The Sticking Place Page 20
Henreid lifted the hammer near his ear, smashed the glass door and walked in to the laundromat he’d finished renovating earlier in the day.
41
AS FAR AS LUKE WAS CONCERNED, their getting interrupted by a radio call was a damn good thing for John Shimmer. It had taken him months to recover from his injuries in the park restroom and he’d obviously forgotten Luke had saved his ass. Just exactly where did this chump get off now that he was back at work, saying Luke should go fuck himself? Not only was Shimmer just a street cop like anybody else, he was part of the reason Denny got fired and now he had the nerve to tell Luke he was the car commander. Luke was supposed to sit in the passenger seat with his mouth shut and do what Shimmer told him.
No scenario in hell could make things play out that way.
The radio call temporarily kept Luke from speaking his mind.
He acknowledged the call and set the transmitter down. It was his first flagrant act of defiance since Shimmer had told him his only jobs for the shift were to write the reports and follow orders.
Luke picked up the receiver again to announce their arrival as Shimmer drove past Caruso’s Italian Restaurant. “Unit 2-King, 10-97,” he said and beamed a toothy grin in Shimmer’s direction.
Shimmer took another stab at seizing control. “Let’s get one thing straight, rookie. I’m senior officer in this car and you do what you’re told. Are we clear on that?”
“Look,” Luke said, “you sit over there in the driver’s seat and command that. If you want something, you can ask me nicely and I might consider it. Are we clear on that?”
A moment of hard silence followed until Shimmer finally pushed his car door open and stepped into the street while Luke stepped into the gutter.
The officers hugged the fronts of the adjacent buildings as they crept through the shadows, trying to not make any noise.
Light splashed onto the sidewalk from the interior of the laundromat and the officers heard footsteps crunching on broken glass. They cleared their holsters and posted on opposite sides of the door. Luke took charge and nodded. Shimmer nodded back with an exquisite look of exasperation on his face.
Luke stepped through the doorway with Shimmer following close behind. The snapping of broken glass sounded beneath their boots.
Henreid glowered at Shimmer then he smiled at Luke.
Luke saw Henreid better tonight than he ever had before. His biceps could have been sculpted of marble. His Rugby shirt accented pronounced pectorals and his close set eyes nearly disappeared under a single bushy eyebrow.
Broken chairs, chunks of stucco, loose bricks and scattered carpenter’s tools littered the floor. Henreid threw a pipe at Shimmer that clanged against the doorframe.
Luke’s reality instantly distorted into a slow motion movie.
Why didn’t Shimmer shoot? He was the senior officer and the one who should shoot this guy who’d already thrown a pipe a couple inches away from his head.
Henreid went off like a Hollywood Apache. He hopped. He hollered. He bounced on the balls of his feet and screamed things Luke couldn’t understand.
Luke knew Henreid well enough to know he didn’t want to kill anyone. He wanted to die.
Henreid threw another pipe at Shimmer’s head.
Luke retreated, the barrel of his gun riveted at Henreid’s chest, waiting for Shimmer to pull his trigger. But Shimmer shuffled backwards.
Luke could wrestle Henreid into submission if he could only get his hands on him. There was no need to kill him if Luke could just get a little closer. Luke could barely hear Shimmer barking orders for Henreid to stop, to give up, that they wanted to help him.
It wasn’t fair that Luke might have to kill a guy he’d taken on a ride-along. Shimmer’s years of patrol experience clearly made him the one to know when to shoot.
Henreid threw bricks and he threw hammers. He threw screwdrivers. He threw wooden stools. He stalked toward Shimmer.
Luke shouted out his own orders for Henreid to give up.
Objects flew and the officers retreated.
“Shoot me!” Henreid screamed. He hit Shimmer in the chest with a clock radio and barely missed with a wrench.
“Shoot me, asshole,” Henreid bellowed. “You’re going to have to shoot me.” Henreid smashed a bar stool against the cement floor, knocked the top free from the legs, and hurled the thick wooden seat like a Frisbee. It smashed into Shimmer’s neck. He clutched his throat and tripped over a brick.
Henreid hovered. He cocked a leg from the bar stool above his head, a home run hitter about to uncork a wicked swing and Shimmer’s head was the baseball.
Luke heard a muffled explosion and he saw fire belch from his gun. He watched a .38 semi-wadcutter bullet fly through the air. The round smacked into Henreid’s chest by his armpit before Henreid turned toward him.
“You asshoooooooole,” Henreid bellowed. “You shot me.” He looked at his chest and he looked at Luke. “You fucking shot me.” He was coming for Luke now with the bat still poised for a home run swing.
Luke saw another muzzle flash and he heard the whooshing explosion in Henreid’s neck an instant before a third bullet slammed into Henreid’s shoulder. He didn’t recollect firing the third shot. He never heard the bang and he never saw the flash.
Henreid toppled to the ground.
Luke rushed forward to render first aid.
Shimmer called for help over the radio. “Unit 2-King,” he said. “Shots fired. Suspect down. Send us a supervisor and an ambulance.”
42
THE LAUNDROMAT SWARMED WITH COPS. Reporters crowded together outside the doorway.
Among the first to arrive, Hartson watched Biletnikoff order officers to escort the reporters farther down the block. Then he told Hartson to assume command.
With the lieutenant’s exam only two weeks away, now would be a really bad time for an ambitious sergeant to screw up a sensitive investigation. It was true that supervising the initial stages of any homicide scene required following a relatively simple set of procedures. But police shootings always brought intense internal scrutiny because of the potential for negative press.
Hartson had to give it to Biletnikoff. His solution to the problem was foolproof. If Hartson messed anything up, Biletnikoff could claim he was developing a subordinate’s career. Hartson’s name sat at the top of the Sergeant’s list and supervising the scene would not only give him valuable experience, it would insulate Biletnikoff from potential fallout.
Hartson put Shimmer in the back of a patrol car, ordered him not to talk to anybody, and posted a rookie nearby to keep people away.
He issued the same order to Luke as he took his gun, but the order ate at his guts. He wanted to sit and talk to Luke, to tell him he’d done the right thing. That he was stuck in an ongoing nightmare of necessary standard procedures that would all go away one day.
He posted a rookie near Luke to keep others away instead and placed a trainee outside the doorway, issuing him an impossible order. “Do not let anyone in here but essential personnel.”
The trainee blinked nervously.
“Do you know what essential personnel means?” Hartson asked.
A pair of blank eyes stared back.
“It means only the Homicide guys can get inside here now. I don’t care if the Chief shows up. You look him straight in the eyeball and tell him he ain’t allowed inside unless he intends to take charge of the investigation personally.”
Hartson knew the order was patently absurd, that the trainee wouldn’t challenge any high-ranking officer wanting inside the laundromat unless he had balls the size of the ones Luke Jones carried around when he was a trainee. But it was the right order to issue and Hartson had met his responsibility. “Anybody gives you any trouble; you refer them right over there to Sergeant Biletnikoff.” Hartson nodded toward the patrol sergeant who stood on the sidewalk amidst a throng of reporters.
Hartson made Paul Devree the incident scribe, which was a dubious compliment. Scribes needed superio
r decision-making skills backed up by the experience necessary to cope with the inevitable chaos and stress of a hectic scene.
More importantly, scribes were the final line of defense against the powerful interlopers that would inevitably get past the sentinel outside the door. Scribes had to demand the names, ID numbers, and assignments of everybody who showed up at the scene and write it on his log. Everyone with their name on the log had to write a report detailing his or her role in the investigation. It was the mandatory report that deterred a lot of unnecessary meddling.
Everyone understood that the personnel log had to be accurate since opposing attorneys in subsequent court actions could allege incompetence or cover up, and the press reports would definitely turn ugly if that happened.
Hartson kept a folded arm vigil on the proceedings.
Could he have saved Henreid if he’d only had the guts to tell him quitting gambling wouldn’t win back his wife? What if he’d let Henreid jump that night up on the Concourse? One thing was for sure—Luke wouldn’t be dealing with killing him tonight.
He knew he’d done the right thing that night and he knew Luke knew it. Enough nonsense, he had to focus.
He wasn’t surprised that Biletnikoff faced off with the news cameras even after relinquishing command of the scene. The inevitable phone calls after the television face time were a lot of fun and Biletnikoff could argue how important it was for somebody with proper experience and savvy to handle the press who always demanded access to a department spokesman even though state law mandated that virtually nothing of consequence could be divulged this early in an investigation.
Biletnikoff assured the reporters it was premature to make any further comment. But yes, more information would be forthcoming, and no, he couldn’t give out the names of the involved officers yet.
Watching the charade provided a passable distraction for Hartson who’d otherwise have to focus on the frigid reality at hand. His former trainee, who’d become his trusted friend, now had to deal with the emotional devastation of killing a desperate man whose struggle he respected in order to save the life of a partner he hated.
43
THE HOMICIDE TEAM SERGEANT ASKED Biletnikoff for the scribe’s log.
Biletnikoff hollered out to Hartson, who yelled out to Devree, who presented a page from his notebook before the Homicide lieutenant asked for a quick briefing.
Hartson started to say what he’d learned, but Biletnikoff muscled his way in front. It was a spotlight moment and Biletnikoff clearly wanted the beacon even though the briefing was normally the responsibility of the scene supervisor.
The team sergeant designated a detective as scene investigator. That detective, teamed with a laboratory criminalist, took pictures of Henreid’s body, of the debris, and of the smashed glass. They measured Henreid’s distance from the walls and the doorway before detailing sketches of the laundromat and its contents.
A forensic pathologist and the “body snatcher” from a privately contracted company sealed a bag around Henreid’s body. They lifted him onto the gurney and a detective followed to attend the autopsy.
The Homicide sergeant assigned two detectives to escort Luke and Shimmer to the Homicide office.
“Son, I’m Detective Hensen and I’ll be driving you down to the office where you’ll be a little more comfortable.” The surreal words hitting Luke’s ears poured out of a Dover Cliff of a man with wing tips as big as clown shoes. The words echoed in Luke’s head.
Luke felt like a character in a science fiction novel set in an upside down universe as he sat inside the detective’s copper-colored Dodge Aspen. Luke dwarfed nearly everyone in the real world, but, in this altered reality, the man in the adjacent seat made him the little man.
Hensen stood nearly seven feet tall and weighed about as much as a small sedan. In his mid-forties and old enough to be Luke’s father, he assumed a paternal role that apparently came easily to someone whose physical presence dominated his environment.
Hensen’s thinning hair was tamed with a dab of hair cream and combed straight back to plaster against the top of his head. His ears supported silver-rimmed glasses and his tramp steamer of a body dominated the cab of the car as he slouched as low as possible into the seat, his head pushing against the lining of the ceiling.
The car holding Shimmer eased through the police garage behind Hensen’s car and they pulled into a parking area surrounded by the brown stucco buildings of an aging Spanish hacienda.
Police Headquarters held sway over Dead Man’s Point, State Registered Landmark number 57, a graveyard for sailors who’d died during Don Juan Pantoja’s mapping expedition of 1782. Situated at the southeast corner of the intersection of Market Street and Pacific Highway, it rested where corporeal land merged with the Pacific’s waters in a preternatural feeling of calm.
Palm fronds floated in the breeze beside a tower roofed with desiccated red tile. Police cars peppered the cobbled courtyard and the interior of the buildings exuded ill-tended Spanish elegance as Luke and Hensen walked past the SWAT armory that sat adjacent to the retired city jail. Once overflowing with drunks and vagrants, the jail presently flowed over with storage boxes stuffed with discarded public records. It was here the once stylish Spanish buildings hid their filthy little secret. The cells gave refuge to scores of rats that left their droppings during the daytime hours and raided the rest of the building at night.
The detectives ushered Shimmer into a Homicide interview room while Luke sat motionless in the waiting area, staring into nowhere. For the first time in his life his thoughts bombarded him with mental pictures.
He saw Henreid finishing a picture perfect home-run swing, but the head exploding against the impact belonged to Phillip McGrath, the Headless Horseman he’d encountered his first day on the job.
A distorted Henreid walked through a fun-house mirror to warn that Luke would visit this altered reality again as Luke sniffed the stench of the boiling witches’ brew and Macbeth’s weird sisters circled a spewing pot. Their mouths worked, but nothing came out.
Sergeant Farren escorted Luke into the interrogation room. Luke could have been waiting for minutes or he could have been waiting for hours. Farren pushed the door closed behind him as Lieutenant Berend waved Luke into a chair and fussed with a cassette recorder. He set the recorder in front of him and looked at his notes. “This is May 8, 1979,” he said into the recorder. “I’m Lieutenant Jim Berend recording an interview with Officer Luke Jones regarding his shooting of Charles Henreid. Present with us in the room is Sergeant Bob Farren.”
Berend turned his attention to Luke. “Before we ask any questions, I’d like to explain a few things you’ll need to know. Homicide Team II is investigating the shooting. Afterwards, the DA’s office will review our findings to verify the thoroughness of the investigation. Now, there isn’t any statutory mandate for the DA’s review, but the practice has developed in nearly every California County over the years.
“The purpose of the review is to assure the public that peace officers perform their duties in a manner commensurate with their authority. Now, the process determines the legality of the shooting, not the wisdom of the officer’s actions or whether there was a better way of dealing with the situation.” Berend reared back in his seat. “Do you have any questions so far?”
Luke shook his head.
“Because of their independence, experience and access to criminal justice agencies throughout the county, the DA’s office is the logical agency to conduct the review and make sure our investigation is both thorough and impartial.
“Are you sure you don’t have any questions?” Berend asked.
“I’m sure.”
Berend snatched a butterscotch candy from a bowl in the middle of the table, unwrapped it and stuck it in his mouth. “Once the DA has reviewed our investigation, they’ll send a letter to the Chief, summarizing the facts and providing a legal analysis of the use of deadly force. Now, typically, these letters are released to the press.
“Do you understand all this?”
“Yes,” Luke said.
“Okay,” Berend went on. “Before we ask any questions, there’s one last thing I need to explain. Probably the most important piece of evidence for the DA’s review is what you say about the shooting. You’re the only witness who can relate the information available to you when you pulled the trigger. It’s up to you to communicate a picture of what happened, tell us about any inferences you drew from the victim’s actions and articulate your motivations. In other words, tell us why you had to kill...” Berend flipped through his notebook for a second. “...Mr. Henreid. Let us know how he constituted a threat to either you or your partner. Is all that clear?”
Luke knew it was more than a question. It was a supplication for proof of Luke’s competence to continue with the process.
Luke nodded.
Berend shifted uncomfortably in his seat and turned the questioning over to Sergeant Farren.
“Okay,” Farren said. “Officer Jones, could you please tell us about what you perceived and felt at the time of the shooting?”
From somewhere Luke found the words to describe the shooting. He turned on the television at home sometime later to stare at the last half of Tyrone Power’s black-and-white version of The Razor’s Edge. The station’s broadcast day ended with the movie.
Luke didn’t move. The bright visual snow and insistent roar of the audio signal assaulted the room. But Luke sat still.
Sergeant Biletnikoff was on the other end of the line when the phone rang early in the morning. “Luke, did you get any sleep?”
“Are you there?” Biletnikoff asked.
“Yes.”
Luke tasted his rancid breath.
“Hey, take a few days off,” Biletnikoff said. “Think up some fancy quotes for lineup.” He paused, apparently waiting for a chuckle. “Then I’ll have you work the front counter until the shrink clears you.”
“The shrink?” Luke said.
“Yeah, didn’t anybody tell you? Here’s how it all works. First, you take a few crazy days, but don’t worry. You’ll get paid. Then you work light duty until the investigation’s completed and the shrink releases you to go back into the field.” Biletnikoff paused. “Look,” he went on, “if there’s anything I can do to help...”