The Big Dive

by Bruce Most

  “By the way, I talked to a guy in the M.E.’s office,” said Sheppard. “Cost me a bottle of Old Crow but he laid out Greene’s autopsy. Man, the killer did a number on your partner. No wonder the department wants his ass.”

  I closed my eyes. I didn’t need to hear this.

  “What does Diaz look like?” Sheppard went on. “He a strong guy?”

  “Strong enough, I suppose. Why?”

  “According to the report, the killer was very powerful. Right handed. He slashed Greene’s throat from the front like someone hacking through jungle with a machete. Then he stabbed him in the chest. Jesus.”

  I pressed my forehead with my fingertips as if it could drive away the memory. God, Benedict going through that horror while I stood like a lump on a log in the alley, staring at the damn radio, wondering what the hell my partner was doing inside, hearing nothing.

  “You’re not going to print that, are you, Lou,” I said stern-voiced. “His wife—she shouldn’t have to read that.”

  “No, no I won’t. You figure Diaz capable of doing that?”

  “I dunno, Lou. Talk to homicide.”

  For a moment, I considered asking the reporter if he knew a detective named Lancaster, but I feared Lou might become too curious or spill the name to the wrong people in the force.

  Then the reporter’s words registered with me. Right-handed. I scratched my memory. I seemed to recall that Diaz was left-handed.

  “Any slash marks on Benedict’s hands or arms,?” I asked.

  “Like he’d tried to protect himself? Nope. Only the throat and the chest showed wounds. Why?”

  “Curious, that’s all.”

  No defensive wounds was another sign Benedict knew his killer, that the attack came unexpectedly.

  “I’m always curious when you’re curious, Joe. You know something I don’t?”

  Panic rose in me. I could see Sheppard hunched over his typewriter, working feverishly. The Denver Kid Returns! he bangs out for a headline. He’s into the body of the story, spitting out prose like a heavy Nazi machine gun, my name riddled throughout the article.

  “No, no, I don’t know any more than you do,” I insisted.

  “The guy was your partner. You don’t let go of cases that are personal.”

  “I am this time. I’ve leaving it to the dicks.”

  “Bock and the rest of the Uncle Miltie show?”

  “I went through that shit once before, Lou. I’m not going through it again.”

  “Yes, you will. You find a loose thread and you pull and pull at it without a clue what’s at the other end. It’s in your blood.”

  Chapter 5

  A sea of blue surrounded Benedict Greene’s gravesite, his brass-railed casket draped by an American flag and a wreath of white lilies. Breath ghosts floated in the cold April sunshine as hundreds of police officers stood motionless, hatless, wearing black armbands, white gloves, and solemn expressions. I’d never seen so much law enforcement in one place. They’d come not only from the Denver area, but as far away as Grand Junction and Durango. The funeral procession from the Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception downtown to Riverside Cemetery up north snarled traffic along York Street for almost an hour. One of the pallbearers with me cracked that every crook in the city had a free run for the afternoon.

  The pomp and circumstance would have embarrassed Benedict. He was too private a man to have so many strangers attend his funeral and to listen to eulogies by the chief of police and the mayor praising his dedication, courage, and ultimate sacrifice to the welfare and safety of the city’s citizens. He would have frowned on holding his mass at Immaculate Conception, a grandiose structure towering over the hookers, bookies, and barflies of Colfax Avenue. The cathedral wasn’t even his church. The departmental brass picked it to draw maximum public exposure, a warning to those out on the street: don’t mess with one of our own.

  Graveside, Ellen Greene, in a long black coat, black hat, and black veil, sat stiffly on a folding chair clutching a handkerchief. Son Timothy sat to one side. On the other side sat Benedict’s parents: his mother, a smallish woman whose earlier sobs had echoed high among the paired arches of the cathedral, and his father, a dry-faced slender man whose body visibly trembled, like a man facing execution. A retired cop, Benedict once told me, as by-the-book as Benedict. Next to them sat Benedict’s younger brother, looking bewildered by it all.

  I shifted uneasily in the shadow of a blue spruce a few feet away. I needed to bury my partner, but I wanted to be anywhere but here. I’d suffered the withering stares from fellow officers as I’d passed with Benedict’s casket. Wariness. Questions. Suspicion.

  How the hell could you lose a second partner?

  When my anguish and anger threatened to overwhelm me, my attention drifted across the surrounding ornate headstones marking where many of Denver’s early prominent citizens were interred. And beyond, where wind-driven spring snow curled off the mountaintops, one of them named after a denizen of the cemetery, former territorial governor John Evans.

  Inevitably, my eyes drifted back over the mass of uniforms and I wondered whether among them was Detective Lancaster, the man Ellen said called Benedict the week before his murder. The detective who’d angered her husband in a way she’d never witnessed before. I’d sneaked in a few calls to several Denver-area police departments, including my own, asking as a citizen to speak to Detective Lancaster, but each department claimed no officer by that name on their force. The State Highway Patrol and the FBI’s Denver field office didn’t claim the guy, either. Maybe Ellen misheard the name. Maybe he was a private detective. But a search of the Yellow Pages turned up no PI businesses sporting the name Lancaster.

  More unsettling as I scanned the law enforcement that came to honor Benedict was the likelihood that one or more of them were the “we” Benedict referenced that night as we drove to the pawnshop. People he thought I’d want to be part of, people with some kind of deal going. Dark Riders! If he’d gotten himself mixed up with other dirty cops, it raised the horrifying possibility one of them—not a three-time loser like Hector Diaz—murdered him. Yet the thought of a cop killing a fellow cop . . .

  Two priests sprinkled the coffin with holy water and intoned final commendations for Benedict. “May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.”

  The chief of police, Christopher Hamilton, presented a triangular-folded American flag to Ellen. A lone bugler played Taps, the notes stilling the crowd. I hated Taps. Heard it too often during the war, and at Derek Flemming’s funeral. They better not play the damn thing at mine.

  Officers broke rank, headed back to duty or home. My fellow pallbearers scattered without so much as a word to me. Uniforms walked past. A few nodded, fewer spoke condolences. Most shunned me as if I were a rabid dog. But one uniform I recognized from District One, Jim Ellison, stopped and extended his hand.

  “I’m sorry about Benedict, Joe. It coulda been any of us. It’s the damn uniform.”

  No, it wasn’t the uniform, I thought as I nodded. It was the man inside the uniform.

  “He was a stand-up guy,” Ellison said. “Some guys weren’t too keen on him, but I worked with him a couple of times. I liked him.”

  “What do you mean, not too keen on him?”

  He shrugged awkwardly. “You know, a little too saintly and all.”

  Not as saintly as you think.

  “These guys saying other stuff about Benedict?” I probed.

  “Like what?”

  “Stuff. Rumors.”

  “No. What rumors?”

  “Nothing. He was a damn fine cop, Jim. A damn fine cop.”

  Ellison scurried off. I glanced back toward the gravesite. The police chief was glad-handing several city councilmen. The mayor chatted with a nightclub owner every cop in town knew hijacked liquor trucks, pimped, and ran drugs out of his northside club.

  Paula and Olivia walked up. My wife hugged me. I felt her trembli
ng beneath her brown cloth coat. Tears streaked her face.

  We walked toward Benedict’s grave where Ellen stood clutching the American flag. Chief Hamilton was talking to her, so I veered off to Benedict’s parents and his brother several yards away. Timothy stood with them. I shook the boy’s hand and looked into his face. It was like looking into the face of his father.

  “Hey, buddy. Remember me? I’m Joe Stryker. I worked with your dad.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to tell him I’d been with his dad the night he’d died, that I’d failed to prevent his death.

  The boy mumbled an acknowledgment.

  “Your father was a good man,” I said. I set my hand on his head, like a priest anointing the sick. “You gotta be tough for your mom now, Timothy. You’re the man in the family. You can do it. You’ve got your father in you. That’ll make you tough.”

  Platitudes, but I didn’t know what the hell else to say.

  The boy mumbled another acknowledgment. I squeezed his shoulder, spoke briefly to his grandparents, and moved away. I caught up with Paula and Olivia waiting to speak to Ellen. Chief Hamilton finished talking to her. He tossed me a long stare but said nothing and walked away. He knew who I was. Every officer in the department did.

  We approached Ellen. She’d pulled back her veil. Her pale cheeks were red from the cold, her soft brown eyes dry. Paula hugged her and cried. She and Olivia had visited her the day after I had. Paula told me little of the visit, other than Timothy came out of his room and entertained Olivia. I’d worried Ellen might divulge our conversation, especially her sense I wasn’t telling her everything. But Paula had said nothing.

  When they separated, Ellen said, “I never realized so many people would come.”

  I stepped forward and hugged her. “Everyone respected Benedict, even those who knew him only by reputation.”

  “Thank you, Joe.”

  “If there is anything I can do for you and Timothy? ”

  “No, we’re fine. Are you back to work?”

  “Yeah. You know the department. They only gave me two days.”

  One more day than I got when Derek Flemming was murdered. Hell, two or three more dead partners and I could take a real vacation.

  Ellen squeezed my arm. “It’s best you’re back. We have to keep moving in life.” She turned toward Paula. “Don’t let Joe get down on himself. I’ve seen officers—and their families—go under when things like this happen. They blame themselves. They quit the force. Or worse.”

  Paula glanced my way. She’d love nothing better than for me to quit.

  Paula and Olivia moved over to Benedict’s parents and brother. Dominic Zingano approached Ellen. He nodded in my direction and shook her hand, introduced himself, and expressed his condolences.

  She grew rigid at the introduction of his name.

  “The union will take care of you and your son, Mrs. Greene,” he reassured her. “We always look after our own.”

  She thanked him, but appeared uncomfortable.

  “At least we have this Diaz guy,” the sergeant said. His eyes settled on me. “Isn’t that right, Joe? A violent burglar you two had the misfortune to catch in the middle of a crime.”

  “No doubt,” I said, taking the hint.

  He turned back to Ellen. “I realize his arrest does not bring your husband back, ma’am. But I hope it brings at least a small measure of comfort and satisfaction.” He handed her an embossed business card. “Don’t hesitate to call if you and your son need anything. I’ll personally see to it.”

  The union president left. I turned to Ellen. “I don’t mean to pry, but I sensed something about him bothered you.”

  She watched Zingano’s retreating figure. Several cops closed ranks around him, minions in his wake.

  “He and Benedict were partners once,” she said.

  “When was that?” Benedict had never mentioned that tidbit.

  “Three years ago. Not for long. Benedict didn’t like working with him.”

  “Why?”

  “He wouldn’t say. I sensed he didn’t trust him. Though Benedict worked for his security firm, for a while.”

  Dominic Zingano ran a side business called Zingano Security. It provided off-duty cops for special events, concerts, bars, construction sites, store security, sporting events, and personal protection.

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “Off and on for the last six months. You weren’t aware?”

  “He never said anything to me.”

  Five months we rode together and he never once mentioned it.

  “He probably was too embarrassed,” said Ellen. “He said we needed the money, though he never brought much home, considering the late hours he worked.”

  “It went to the secret bank loan,” I suggested.

  She nodded. “Yet he was still behind on payments.”

  “What did he do for Zingano?”

  “Security at bars, mostly. He was a bodyguard once for Peggy Lee when she was in town. He thought she was really nice.”

  “He was doing this up until . . . until he died?”

  “Not the last several weeks. He had a falling out with Zingano.”

  “Over what?”

  She shrugged. “He wouldn’t say.”

  There seemed to be many things Benedict didn’t say.

  I was full of questions but Paula and Olivia came up. We hugged Ellen, left the gravediggers to their unhappy work, and headed for our car. We were almost there when Luther Bock’s schlumpy body came puffing toward us. I sent Paula on and waited with crossed arms for the detective.

  “What do you want?” I asked when he arrived, out of breath. Good thing he didn’t work the streets. If forced to chase down an asshole he’d keel over from a heart attack.

  “I still got unanswered questions,” he said between gasps.

  “This is neither the time nor place. We just put my partner in the ground.”

  “It’s never the time or place with you, Stryker.”

  “Why the questions, anyway? Looks like you guys got Benedict’s killer.”

  They’d jailed Diaz for four days, but I hadn’t picked up a peep on how their case was progressing. Even Lou Sheppard wasn’t coming up with much.

  “We kicked the spic loose this morning,” said Bock. “Not enough to hold him for now.”

  I showed my surprise. “You couldn’t keep him on the stolen watches?”

  “Pawnshop owner wouldn’t confirm they were his.”

  “But Diaz remains your main suspect, right?” I said. Keeping homicide’s eyes on Diaz kept them off Benedict—and me.

  “The rest of the guys like him for it,” said Bock. “I ain’t so sure.”

  I forced myself to stare the detective in the eyes. “Why not?”

  “Even if he did the actual killing, there’s more to this than you two stumbling onto a random burglary.”

  “Back to that again?”

  “We found Greene’s fingerprints on that radio. You got an explanation for that?” He looked as wild-eyed as a crazed dog.

  “I told you the other night, he moved it out of the middle of the alley and was going to put it in our trunk until we figured out where it came from.”

  “Thoughtful of him but not very bright.”

  “He picked it up before we realized the pawnshop was broken into.”

  The detective poked a finger at me. “I’ve never liked your story from the night you told it. Too many things don’t add up.”

  “Then take a remedial math course.”

  “What I smell is dirty cop. And nothing makes my blood boil more than dirty cops.”

  “You better be careful how far you go with that one, friend.”

  “I’ll go as far as necessary. There’s talk about dirty cops, and I believe I’ve stumbled into their nest.”

  “Benedict Greene was clean. A choirboy. Why don’t you do the job you’re supposed to do and nail his killer. Quit listening to old-lady gossip.”

  “I
wouldn’t worry about your dead partner, Stryker. It’s your ass you gotta worry about. You and Greene were up to something and I’m gonna find out what the hell it was. I’m gonna nail you.”

  I turned and walked to my car. I didn’t want to dig deeper into Benedict’s death, despite my bewilderment and anger at his betrayal. I’d already lied about the burglary to protect him and his family. No recanting now or I’d lose my job. Another clandestine investigation would once again jeopardize my career and marriage. Yet Bock gave me no choice. Now I needed to uncover who killed Benedict Greene and why he’d betrayed me—or I could end up in prison.

  The next day, while Paula was off to a class and Olivia was down for a nap, I dug out a shoebox from the back of our bedroom closet. It held a pair of my black dress shoes—and the brown dime-store notebook I’d stripped from Benedict’s body the night he died. I’d hidden it inside one of the shoes and not looked at it since.

  In my stupor of shock witnessing Benedict’s brutalized body, I’d taken his notebook for reasons hazy at the time. Some deep instinct, I guess. I should have left it. Tampering with possible evidence. Yet he’d scribbled in it a lot that night, and now I realized I’d taken it out of a subconscious fear it might contain evidence implicating him in the burglary and his own murder.

  With Hector “Jailbait” Diaz back on the streets and Bock riding my ass, it was time to examine the notebook. Maybe it would provide a clue whether Benedict and the three-time loser were linked.

  Rumors had floated around for a while now that a few dirty cops sometimes conspired with civilian thieves. Provided cover for them in return for a cut of the loot, or even broke in with them. Or used them to fence the swag cops themselves stole. The notion of Benedict working with a sleazeball like Diaz remained beyond my comprehension.

  My partner’s blood had dried the notebook pages stiff along the edges. I delicately peeled them apart and began flipping through the notes. I recognized several names: street people we’d interrogated or arrested, potential witnesses, snitches, along with case notes and leads. Zingano Security’s business number. A few names I didn’t recognize. Some notations were difficult to decipher because of the blood stains and Benedict’s cramped handwriting. Other notes were scribbled in initials, meaningless phrases, and in numbers, several of which appeared to be phone numbers.