by Bruce Most
He’s trying to find out what Benedict was doing with the money he was getting from burglaries, I thought. Aloud, I asked, “Did he say whether they’d found new evidence in the case?”
“No. He wouldn’t tell me anything. He just asked questions. Questions about you, too.”
I pulled my eyes away from Olivia and stared out the kitchen window. “What questions?”
“He wanted to know how long you two knew each other. Whether you spent off-duty time together. Did Benedict return home later than expected on nights when you two were on duty together? Comments Benedict may have made about you to me. What I knew about you. That sort of thing.”
“What did you say?”
“Very little. I made it clear I didn’t like his questions.”
Which only made the detective more suspicious than ever, I thought.
I walked over to Olivia and picked a chunk of Silly Putty off the floor. “I’ll talk to him, Ellen. See what’s going on.”
I hung up. I had no intention of talking to Detective Bock. But I needed to get to the bottom of Benedict’s death, and soon.
Lou Sheppard’s “exposé” of dirty cops appeared over the weekend. Front page. Burglars in Blue screamed the headline. A catchy little phrase Lou must have stayed up nights dreaming up. Yet the story itself was long on rumors and short on facts.
According to Lou, at least a dozen cops—possibly more—were burglarizing stores, carting off merchandise while investigating genuine break-ins, and conniving with business owners falsely claiming theft for insurance claims. He named no names and his sources were unidentified. The mayor and the police chief quickly denounced the piece as “irresponsible yellow journalism of the worst kind.”
To my relief, there was no mention of Benedict’s name or the pawnshop burglary.
The damage was done, nonetheless. There would be more stories, from other reporters as well as Lou, maybe inciting enough public pressure to force an internal investigation. Any serious investigation, internal or external, would almost certainly re-examine the pawnshop. Detective Bock wouldn’t let that escape scrutiny.
If that happened, I would be investigated, too.
I needed to deflect any investigations away from Benedict—and myself. I needed a sacrificial goat. Something to appease the brass and the public and Lou Sheppard. And Bock, if I was lucky.
Zingano.
The department would close ranks and do everything it could to prevent any investigation into crooked cops. But if they were pressured to conduct at least a cursory internal investigation, Zingano and his crew would make the perfect scapegoats. Bringing down the boss of our growing, pesky union would be a worthy trade-off for the departmental black eye, particularly if they could limit the fallout to a few rogue cops.
Now more than ever I needed to worm myself into the Big Z’s confidence. But that was proving more difficult than I thought it would. Sheppard’s front-page story further hindered my efforts. Zingano and his crew would likely lie low for a while, more wary than ever of bringing in someone like me.
I needed to bait them with something they couldn’t resist.
Chapter 19
Lou Sheppard’s front-page story was the first thing out of Moroni Perdue’s mouth when we hit the street Monday afternoon. Hell, it was the first thing out of every cop’s mouth that day.
Did I know my reporter pal was coming out with the story, what rumors had I heard about burglars in blue, was there any truth to them? Perdue peppered me with questions as he burned through one cig after another.
I denied advanced knowledge of the story. As for rumors of dirty cops, sure I’d heard them. What cop hadn’t? But I didn’t believe them, I insisted. Perdue seemed relieved by that.
An hour into our shift, we took a short five at The Shoebox Cafe. I drank coffee, nibbled at a cinnamon roll, and browsed The Denver Post. Perdue sat across the table sucking noisily on a straw buried in a cherry phosphate, rattling on about a grandmother in Poughkeepsie, New York, who’d written him claiming aliens from a saucer-shaped spaceship with red and green lights had abducted her and had their way with her.
I shoved the newspaper aside on the yellow linoleum table, knocking over the saltshaker. That stopped Perdue. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
I straightened the saltshaker and threw a spilled pinch over my left shoulder. All this nonsense with commie spies and bomb reports, I said.
A front-page article reported on citizen calls flooding police departments around the metro area in the wake of Raschke’s death. Neighbors reported suspicious neighbors, employers demanded that police spy on suspicious employees, and housewives begged departments to post officers at their children’s school.
Reports of bomb threats swamped departments. Insane reports. Like the owner of a grocery market on 22nd Street claiming he’d received an anonymous call warning that a bomb was planted in his ice cream freezer. He’d fled the store. Police didn’t find a bomb, though it struck me that ice cream freezers were the perfect place to hide bombs. What better way to bring America to her knees than blowing up her supply of Eskimo Pies.
Perdue spun the newspaper around to get a look at the story. “I heard that homicide found a hundred pounds of explosives stashed in that professor’s house. Not twenty like first reported. The creep coulda blown up an entire school.”
I took a bite out of my cinnamon roll. I’d heard a lot of similar foolish talk since Raschke died, most of it from cops who oughta know better. Sure, commie lovers lived in the country. Uncle Joe worshipers. Spies. Maybe Marcus Raschke was one of them. Maybe not. But commie spies under every bed? Blowing up ice cream freezers? The country was going mad.
Perdue scanned the half-filled cafe and leaned toward me. “I did hear one odd thing about the Raschke case.”
My eyes snapped to attention. “What?”
“I was shooting the breeze the other day with a dick working the case.”
“Who?” I asked, surprised—and curious—that Perdue had connections to homicide.
“Can’t tell you who. But he said they didn’t find any fingerprints on the dynamite or the gun hidden in Raschke’s basement.”
“That is odd.”
“That’s what I thought. You’d figure a guy wouldn’t bother to wear gloves or wipe fingerprints off dynamite he’s planning to explode.”
“Is homicide reconsidering their accident scenario?” I asked.
“My source said they aren’t. But they sure want to talk to this detective who showed up at the Raschke home days before the guy died. They’re baffled who it was.”
My pulse raced. Had Mrs. Raschke gone to the cops after I’d cornered her in the no-name bar? As drunk as she was that day, it was a wonder she remembered anything. Yet if she’d given homicide anything that could have led to me, Bock would have hauled me in by now.
I glanced at my watch. “Time to roll.”
I left my half-finished coffee and cinnamon roll on the table and fifteen cents for the waitress.
“Mind?” asked Perdue, pointing to the roll.
I shook my head.
He wolfed down the remains on the way to the car, while I mused who Perdue’s source was in homicide. Detective Bock? The man was on me like stink on a skunk. How long did I have before he caught up with me?
Perdue and I were nearing the end of our shift when we received a call from dispatch to investigate an anonymous report of a break-in at a furniture store at 20th and Blake. I knew the place: Bigley’s Furniture Emporium, a used furniture store on its last legs. Hard to imagine any self-respecting burglar breaking in. For what? Ten bucks in the register and a broken-down couch?
To our surprise, we arrived to find two prowl cars parked in front of the store. No lights. I couldn’t tell if anyone was in the vehicles.
Why the hell were they here? Dispatch had said nothing about backup.
“Kill the lights,” I instructed Perdue. We’d come in silent with no red light flashing.
Perdue doused
the headlights and eased in behind the prowl cars. I scanned the storefront. The front door appeared closed and intact, and no broken window glass. Through the litter of sale banners pasted on the display windows lay a dark interior.
I exited cautiously, my hand near my weapon, eyes shifting between the prowl cars and the furniture store. Perdue followed. “What are you thinking, Joe?”
What I was thinking was we’d stumbled on to some of Sheppard’s alleged burglars in blue, but I didn’t say that.
Doors on both prowl cars opened and three cops emerged. I didn’t recognize the lone driver in the front vehicle, but I recognized the two men closest to us.
“What are you guys doing here, Decker?” I said, eyeing the big, overweight man. “I think we can handle a simple burglary call in our own precinct.”
I didn’t much like Freddy Decker. He was the kind of cop who gave cops a bad name. A big, violent asshole who preferred street justice over jailing criminals. Quick and to the point. Save the judicial system the headaches. I wished him street justice of his own.
The other officer with him was his partner. Marek, I think his name was. I’d seen him around but never worked with him. Not the brightest cop from what I’d heard. He came to the rear of their car and stared at me. The lone officer stayed back, watching the quiet street, as if on guard duty.
I approached Decker’s prowl car but he blocked my path. I peered around his shoulder, searching for a used couch stashed in the back seat.
“Lookin’ for something?” he said.
I turned my focus on him. “Why are you here?”
“Wanted to talk about you being a traitor cop,” he said, eyes hard.
I jerked my head back. “What the hell you talking about?”
“That story your reporter buddy wrote. The one that’s bringing all kinds of shit down on us.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Marek stepped forward. “Everybody knows you’re pals with him, Stryker. He made you The Denver Kid.”
“I don’t give a shit what you guys believe. I had nothing to do with the story.”
A setup. They’d called in a false burglary report and waited for me to arrive.
“We don’t like cops who rat on cops,” snarled Marek. He puffed himself up to his maximum height, which still left him below me.
Perdue appeared at my side. “Hey, you guys don’t really believe cops are burglarizing businesses, do you? Let alone Joe ratting on them?”
Decker pressed closer. “I believe your partner’s lookin’ to make a name for himself again. Even if that means spreadin’ lies. He kinda disappeared after that Rawlins case. I’m guessing he misses the limelight.”
To my surprise, Perdue stepped between us. “Back off,” he snapped, angrier than I’d ever seen him. “That news story was all bullshit. Jesus, Decker, you believe every fucking thing you read in the papers?”
I laughed inwardly. Echoes of what I’d preached to Perdue when he was a rookie.
“You protectin’ a snitch, Perdue?” returned the big man.
Perdue was careful not to touch Decker. Two years ago, when he was in far better shape, he might have taken on Decker. Now he would find himself flat on the sidewalk.
“Joe says he didn’t talk to that reporter. That’s good enough for me.”
Decker stared past Perdue at me. “You better watch your back, Stryker.”
“Is that a fucking threat?” I stepped toward him but Perdue kept his body between us.
“Leave, guys,” Perdue said.
Decker threw one more warning glare at me and returned to his vehicle with Marek. The other cop got into his and both cars squealed away.
“Jesus!” said Perdue, his body visibly sagging in a relief of tension.
“Why the hell did you step between us?” I asked. “You don’t need to protect me, Moroni.”
An odd look filled his eyes. “Yeah, I do, Joe. Partners look out for each other. I need to look out for you more than you realize.”
Chapter 20
The next morning, after I returned from a brief errand, Paula said Ellen Greene had called. No idea what she wanted, other than to call her back right away.
I called. Ellen asked me to come over immediately. Her voice shook with anger. She’d discovered Benedict’s military records. Hidden just like the newspaper clippings and the blackmail note. “He lied to me, Joe.”
I wasn’t in the mood to go. I’d been awake half the night dwelling on the ambush by Freddy Decker and the other cops, and Perdue coming to my defense. But Ellen sounded so distraught, I agreed to be there in twenty minutes.
“What does she want?” asked Paula.
“More of Benedict’s personal papers. I won’t be gone long.”
“Is it that urgent you go over now?” Paula said, hurt in her voice. “We need you here, too.”
“Look, honey, if it had been me instead of Benedict, he would have come over for you. I’m just trying to help Ellen and Timmy get through this.”
When I arrived at Ellen’s home, she led me into the kitchen to the same table where I’d pored over the newspaper clippings. Timmy was at school. She pointed to a large, grease-stained manila envelope. “I found this in the garage, hidden behind a box of tools.”
Her face carried the painful, angry expression I often saw on the faces of women when I arrested their man for the first time, when they realized they were living with an impostor whose past and present were not what they thought it was.
“I’ll get us coffee,” she said. She turned away, as though she could not bear to relive what I was about to find.
I pulled the records out of the envelope. At first glance, they appeared to be the typical military paperwork veterans often keep: an honorable discharge from active duty, pay vouchers, promotion orders, assignment orders, even the paperwork for a minor infraction punishment. A small black-and-white photograph slipped in among the papers caught my attention. Two men in civvies standing in front of what appeared to be military barracks. Neither was smiling. The print was crap quality, and the face of one of the men, bearded, was obscured in the shadows of a sun helmet. But there was no mistaking the face of the other man, hatless.
Marcus Raschke.
I flipped over the photograph. The back was blank.
Ellen set a cup of coffee next to me, but remained standing, silent. I set the photograph aside, took a sip of coffee, and more closely examined the military records.
The discharge papers looked straightforward. The punishment paperwork was for disobeying an officer’s order to get a haircut. But the assignment sheets were another matter. They were what shook Ellen to her core.
Benedict Greene never fought with the 106th Infantry Division in the bloody Battle of the Bulge or gone overseas at all, contrary to what he told us.
I sat back and lit a cigarette to settle my stunned nerves. Ellen lit a cigarette with trembling hands. I’d never seen her smoke.
Benedict had completed basic training at Ft. Polk, Louisiana, which is what he once told me. From Ft. Polk, the army assigned him to a military police unit attached to the 106th stationed in Ft. Jackson, South Carolina. By October 1944, he and the 106th were staged in Myles Standish, Massachusetts, and by November the division headed for the European theater. Benedict did not go with them. Instead, he was reassigned as an MP to the Japanese-American relocation camp near Granada, Colorado.
Camp Amache.
He arrived there by early November and remained until the camp closed in October 1945. He was there when Marcus Raschke worked as a camp administrator—and when the young Jap woman was murdered.
“Did you know any of this, Joe?” Ellen said in cold, accusatory anger, her eyes on the edge of tears. “About the camp?”
“No,” I said, still reeling from the shock. “Honest, Ellen, I didn’t. Benedict said he was with the 106th and fought in the Battle of the Bulge.”
“Why lie? Why not tell me he was at the camp?”
I
had no words of comfort to ease her pain, her confusion. I looked into her wet brown eyes and hunted for words. “Maybe he wanted to forget that part of his life,” I speculated, recalling Raschke’s comment that Camp Amache was a time he wanted to forget. “It was the war. Men wanted to be off fighting the Japs or the Krauts. Who wants to admit they’d spent the war guarding women and children and old men.”
“What about this?” she said. She pointed to Raschke’s face on the photograph. “He’s that dead communist, isn’t he, the one everyone says was planning to bomb all those kids?”
“I don’t think he was going to bomb kids, Ellen.”
“My point is, why would Benedict have his picture? It’s the same man whose name was underlined in the clippings Benedict kept hidden.”
I crushed my half-smoked cigarette in a glass souvenir ashtray from Florida. “Raschke was deputy administrator at the camp. The place wouldn’t have needed many civilians and military to run it. I imagine most of them knew each other pretty well.”
I didn’t add that her husband visited the professor shortly before being murdered at the pawnshop. Not long before Raschke himself died. I pointed to the bearded man. “Do you recognize him?”
“No,” she said, her voice almost nonexistent.
“Let me keep this for now,” I said. “Maybe I can find out who he is.”
I slipped the photo in my shirt pocket and sipped coffee.
“Benedict was there when that Japanese girl died, wasn’t he?” she said.
“Looks that way.”
“Why did he keep the clippings? Was he involved in the investigation? Did he know the dead girl?”
Her voice carried anger at her dead husband, a sense of betrayal, much as he’d betrayed me. And I’d betrayed Paula.
“He was an MP,” I said. “That doesn’t mean he was directly involved in the investigation, or even knew the girl. Thousands of Japs lived in the camp. He probably kept the clippings out of curiosity.”