Heroes Often Fail rcc-2 Read online

  Reott didn’t say a word.

  The Chief sighed. “Politics is such bullshit,” he said, more to himself than Reott.

  “And everything is politics,” Reott said. “Or so I’ve heard.”

  The Chief looked up at him. “So then logic would dictate that everything is bullshit.”

  “I’m sure there are lawyers who could successfully make that argument,” Reott said with a smile.

  The Chief grunted with approval before asking, “What’s your take on Hart?”

  Reott leaned back in his seat, crossed his ankle over his knee and looked at the ceiling, thinking. The Chief waited patiently. After a while, Reott uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “All right, now you might not like this idea at first, but hear me out, okay?”

  The Chief nodded.

  Reott said, “Send Hart to Internal Affairs.”

  The Chief’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he kept his word and waited for Reott to continue.

  The captain of patrol explained. “He’s a waste on patrol. The troops hate him. They don’t trust him. His decision-making is poor and always seems to go through the filter of self-promotion first. You don’t want a guy like that on the front line. It’s not good for the troops or the citizens.”

  The Chief nodded his agreement.

  Reott continued, “The problem is, you don’t want to transfer that cancer to another unit like the investigative division or some specialty unit. For one, the troops there will think you’re punishing them for something they did. And secondly, the problem will just start all over again there.”

  “Why don’t I just demote the dimwit?”

  Reott laughed. “Good luck. With Civil Service, it’s nearly impossible to demote someone without serious cause. Besides, I think he’d do more damage as a sergeant.”

  “Do we have a supply lieutenant?”

  Reott shook his head, still laughing. “No. But listen, Internal Affairs will work. Here’s how. For starters, how many investigators do we have there now?”

  “Only two,” the Chief said. “We had four, but I transferred two back to the investigative division. There wasn’t enough work there for four anyway. I don’t know what Chief Cleveland was thinking when he put four over there to begin with.”

  “He was thinking about community public relations,” Reott said. “But I think he sent the wrong message.”

  “Sure he did. ‘Look how corrupt we are. We need four investigators in IA.’ It was a foolish move.”

  “I heard Lieutenant Anderson is retiring?”

  The Chief nodded.

  “Turned in his papers and everything?”

  The Chief nodded again.

  “Well, then here’s a perfect opportunity,” Reott said. “When Anderson retires, transfer Hart to IA.”

  “The IA investigators will love that,” The Chief said sarcastically.

  “Move them out.”

  “Huh?”

  “Transfer them back to the investigative division. Make them real detectives again.”

  The Chief leaned back and gave Reott a confused look. “Explain.”

  “Look,” Reott said, “you gain two detectives in the investigation division, so more cases get worked. That makes the community happy. It makes those two investigators happy, too. None of them want to be over there.”

  “Straub does.”

  Reott shrugged. Rumor had it that Detective Brenda Straub had kept a little black book, full of dirt on anyone and everyone, while on patrol. She’d been a pariah by the time she was promoted to detective and sent straight to IA. He’d heard the troops call her “The Brass Bitch.” He was relatively certain Straub would consider the title a badge of honor.

  “Still,” he told the Chief, “you get those extra cases worked in the detective’s office. You get Hart out of patrol and in charge of exactly nobody. And you get to tell the community that you take every complaint so seriously that you have a lieutenant investigate each and every one.”

  The Chief rubbed his chin and considered. Reott waited patiently, having made his pitch.

  After some consideration, the Chief asked, “What about the troops? They won’t like Hart in IA.”

  Reott shrugged. “The way I see it, Chief, the troops wouldn’t like Hart anywhere. And when IA comes knocking, it really doesn’t matter who it is, because they won’t like that, either. At least this way you get two things they don’t like contained in one place.”

  The Chief grunted.

  “And,” Reott said, “you know Hart will investigate the hell out of everything. Which is a good thing, too, even if the troops don’t like it.”

  The Chief nodded. “It sounds like a good plan, Mike. Let me think on it for a few days. Anderson’s last day isn’t for almost a month yet.”

  “Okay.”

  The Chief shook his head in wonder. “Lieutenant Alan Hart in charge of Internal Affairs,” he mused. “It might just work.

  1108 hours

  Katie strolled down the sidewalk near City Hall munching on a hot dog that she’d purchased from a street vendor. Normally she wouldn’t go near the little carts of rolling botulism, but she hadn’t eaten since about four-thirty that morning and was starving.

  Her court experience had been typical. The defendant had been caught red-handed, so the defense attorney attacked the cops. In this case, that meant her. Katie knew it would happen that way. She knew a couple of lawyers and they’d told her the general strategy of criminal defense. If the facts are on your side, argue the facts. If the facts aren’t on your side, argue the investigation. If the investigation was a good one, impugn the cops. She was pretty sure the jury hadn’t bought any of it.

  Her stomach had been growling even before she bought the hot dog from the street vendor outside the courthouse. Now, as she finished it off near City Hall, her stomach gurgled in protest. She ignored it and walked on.

  The brief second wind that always came to her about midday after a graveyard shift was kicking in. She knew from experience that it would be brief, lasting no more than a couple of hours. If she didn’t get to bed and sleep for a few hours, she’d be wiped out by four or five that afternoon. That would put a serious crimp in her plans with Kopriva that night.

  The spring air was cool, even though the sun was out. She enjoyed the slight breeze and the smell of the trees that blew in from Riverfront Park to the east. The large park was in the center of downtown River City and consisted of large grassy areas and several tree-lined asphalt paths. A tall clock tower rose upward in the center of the park. The Looking Glass River flowed through the middle of the park and continued its westerly journey toward the Columbia River.

  Katie followed Post Street northbound, walking past City Hall and toward the street bridge. Her car was parked at a meter just north of the bridge. It was a two-hour meter and had been expired for over an hour. She hoped that the meter maid hadn’t made rounds up there yet.

  She walked past the end of the large brick building that held the power company that managed the River City Dam Project and was immediately struck by the wet smell of the Looking Glass River. The air was cooler, too, as she walked toward the bridge. The pedestrian walkway on the bridge had been created by placing jersey barriers along the edge of the roadway, leaving barely enough room for two people to pass in opposite directions.

  Katie slowed and looked over the edge of the bridge. The rushing sound of the river below her somehow calmed her. The sensation was short-lived.

  “Give me my son!”

  She jerked her eyes up in the direction of the shout. Near the middle of the bridge, a man in a green army jacket gripped a thin woman by the upper arm. She turned away from him, holding an infant in her other arm.

  “No, Kevin! Get away from me!”

  The man pulled her into his chest. “I said, give me my son, bitch!”

  Katie was moving toward them before she even thought about it. They were at least half a block away. She wa
s grateful that she’d worn a pants suit to court and a pair of dress shoes without heels as she sprinted toward the pair on the bridge.

  As she ran, she reached to the small of her back, where she kept her off-duty weapon. She drew it out. The weight of the small, five-shot revolver was reassuring, but she wished she had a radio instead.

  The man tore the infant from the woman’s grasp. She screamed in protest.

  Katie tried to run faster.

  “No! Give me back my baby!”

  The woman reached for the infant. The man turned his body to protect the child from her grasp and swung his other arm at her. The back of his hand struck her across the face and she staggered back.

  “Holy shit!” came a new voice.

  Katie saw a man on a bicycle pedaling across the bridge. He wore black bicycle pants and black and yellow bike shirt. When the woman fell into the jersey barrier, he skidded his bike to stop and stepped off. He jumped the jersey barrier and checked on her.

  The distance between Katie and the man was less than fifteen yards when he spotted her. Without hesitation, he extended his arm over the side of the bridge and dangled the infant over the edge.

  Katie scrambled to a stop ten feet away. She pointed her gun at the man’s chest. “Pull that baby back. Now!”

  “Get the fuck away from me,” the man said.

  The woman made a strangled cry and lunged for the man. The bicyclist wisely grabbed her in an embrace and pulled her away.

  “Let me go!” she yelled, struggling. “He’s got my baby!”

  Katie stared at the infant. The baby hung precariously from a twisted fistful of blue clothing in the man’s grip. Terrified wails came from his small mouth.

  “Kyle!” the woman screamed as the bicyclist held her back.

  “Take it easy, Kyle,” Katie said to the man.

  He gave her a strange look.

  “Everything’s going to work out fine,” she continued, keeping her voice calm, but loud enough to be heard over the rushing sounds of the river below.

  The man’s eyes flitted from the dangling child to Katie’s gun, then swept up and down her body. He spotted the silver of her badge clipped on her belt.

  “You’re a cop?”

  “It’s going to be all right, Kyle,” she said.

  “My name’s not Kyle,” he said.

  “Okay,” she said. Her own eyes moved back and forth between the baby and the man’s eyes. “Just pull the baby back from the edge.”

  “He’s my son! You’re not taking him!”

  “I don’t want to take him,” Katie said. “I just want you to pull him back to where it’s safe.”

  “He’s safe. He’s with me.”

  “Give me back my baby!” the woman shrieked. In her peripheral vision, Katie saw the bicyclist struggle to keep a grip on her.

  “Just pull him back,” Katie said.

  “No way.”

  “Do something!” the woman cried. “Get my baby!”

  “Please,” Katie pleaded with him.

  The man shook his head. “I’m not stupid. If I pull him back, you’ll shoot me and take him from me.”

  The baby’s plaintive wails struck Katie like a sheet of cold water. She wavered, unsure of her next move. Her mind raced through options.

  “Look,” she said. “I’ll lower my gun and you pull him back.”

  “Fuck you. You’re a liar.”

  “You don’t want to hurt your son,” Katie said. “I know you don’t. Just pull him back.”

  “He’s better off dead than with that whore!” he pointed at the woman in the bicyclist’s grasp.

  “He’s better off with you,” Katie said. “But you can’t get him like this. Pull him back and let’s work something out.”

  The man met her eyes and she almost lost hope when she saw the craziness in his eyes. “How do I know you’re not lying to me? The last cop I talked to lied to me.”

  “I’m not lying,” Katie said, and lowered her gun.

  The man’s arm trembled with the exertion of holding it out straight with the weight of the infant on the end.

  “You can’t hold him there forever,” she said to him. “At least pull him in and rest your arm.”

  “You drop your gun and I’ll pull him in.”

  Katie shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

  “That’s because you’re a lying bitch!” the man yelled at her, his entire body shaking. The baby tilted and whirled in his grasp and let out an even more terrified wail.

  “All right, okay!” Katie said. She put her pistol back into the holster at the small of her back then showed him both palms. “See?”

  The man hesitated, watching her.

  “Please,” Katie whispered. “He’s just a little baby.”

  The man’s gaze softened for a moment. Suddenly, he drew the child to his chest and embraced him.

  “Thank you,” Katie said.

  The man’s eyes never left hers.

  “Get my baby!” the woman shrieked.

  Sirens erupted nearby. Over the man’s shoulder, Katie saw a marked patrol car turn onto Post and come barreling southbound toward the bridge, siren wailing.

  She looked back at the man. His eyes were still fixed on hers.

  “Give me the baby,” Katie said softly.

  The man kissed the wailing child on the forehead. Then, without ceremony, he pitched the baby over the railing of the bridge.

  “No!” Katie screamed and lunged toward him.

  The man stood peacefully at the railing, watching her.

  She reached the railing and looked down frantically. Below her, the rapids of the Looking Glass River rumbled. She saw a small splash. She tried to follow the flare of blue with her eyes. It tossed along in the current for a moment, then was pulled under. Her eyes strained for it to reappear. She willed it to come back, but she knew deep inside that strong current would either hold the baby down against the rocks or wash him downstream.

  Katie whirled toward the man and attacked him. He stood still while she rained punches down on his face and neck, then drove her knee into his groin. The sound of a terrible screaming pierced her ears, but she ignored it. When the man groaned and slumped from the groin strike, she slammed her palms over his ears. Then she snapped her knee upward into his face, shattering his nose.

  The sirens converged on her. There was the screeching of tires and slamming of doors, but she kept on kicking and striking at them, venting her fury upon him until a wall of police uniforms pulled him to the ground. Another uniform stepped between her and the man. Her final two strikes landed on the cop’s chest and shoulder. The cop drew her into his chest and walked her backward.

  “Easy, MacLeod, easy,” she heard Giovanni’s voice cut through the screaming.

  She struggled with him, but he held her tightly.

  “Easy,” he whispered.

  Her rage would not be so easily denied. She twisted in his grasp, trying to get back at the man, to crush him, to rip him apart.

  “MacLeod, it’s over,” Gio whispered. “They’ve got him in cuffs.”

  Hearing that, she went slack in Gio’s arms, defeated. At the same time, the screaming stopped. She realized it had been her voice making that terrible noise.

  “It’s all right,” Gio said.

  She’d never heard words that were more false.

  THIRTEEN

  1115 hours

  “I thought this crime analysis stuff was the wave of the future,” Tower observed dryly, giving Browning a sly look. The three of them stood in the confined office room, huddled around Renee’s desk. Tower figured the office was probably used as a storage closet until office space became so premium.

  Renee snorted. “Crime Analysis is just the buzzword of the decade for good old detective work. The only difference is that I’m a civilian and this,” she pointed to her PC, “is a computer instead of a pile of paper.”

  “A lot of good it’s done us,” muttered Tower, tapping his pen on his
notebook.

  “It has, though,” Renee said. “Without my computer system and expert analysis, you’d be two weeks away from knowing you had nothing.”

  Tower rolled his eyes at her.

  Browning sipped his coffee and asked, “Let’s see if we’re missing anything.”

  “Fine,” Renee shrugged. “But we haven’t.”

  “Humor me.”

  “It’s your dime,” she said. “Ask away.”

  Browning considered, then asked, “The child witness said the Hispanic guy called the black guy Wesley. Any hits on that?”

  “The only two black males named Wesley in River City don’t fit the age description.”

  “How close?”

  “One’s four and one’s eighty-two.”

  Browning sipped his coffee. “You check Department of Licensing?”

  Renee looked at him as if he’d just asked a monumentally stupid question. “I did. There were several black males named Wesley with Washington State driver’s licenses or identification cards. None had vans of any kind registered to them. All were on the west side of the state, near Seattle. Only one had a criminal record and he’s in Walla Walla State Prison right now.”

  “How about Idaho DOL?” Browning asked. “The panhandle’s only ten minutes away.”

  “Of course I checked,” Renee said. “And there were no black male Wesley’s in any of the northern panhandle counties.”

  “Okay. How about any hits on the descriptions of the suspects?”

  “No,” Renee said. “Or rather, yes. Hundreds of black males and hundreds of Hispanic males. The descriptions were too general. I mean, some of our own officers matched up.”

  “How about the tattoos?”

  “All dead ends. All subjects who fit the race and tattoo are incarcerated, except for five. One of those was Antonio Lopez and you talked to him.”

  Browning nodded. “He was a decent guy. Owns a catering business. He said the tattoo was from when he was fifteen years old. He’s definitely not involved. But what about the other four?”

  “All four have moved out of the area,” Renee said. “I called the police agencies in their new digs and asked for a courtesy interview. All had solid alibis. Besides, the closest one was in Arizona.”