14. Chapter 14
“Jimmy” and “Sanders” are Jimmy Jones and Ralph Sanders. Why one goes by his first name and the other by his last, I have no idea. But as I stand in the ambulance bay waiting for a female EMT to see if she can track one of them down, I am suddenly feeling shy. I’m wondering if I should just leave when I hear a nearby medic shout to a guy rushing in through the open garage doors.
“Hey, Sanders, nice of you to show up!” the man says.
Bingo.
“Yeah, yeah,” the man, apparently Sanders, responds. “The baby was up every two hours last night.”
Sanders is a tall blonde man with a solid build. I’d say he’s my age. His polo shirt with the agency logo is tucked into cargo pants with all sorts of things clipped to them—radio, beeper, phone, keys. He is carrying a duffle bag over his shoulder.
“I remember those days,” says the other guy.
“How long till your little guy slept through the night?” Sanders asks him.
The other guy just chuckles.
I don’t realize I’m watching the scene like a stalker until the female EMT comes out of the office. “Oh good, you found one of them,” she says to me, getting both Sanders and the other guy’s attention. They look to her, then to me.
“Er, yeah,” I look between all of them. “Sorry,” I say to Sanders. “I was hoping to talk to you for a second.”
“Me?” he asks, pointing at himself. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The woman retreats back to the office and the other guy gets busy stocking an ambulance with medical supplies.
“Well, this is a little random, but I was told you responded to a call a little while back I was hoping to get some information on,” I start.
He finishes stuffing his duffel bag into a locker and shuts the door with some heft. “Which call?” he asks, turning so he is facing me square on, hands on his hips.
“It involved a drug deal on the east side of the city. A teenager was killed. Jerome King.”
Sanders runs one hand through his finger-length blonde hair and lets out a low whistle. “It’s been a while since anyone brought up that name,” he says. “What do you want to know? I can’t imagine I have much information for you.”
I cross my arms over my chest and look down at my feet before looking back up at him. “Well, I reported on the case. Maybe I should have led with that, sorry. I’m a reporter with ROC Record. But that’s not why I’m here today. I’m not writing anything. I’m not looking for a quote or anything. This is off the record.”
Sanders’ hand is now resting on the back of his neck. One might think he was working out a kink.
“Anyway, that doesn’t matter,” I continue, awkward as usual. “There was a discrepancy between what the police report stated and what Jerome’s family is saying. About drugs being found on him. Since you were one of the first responders, I was just wondering if you saw anything. If you found anything in his pockets, or even if something had fallen out and was laying on the ground?”
Sanders lets out a half-laugh, half-huff. “Look … I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t,” I say, even more awkward than before. I shove my hand out toward him. “Lyzbeth Mitchell.”
“Lyzbeth,” he says. Giving me a firm handshake and a nod. “Look, Lyzbeth, we don’t go checking victims’ clothing or bodies. If we have to cut off clothing to access a wound or administer meds, we do that. But even then, we don’t go through anyone’s pockets. If I recall correctly, Jerome had a chest wound, so we probably removed his shirt. We likely left it right on the lawn, and it became evidence. If he had anything in his pants pocket, the hospital would have dealt with it.”
He folds his arms across his chest. “If there was anything on the ground, we wouldn’t have even noticed. We’re pretty focused on one task when we arrive at a scene. And if we did see anything, we would have left it there, seeing as it could be evidence, and we wouldn’t want to tamper with the scene of a crime.”
“Right. Gotcha,” I say, suddenly feeling embarrassed for alluding to the fact that he may have tampered with evidence.
Sanders shuffles his feet. “Well, if there isn’t anything else I can do for you, I need to help stock this vehicle for calls,” he dismisses.
“No. Thank you, though.” I move toward the garage door but turn back at the last minute. I reach into my bag for my business card. “If you remember anything, please call?” I hand one over to him.
“Sure thing.” He takes the card with a nod.
Strangely, going back to work after a week off feels weird. I feel like I’ve been away for too long. Like I’ve missed out on too much.
However, the stack of notes and police reports and papers on my desk, and the 137 unread emails, tells me by the time I’m done going through all this shit, I won’t have missed a beat.
I stare down at my mess of a desk before taking off my blazer and plopping down. As I’m trying to organize the chaos, bright colors catch my eye as Monty comes flitting over from his desk, wearing a yellow checkered button-up which, tucked into a pair of gray slacks, makes his belly look bigger than it is.
“You look like a giant Mallow Cup,” I say without looking up at him.
He ignores me. “I need you to come with me to a presser outside the women’s resource center at noon today. They got some grant funding.”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I respond, half of my attention still on my desk and the papers I’m shuffling around.
There is silence so I look up.
“You hear me? Or was that just a robot response?”
“Noon. Presser. Grant funding. Got it,” I say, before looking up at him.
Monty gives me a half-smile. His hair is a little wily today. “How you doing, kid?”
I drop some papers on the desk with oomph and lean back in my chair. “Honestly?”
“Are you ever anything but with me?”
“Never,” I sigh. “Honestly, I’m a little … off, I guess.”
Monty nods. “Chin up, sunshine. We missed you around here.” He heads back to his desk, but not before giving me wide eyes and gesturing over my head.
As I swivel around in my chair I see Cherise has come out from her office and is approaching me. “Lyzbeth, just the lady I wanted to see,” she says as she stops in front of my desk, hands on her hips, her black slacks and deep red blouse looking extra shiny today.
“I aim to please,” I respond. I should stand, but I’m feeling a little bit of “fuck you” today so I remain slouched back in my chair.
“Chief Scott left me a message asking that you stop by the department one of these days.”
I wonder why he wouldn’t just call my cell. “He knows where to find me,” I say, to which Cherise gives me a head tilt, and I realize I’m being a bit sassy. “Sorry. I just don’t understand why he wouldn’t reach out to me directly.”
“I think he actually wanted me to know he was trying to get a hold of you. I got the feeling this is a little bit of theater.”
Huh. “Alright, I’ll call him in a few.”
I part ways with Monty after the presser and head to the police headquarters. I called Chief Scott back this morning and agreed to stop by this afternoon, but he gave me no indication as to why he wanted to see me.
“Greetings, Ms. Mitchell,” is the welcome I get from Reggie, who is working the front desk at headquarters today.
“Hey there, Reginald! What’s happening? Gimme the goods.”
Reggie smiles while leaning back and rubbing his round belly hidden under his uniform. “You know they don’t tell me nothin’ around here,” he says. “Not high enough on the food chain.”
Reggie has a reddish hue to his short-cropped and thinning hair, speckled with white, and his skin is pale with a red flush that easily creeps into his cheeks and up his neck when he laughs.
After placing a call to the chief’s office to let them know I’m here, he gestures to one of the chairs against the wall for me to wait in as we shoot the shit.
After just a few minutes, an officer I’ve seen before but don’t really know appears in the doorway to the main hall. “Ms. Mitchell?”
“That’s me.” I shoot up.
“Deputy Clark,” he tips his head in greeting. “Chief Scott is ready for you.” He steps aside and we walk side by side down the short hallway toward the chief’s office, which I know is at the end.
As we do, I can’t help but notice how large Deputy Clark is. Close to six feet tall, with broad shoulders and tight arm muscles lined with veins. He raps his knuckles on the chief’s door to announce our arrival to his office. It’s a small room, white with no embellishments. There is just a desk he is sitting behind, two chairs in front of it, and a filing cabinet and bookshelf to one side.
As I walk in, the chief stands up and stretches his hand out to me, and I take it. “Ms. Mitchell, nice to see you again.” He’s oddly cheery, which automatically has me on edge. As the chief and I each sit, it’s then I notice Deputy Clark is still in the room, and he’s standing next to Sgt. Henderson.
But more importantly, I wonder why they are here.
“Lyzbeth, thanks for coming in to see me,” the chief begins, still friendly as all get-out. I smile and nod. “So, I wanted to give you a tip. We’ve got a couple of cars headed over to Chuck Aster’s place tonight.”
“Chuck Aster, as in the city councilman?”
“That’s the one. We’ve been investigating him for a while. Got a tip a few months back a colleague noticed some, well, inappropriate images he left up on his laptop one day. The Bureau of Criminal Investigations got a subpoena for his computers and other devices. Turns out he’s into youngins, if you get my drift.”
“Gross.” I can’t keep the word from leaving my mouth. It gets a chuckle from the guy behind me.
“Yes, gross, indeed,” Scott continues. “Anyway, I’m telling you, exclusively. You and Monty can get a photo of Aster being arrested. Should happen well before press time tonight.”
I sit on that information for a minute. Surely, the chief would be elated to have Aster’s arrest in the papers tomorrow morning—a show of his dandy police work. So, why not leak the information to a bigger news outlet, or a television news station?
“Here’s the address,” the chief hands me a piece of paper with a number and street name scribbled on it. I take it, and sit back, remaining silent. “I’ll be able to answer more questions tonight, but right now I can only give you the minimum.”
I look at the paper in my hands, then up at the chief. “Why me?”
He leans back in his chair. “Why? Well, Lyzbeth, you’ve always been good to us here at the department.”
I think that over. “Actually, I haven’t,” I retort, and he gives me a strange look. “Remember last year when we outlined the district attorney’s accusations of your mishandling of the assault case at the former Kodak building? And a few months ago, when I ran with your ‘no comment’ on the police misconduct allegations. You personally called and ripped me a new one for that.”
The chief looks down at his folded hands and chuckles. “Oh, I dunno, Lyzbeth. I guess I’m letting bygones be bygones.”
Huh?Fuck bygones.
“Yeah, that’s not going to work for me,” I say. “What’s the give-and-take here?”
He just looks at me. “Look, I just know that you’ve been going after some stories out of our department lately and thought I’d throw you a bone.”
Oh, that was definitely the wrong thing to say.
“First of all, I don’t need any bones thrown my way,” I say as I glance back down at the address in my hand and commit it to memory. “Second, what do you mean, going after some stories?”
The chief puts his hands up. “No need to get defensive. I’m just thinking this is a better lead than circling around past stories.”
We stare each other down for a beat. I know exactly what he’s getting at. “You want me to stop asking around about the Jerome King case.”
With a stare that could cut glass, Scott gives me the tightest, slightest nod.
Keep your cool, Lizzie. Keep it together …
I lean over and place the piece of paper he gave me back on his desk, then, with two fingers, slide it across to him. “Sorry, Chief, but that’s not gonna fly with me. I appreciate the tip, but what I decide to pursue is not up for negotiation.”
“It wasn’t a request.” The sentence is clipped and cold and comes out through clenched lips.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Just then I hear the click of the door shutting behind me and turn to see Henderson and Clark blocking it. I suppress an eye roll as I rise to my feet. “Seriously? You need muscle to keep me in check. What is this, intimidation tactics?”
The chief stands along with me and comes around the desk in a non-aggressive way. Hands on his hips, he stops in front of me and lets out a sigh. Head down, he casts his eyes up at me.
“Look, this isn’t how I meant for this to go. You just aren’t doing anyone any good by opening up old wounds. I know Mrs. King approached you. She’s got her case against the city which, to put it out there, will go nowhere. Her son was guilty.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other as I remain aware of the men behind me.
“I need you to stop, Lyzbeth. I need you to just let it go.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” I say. “Frankly, the fact you are asking me to let it go makes me want to dig even deeper.”
Scott exhales through his nose and his nostrils flare.
“What are you hiding?” I ask. “What really happened? Why not tell me the truth?”
He just stands there.
“OK, well, this has been real fun, but I’m going to go now.” I step around him and hit the wall of muscle hiding the door. “Mind getting your bodyguards to step down?” I ask without looking back at the chief.
He must give them a silent indication because they separate, but not before Henderson gives me an apologetic look.
“Oh, please,” I say to him.
I storm out the door and down the hall. As I pass Reggie, I hear him yell after me, “Hey, Lizzie, what’s the rush?”
At least he wasn’t in on the ambush, too.