his personal life. No matter what, I need to retrace his steps over the last twenty-four hours.”

  Brown nodded. “The chaplain and I are going to visit his wife now and make the death notification.”

  “I’d like to be there,” Sinclair said. “I’m not saying she did it, but I’d be derelict in my duties if I didn’t interview her before she formulates a story.”

  “A member of my department was murdered.” Brown glared at Sinclair. “My top priority is the well-being of his family. No one is going to grill her when she’s in shock.”

  Sinclair saw right through Brown. He only cared about people below him when they could do something for him. But he was all about appearances, and right now, he needed to appear to care about Phil’s family because that’s what the rank and file, the mayor, and the media would expect. Nevertheless, it was futile to argue. Besides, Sinclair doubted this was the work of Phil’s wife.

  “Interviewing her can wait,” Sinclair said.

  “I’ll ask the appropriate questions—when she last saw him, if he had any problems with anyone, that kind of stuff. I still carry a badge, in case you forgot.” Brown tapped the ornate gold badge clipped to his thin dress belt, a belt that couldn’t support the weight of a gun, extra ammo, and handcuffs—the tools real cops carry.

  “Yes, sir,” Sinclair said and turned.

  “And Sinclair,” Brown added, “I expect you to keep Lieutenant Maloney fully abreast of all developments.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sinclair called over his shoulder as he continued walking to his car.

  Chapter 6

  Sinclair and Braddock got out of their car in front of the Savage Simbas clubhouse, located in a multiuse zoned area of West Oakland. The motorcycle club had taken over the property of a tow company that went out of business years ago. The tow company had been one of several with a city contract, and Sinclair had been there often back when he worked uniform. The concrete block building had housed an office in the front and a four-bay garage in the rear, where rudimentary repairs were made to cars that had broken down or been involved in collisions. Outside the rear doors was the tow yard, surrounded by a ten-foot chain link fence topped with concertina wire, where a hundred cars used to sit awaiting pickup by their owners.

  A half dozen burly men dressed in ballistic vests, black T-shirts, and utility pants lounged between the SWAT van and the building. One of them opened the door for Sinclair and Braddock as they approached. The counter where the office staff formerly collected tow fees was still there. Sinclair pushed open a waist-high swinging door, squeezed past two old metal desks, and opened a door with the Savage Simbas logo. Heavy wooden block
s, carved with Pres, VP, Sgt. at Arms, and other titles, were scattered about a rectangular conference table. Jankowski, Fletcher, and the three other officers assigned to Intel sat around the table sorting through file folders and stacks of paper.

  “Are you done interviewing everyone downtown already?” Jankowski asked.

  Sinclair walked across the room to an open door that led to what used to be the repair shop. A dozen officers were photographing and cataloging evidence spread over the pool tables and a rickety bar, made out of two-by-fours and plywood. Sinclair shut the door and faced Jankowski and the Intel officers. “What I’m about to tell you remains in this room. You can’t say anything to anyone until his wife and kids have been notified.”

  Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up.

  “The LT sent me and Braddock to a DOA up in the hills,” Sinclair said. “A body buried in a shallow grave. It’s Phil Roberts.”

  No one said anything for a full minute. Sinclair would wait as long as necessary for it to sink in. Finally, Jankowski said, “We’re on stand-by. Sanchez and I will take it.”

  It had been a hundred years since the department had failed to solve the murder of one of their own. Every homicide investigator’s worst nightmare was being assigned the murder of a fellow officer and failing to solve it. He could have the most spectacular career, but being the detective that didn’t clear a brother cop’s murder would become his legacy. And he’d have to live with that failure for the rest of his life.

  “I appreciate the offer, Dan,” Sinclair said. “But you know that’s not how it works. The lieutenant assigned me before he knew any details. It could’ve been a slam-dunk clearance.”

  Jankowski shifted his considerable weight, causing the wooden chair to creak. “This dead biker was no altar boy, and he ain’t worth all the effort we’re wasting on him. I’ll get this thing cleaned up and put to bed ASAP.”

  “Braddock and I have no shortage of investigators willing to help. There’ll be plenty to do when you’re done with this.”

  Jankowski nodded his understanding. “I need to get over to the coroner’s office. They’re starting to cut on my dead dude.”

  When Jankowski closed the door, Sinclair and Braddock pulled out chairs across from Fletcher and sat down. The other Intel officers put on their best stoic faces and pulled their chairs closer.

  “What happened to him?” Fletcher asked.

  Sinclair gave him the rundown of the crime scene and what little he knew. “Was Phil working something last night?”

  “I was the last one to leave the office,” Fletcher said, referring to him and the other three officers sitting around the table. “Sarge was still in his office when I said good night to him, which was nothing unusual. He said he’d see me in the morning. Again, nothing unusual.”

  “Any idea what he was working on?” Sinclair asked.

  Fletcher glanced at his three coworkers, exchanging a meaningful look.

  “Listen up,” Sinclair said. “I’ve had enough of your unit’s secret squirrel shit to last a lifetime. If there’s something you can’t tell me that’s so fucking top secret, it better be about some goddamn terrorists planning to blow up Oakland with a nuke. Absent that, I need to know everything Phil was working because something he was investigating got him killed.”

  Finally, Fletcher said, “Don’t write any of this down, and please don’t ever repeat what we told you. You know how it is in Intel. We’re sworn to secrecy, not only on the cases we’re working, but on the inner workings of the unit.”

  Sinclair placed his hands on the table, palms up to show he wasn’t armed with a pen.

  “We each have an area of specialty,” Fletcher said. “Mine is gangs, another’s terrorism. That kind of stuff. Sergeant Roberts oversees everything, and he also does special investigations for the chief. Different kinds of sensitive, hush-hush investigations normally involving politics.”

  “Was he working one of those cases?” Sinclair glanced around the room looking for a response.

  Each man shrugged his shoulders.

  “Occasionally, he would bring us in on something, maybe to help with a surveillance or work with the Feds on a wire,” Fletcher said. “But whatever he’s been doing lately, he hasn’t told us anything.”

  “Who would know?”

  “The org chart shows Intel reports directly to the chief of police,” Fletcher said. “For admin stuff, the assistant chief oversees the unit. When Sarge is on vacation, I’m the senior officer, so I turn in overtime slips and time sheets to the assistant chief.”

  Normally, a police sergeant reports to a lieutenant, who reports to a captain, who reports to a deputy chief. Reporting directly to the police chief gave the Intel sergeant a lot of power and access. But since the chief was busy managing a thousand other police employees, it also gave the Intel sergeant a great deal of freedom and autonomy. “But the sensitive investigations come directly from the chief?” Sinclair asked.

  “To the best of my knowledge,” Fletcher said. “A few months ago, Sergeant Roberts was tasked with investigating the deputy director of parks and rec after an audit found some missing money from a fund for aquatics programs. All of us worked surveillance on the number-two guy, and I typed up some search warrants on banks.”

  “Whatever became of it?”

  “We had a strong criminal case, but Sergeant Roberts told us to forget everything after he came back from a meeting with the chief—our investigation never occurred. The next day, the Tribune ran a short article about the deputy director resigning for personal reasons.”

  “So instead of subjecting the city to the embarrassment of a trial of a senior executive, they force him to resign, and everyone keeps their mouths shut about the theft,” Braddock said.

  “Our job description includes keeping our mouths shut,” Fletcher said.

  “What happens to the files of these cases?” Sinclair asked.

  “You’ve seen all those file cabinets with the locks in Sergeant Roberts’s office?”

  Sinclair and Braddock nodded. “What happens when Phil’s on vacation and you’re the acting?” Sinclair asked. “Do you have the keys and combinations?”

  Fletcher shook his head. “He’ll give us certain cases to work when he’s gone, but there’s a lot he doesn’t share with us. We all operate on a need-to-know basis in the unit. It’s not only necessary for security, but it also gives us deniability if we’re ever called before the grand jury.”

  “Does Phil work with the Feds and other outside agencies?”

  The four men again shrugged their shoulders. Fletcher said, “We all work with and swap intel with federal agencies and other PDs, normally the Intel units of other police departments. Different Feds and a few of the DA inspectors from the special investigations unit sometimes visit him at our office.”

  “Can you guys put together a list of who Phil’s seen or talked to over the last few months?”

  “Sure,” Fletcher said. “But if you’re trying to determine what sensitive investigations he’s involved in, why not just ask the chief of police?”

  “I will,” Sinclair said. “But I like to know the answers before I start asking questions.”

  Chapter 7

  Sinclair and Braddock donned disposable surgical gowns, booties, and safety glasses and entered the autopsy room of the coroner’s office. The room contained a dozen autopsy tables, two of them occupied. Dr. Gorman, the senior pathologist in the office, stood over a body on a stainless-steel table by the door. Jankowski stood on the other side of the body, taking notes on a legal pad.

  Gorman put down his scalpel and raised his splash-protective visor over his gray hair. Unlike some of the pathologists who entered this medical specialty because they had no bedside manner, Gorman was personable and loved talking with investigators who came in to view his autopsies. “Matt, Cathy,” he said, lowering his eyes for a few counts. “I’m so very sorry for your loss—our loss. I must have conducted thirty or forty pos
tmortems on Phil’s cases when he worked your unit. I remember when he brought you both here to view your first autopsy and how much potential he saw in you.”

  Sinclair took a deep breath to push down any emotions. “Thanks, Doc. This has to be hard on you too.”

  “I always considered him a friend,” Gorman said. “I didn’t want you to undergo any more trauma than necessary, so I started on him before you arrived. Let me finish up with Sergeant Jankowski’s case. Then we can get back to Phil.”

  Laid out on the table, Shane Gibbs looked to be at least six two and a muscular two hundred pounds. His chest cavity was open, its contents arrayed in a stainless-steel pan resting on his thighs. Gorman took one of the lungs in his hands and said to Jankowski, “You saw the three entrance wounds in the upper torso. Two of them went through this lung.” Gorman poked an index finger into holes in the dark-red organ.

  “Cause of death?” Jankowski asked, as if it weren’t obvious.

  “Shock and hemorrhaging as a result of multiple gunshot wounds. If I discover anything else, I’ll call you.” Gorman turned to Sinclair and Braddock. “Give me a minute to change gloves and I’ll tell you what I learned about Sergeant Roberts.”

  “Anything new on your case?” Sinclair asked Jankowski.

  “Witnesses said another biker-looking dude named Tiny, who was anything but, came into the bar with Gibbs just before the big hoopla. Other people overheard Animal calling him a stupid motherfucker and yelling, ‘You fucked up. You were stupid and put the club at risk.’ Gibbs motherfucked him back and shoved him. Then Animal shot him.”

  “Can’t let a man disrespect you like that,” Sinclair said.

  “Nope. Got no other choice but to kill him,” Jankowski replied. “I’d like to know what Gibbs did that pissed Animal off so bad.”

  “Maybe you can charm him into waiving his rights and telling you.”

  “Too late for that. Animal’s been screaming for his lawyer ever since we put the cuffs on him. The LT said we can’t pretend we didn’t hear it, so he had O’Connor book him into the jail.”