Night Moves

by DJ Steele

  The Chief, Hubert Nowakowski, had grown up in a Polish immigrant family on the south side of Chicago. Shockley attributed the man’s Attila-the-Hun personality to him learning how to survive at an early age in a crime ridden neighborhood. The man was tough, no doubt about it. He had served in Afghanistan as a member of the Army Rangers before joining the Metropolitan Police Department. Nowakowski had over a decade of experience in the District’s police department and had worked many of its highest-profile cases. He gained a reputation for results–making arrests, closing cases. Now the man, who criminals on the street feared, was confined to a chair.

  A wheelchair.

  Five years ago, Nowakowski was part of the Special Operations Unit, doing a yard-to-yard search for a suspect involved in a shooting. The suspect, hiding behind a trash can in a dirt alley, surprised Nowakowski and opened fire. He was shot multiple times in the legs and spinal cord. Trapped on the ground, the suspect kept firing and would have killed him if his K-9 police dog hadn’t pounced on the suspect knocking him over. A picture of the K-9 dog, Bandit, sat on his desk as a reminder that the police dog gave his life to save him.

  After ten long minutes, Amy stood and walked over to the secure door to the Chief’s office.

  "Chief Nowakowski will see you now," she announced as she punched in a number to release the lock to the Chief’s office.

  Even though there was a small sitting area in the large corner office, he never sat there. There was always a wooden desk between him and the Chief.

  Shockley was about to speak but decided against it. He’d let the Chief go first.

  Nowakowski started the meeting showing a softer side. "Damn Mike, you look like shit. How’s your head and hand?"

  Shockley lightly touched his hand and responded, "I’m fine, Wheels, thanks for asking." Wheels was the nickname Nowakowski got when he returned to work confined to a wheelchair. The Chief let Shockley call him Wheels when in private conversations. Otherwise it was Chief or Chief Nowakowski.

  It wasn’t Shockley’s head or hand that was bothering him. His mind was in loop mode rolling through the events from yesterday. He had a hunch he had missed something. What that was he just couldn’t figure out.

  The Chief leaned back in his wheelchair and folded his arms across his chest. "Mike, you wanna tell me how you fucked up a simple homicide investigation and now we’ve got ATF breathing down our neck?"

  Shockley wondered why Wheels considered any homicide investigation simple. He should remind his boss that only sixty percent of cases were ever closed. Most of the time the trail would grow cold, not because of lack of effort but most of their victims had criminal records. Witnesses, when lucky enough to find, usually had questionable credibility.

  The meeting with Wheels would be nothing short of an ass chewing. He deserved it. Yesterday at the crime scene, his team headed up the motel stairs to collect evidence from the double homicide without him. Maybe if he had been in front of Bull, she wouldn’t be fighting for her life in the hospital right now.

  The Chief continued, "What I wanna know is why you were headed across the street, while your team was going up to the crime scene."

  He figured this was coming. "That pain-in-the-ass crime reporter, Susan Porter, was at the scene," he explained. "I wanted to keep her at bay. Try to stop her from becoming a problem with her questions."

  "Donna is the department’s media relation’s officer. She’s trained to deal with the media, not you."

  "She hadn’t gotten there yet."

  "Let me get this straight. You think you’re better at dealing with the media than Donna who has a Master’s degree and fifteen years' experience in public relations or just maybe you think you’re better at getting Porter in the sack?"

  Shockley knew not to tell his boss he’d already gotten Porter in the sack. Wheels would think his actions yesterday were based on not having his head on straight if he knew that.

  "Susan Porter was just doing her job yesterday. She can be overly zealous and I…" Shockley couldn’t finish his sentence. Maybe his boss was right. Maybe he let Porter’s tight green dress distract him. He hoped that wasn’t the real reason he made the decision to talk to her.

  "I wanna know why Terrance Bone and Amber Bull didn’t detect a bomb during their initial inspection."

  "I don’t know. The people who might have answers are in the hospital. One fighting for her life."

  Shockley realized his mistake pointing out what his boss already knew. Wheels would have up-to-date information about his officers.

  Wheels jerked forward and pounded his fist too hard on his desk. The lamp on the edge of the desk bounced and toppled onto the hardwood floor.

  "You’ve got 48 hours to give me something, Mike, or I’m pulling you off this case and your ass will be stuck behind a desk for the unforeseeable future. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Loud and clear. I’ll do my best."

  "Your best? Just do your goddamn job. I don’t want that fuckin’ cop killer on the street another day." Wheels powerful voice was ear-splitting.

  "Yes Chief." Shockley wanted to catch the suspect. He was struggling with guilt over his decision yesterday. He got up and headed back to his desk.

  Shockley was sure his boss had just told him he was looking for an excuse, any excuse to strip him of his firearm and put him on administrative assignment. He couldn’t let that happen. He had promised T-Bone he’d catch the perp responsible for this.

  When he got back to his office, Raymond Hauser was leaning against the edge of his desk, his face buried in a folder full of papers.

  Hauser still had the look of a rookie officer and was part of Shockley’s team. The first time Shockley met the awkward officer, he noticed the Duty Belt’s stiff leather not yet broken in and creaked every time Hauser moved. That day the young rookie looked like he belonged anywhere but in a homicide unit. Shockley had his doubts the kid would make it in the unit. That was three years ago. Even though Shockley was in his mid-thirties, the new hires looked younger and younger. Like kids.

  Shockley sat heavily in his chair and said, "What we got?"

  Hauser’s smile quickly faded when he saw Shockley’s face. "Jeez man. You look like shit. What’d the Chief say?"

  "That I look like shit." Shockley flipped him the bird.

  Shockley knew how he looked. He saw his face earlier in his bathroom mirror. His eyes bloodshot and a purple welt above his eyebrow. Sleep deprivation was something he was used to as murders seldom happened during daylight hours. Yet last night he never made it to his bed. When he got home, he slumped down in his favorite chair and replayed the day events. The last time he looked at the clock it was 4 A.M.

  Hauser cleared his throat making his protruding Adam’s apple slide up and down. In a low-pitched voice, he said, "ATF’s forensics are running tests to confirm the accelerants used in the blast."

  "Run me through what we do know."

  "One of my buddies at ATF said off the record that a cellphone was used to detonate a homemade bomb. A cellphone’s electrical current has enough to jolt a small detonator charge, which in turn can set off the main explosive. He said modifying a cellphone into a trigger is a piece of cake. DIYers rig up old phones and blow things up all the time."

  "DIYers?"

  "You know, sites like Pinterest, DudePins, YouTube for do-it-yourselfers."

  "You're saying this suspect might have gone online and watched a step-by-step YouTube video on making this bomb?"

  "Could have. Even for first timers, there are scores of easy-to-follow internet tutorials."

  "Does your buddy believe this is an amateur or professional?"

  "No way to know at this point."

  "Killers make mistakes. There’s gotta be a paper trail. A motive is what we need. You got any witnesses?" asked Shockley.

  "A prostitute named Bambi claims she might remember something if we can get some drug charges dropped. We ran down her timeline and she was making love to a pole in a bar down
the street when this went down. We did get one possible lead, but the guy has since disappeared."

  "Got a name?"

  Hauser shrugged. "Might be a nickname. Max. No last name. No address."

  "I want you to get feet on the ground and track this Max down. Memories are going to fade fast and lips will get tight if we don’t get moving on this."

  Shockley leaned an elbow on his desk and began to stroke the stubble on his chin. "Why do you think the killer waited to blow up the bodies? They were already confirmed deceased by T-Bone."

  "Maybe its gang related, and they wanted revenge against cops. Could be they waited till we arrived. It’s the Dead Zone’s MO."

  "Doesn’t add up. If the goal was to kill cops investigating a crime scene, then the bomb went off too soon."

  "Yeah...right," said Hauser. "The suspect would’ve waited till the crime scene investigators were all in the motel room where the bomb was planted."

  Hauser’s face beamed as if he had the answer. "Maybe the DIYer miscalculated the time it would take for the officers to get upstairs."

  "Maybe." Shockley studied the report on his desk. "Or perhaps the suspect panicked."

  "What would make the suspect panic?"

  Shockley kept his focus on the report in front of him and stroked his chin. "Somebody recognized him."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rayburn Office Building

  * * *

  Wagner sat in his office chair staring out the large picture window and breathing hard.

  Even though he’d been sitting for twenty minutes, his pulse rate was up. He needed to settle down and collect himself before his ten o’clock meeting with Congressman Quatterman.

  He’d almost cancelled the meeting with the lawmaker, but he needed to know if Quatterman knew anything more about the reporter. The meeting had to end by eleven o’clock to give himself enough time to get home, collect the cash and get the gun. Then he planned on taking a taxi to the park to meet a man whose name he didn’t even know. Max said the man’s street name was Razor. That name made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

  Dan Quatterman didn’t need Megan to announce his arrival. His booming voice could be heard down the hall.

  A light rap on the door before it opened. "Congressman Quatterman’s here for your ten o’clock meeting," announced Megan.

  Wagner never got to respond. The large man elbowed past Megan bumping her to the side of the doorway.

  "Alan, sorry to hear about your Uncle."

  With a flash of annoyance, Megan quickly bowed out shutting the door behind her.

  "My uncle’s fine. The doctors said there is minimum damage to his heart muscles. He was lucky. Thank you for asking."

  "Hell, I didn’t even know you had any relatives. Shows how much we don’t know about each other. We’re just too damn busy running this country and keeping it safe."

  Quatterman tugged his pants up over his fat abdomen. The man needed to lose weight.

  Wagner nodded. He’d like to tell the egotistical blowhard he didn’t have a clue how much he didn’t know about him.

  "Alan, before we talk about the legislative agenda, what’s the scoop on the reporter?" Quatterman asked. He plopped into the chair on the other side of the desk facing Wagner.

  Wagner studied the man’s face trying to determine if Quatterman really didn’t know the reporter had been murdered. He could be a man with ulterior motives. Wagner needed to be cautious in how he responded.

  "I’m sorry Dan. I’ve been extremely busy and haven't had time to follow up with the FBI about the reporter’s prying into the investigation of a possible Russian spy."

  Quatterman folded his hands, letting them rest on his large stomach. "Well, I’m not sure what the Feds did to nix the reporter from snooping around, but I’m glad they got her to give up and let us get our job done around here."

  "What do you mean they got her to give up?"

  "Not sure, Alan. Just seems she vanished. Nobody’s seen her lately."

  Vanished? Wagner supposed Quatterman had not heard the news or made the connection about a woman and man being murdered and blown up at a motel.

  Or maybe he had and was testing him.

  Wagner leaned forward in his chair. "I’m sure the FBI is capable of handling any reporter snooping around their investigation."

  "Our country is under attack," barked Quatterman. "We need to find this Russian spy who infiltrated our government and take forceful countermeasures against the Soviets."

  "Dan, we’ve got to tread lightly with any allegations against the Russians. The last thing we want to do is create an atmosphere of a McCarthyism witch-hunt. The FBI doesn’t have any credible evidence that a foreign asset has infiltrated our government."

  Wagner felt his face heat up. He had to stay calm and fake empathy toward Quatterman’s fears. He continued, "I realize our government has been cautious about standing up to Moscow. Russia and U. S. nuclear weapons and nuclear submarines are close to parity. We must avoid escalation that would play into our enemies’ hands."

  Quatterman drew in a deep breath and slowly let it escape through closed lips in what sounded like a whistle.

  "Alan, the President listens to you. I listen to you. But the Russian government wants to weaken the West. The FSB operates with impunity according to its own secret rules. Moscow’s espionage operations are to cultivate well-placed contacts. Think of what it would mean to our country if the Russians had a spy with policy making access."

  Wagner felt the bile rise to his throat. He felt sick to his stomach.

  Is Quatterman checking his reaction to what he just said?

  Does he suspect anything?

  Did he talk to the reporter who might have suspected Wagner was the Russian mole?

  Or was he just getting paranoid?

  He scratched his nose and cast his eyes downward. If Quatterman noticed he was nervous and uncomfortable, he didn’t comment about it.

  "I agree, Dan. The Russians have long concentrated their efforts on obtaining intelligence about White House policy views with their spies befriending people who work in U.S. policy circles. I hope you followed my advice and didn’t talk to the reporter."

  Wagner made eye contact and kept talking, "For all we know, the reporter could have been part of Russian espionage to seduce members of Congress."

  Quatterman sat up in the chair and said in a biting voice, "I’m sure our intelligence agencies will ferret out any Russian spies."

  Wagner nodded, but noted Quatterman had not denied talking to the reporter. He needed to redirect the conversation.

  "I sure hope they do, Dan. Like you said earlier, we need to keep this country running, so how about we get started on the legislative agenda now?"

  The discussion on the legislative agenda was lasting longer than Wagner had hoped. He needed to speed it up.

  During their meeting, he was plagued with unpleasant thoughts about a man who was known on the streets as Razor.

  It was easy to let Quatterman monopolize the discussion about upcoming legislation and just nod. The man relished thinking he was in charge of any discussion. Wagner had long suspected Quatterman knew he’d never be the Speaker of the House and therefore lived out his dream of power through him.

  His thoughts drifted to his upcoming meeting with Razor. It made his hands sweat. He removed them from where they were propped on his desk and wiped them on his pants.

  "I hate to break our productive discussion Dan, but I’ve got to leave for another meeting in a few minutes."

  "Sure, sure. I understand. We’ve really got a handle on how to proceed with our agenda."

  He was grateful Quatterman didn’t ask what meeting he was referring to.

  "Yes. Thanks for working with me on this." He hoped Quatterman didn’t see through his facade.

  "Lately it’s been hard getting hold of you," Quatterman stated. "How bout I get Megan to put me on your calendar for a follow-up next week unless you need to talk befo
re then."

  Wagner opened his leather-bound appointment book lying on his desk in front of him. After a brief scan, he asked, "How does next Wednesday sound?" He didn’t want Quatterman bothering Megan with a lame attempt to flirt.

  "I see you’re still old fashioned like me and use a paper calendar." He gave a loud snort. "I’ll have to check and get back with you. Just send me a reminder."

  Wagner rose to let Quatterman know it was time for him to leave.

  He nodded. "I’ll have Megan send you a reminder."

  * * *

  It was 11:15. The pompous windbag Congressman liked to hear himself talk. He couldn’t stand the man. Yet, Quatterman was the one who helped him secure the House speakership. Quid quo pro. As much as he found it distasteful, they were allies. Quatterman was no fool. At some point the savvy politician would call in the favor.

  When Quatterman left his office, he buzzed his assistant and told her to send a message to Quatterman about next week’s meeting and that he would be out of the office for a couple of hours. He’d be back late afternoon. Hopefully this would be the last time he had any contact with Razor.

  "How did your meeting with the Congressman go?" inquired Megan.

  "Well, it is Quatterman you know. But overall productive. I think we have a strategy to get the fence-sitting members on the Immigration Reform Act to jump to our side."

  "Glad to hear that. If something comes up while you’re out, do you want me to contact you on your cell?"

  Wagner mulled this over, unsure of what to tell her. He wanted to tell Megan to call the cops if she couldn’t get hold of him. That he was meeting with a crazed killer who scared him shitless. If only he could confide in her. No. He didn’t want her involved in this. No matter what happened.

  "Thanks Megan but I don’t think there's anything that can’t wait till I get back."