Chapter 7
“Of all the times…” Captain Brady O’Keefe said, rubbing his head where much of his hair had receded. He slammed his office door shut and looked menacingly at officers Jackson “Jack” Dunham and Chaz Rossi. “What the hell were you two thinking, not running the plate?”
“We’re sorry, Sarge, but what were the chances he was Metra?” Jack asked. “Especially on that side of town and at that hour.”
“A fishing expedition…that’s what you two decided to embark on,” Brady said. “Of all the nights to play it loose, you picked the night Obama gets elected. I don’t know what you were thinking.”
“The guy and his SUV fit the description.”
“It’s standard practice,” Brady said emphatically. “Not optional. The first thing you do is run the goddamn plates!”
“We were sure we’d find something,” Chaz said. “And the guy swerved a few times like he was itching to make a break for it. We had to move on him quick.”
“You’re putting that in your report as the rationale for the traffic stop?” Brady asked. “Because they’re going to scrutinize the hell out of whatever you write before the ink dries, so you’d better have your fucking story straight.”
“We’re still working on our reports,” Jack said. “But Chaz is right. We observed him driving erratically, and the vehicle matched the description of one seen leaving those warehouse robberies from a few nights ago…”
“Jesus, you’re still working on the report?” Brady put his hands on his hips like a disappointed father. “And you think saying he was driving a little reckless is going to fly when all you’ve got is a couple of swerves?”
“What does it matter anyway? He had a gun and took a shot at us,” Chaz said.
“It matters, you idiot. In this climate it all matters. You need a justified reason for making that traffic stop that put a cop in the hospital.”
“Look, we did our jobs,” Chaz said. “It was a clean shooting. Forensics will show that.”
“It doesn’t matter what you think you did right.
When the marches commence, it’ll be your faces on the evening news, and they’ll be calling for your heads.
For all you know, the guy’s got a spotless record.
He could be the saint of all cops. Decades on the force without a single complaint or blemish.
People might line up around the block to speak on his behalf. ”
“Never met a Chicago cop without at least something he’s not proud of on his record,” Jack said smugly.
“First time for everything, smart-ass.” Brady balled his fist tight, looking at the men before him. “Who the hell do you yahoos have to speak for you? Have you seen your records?”
“We got you, Brady,” Chaz said a little too confidently.
“No—no, you don’t have me. What you have is a department that will fuck you so fast it’ll make you shit your pants, and if anything comes out about this ID business—”
“Brady, it’s like I told you, he didn’t have it on him,” Jack said. “No license. No police identification. All he had was his piece. That’s the information we acted on. Any decent cop in our shoes would’ve done the same.”
Brady took a seat at his desk, which had seen better days. Aside from the scuffs and knicks, the wood was beginning to fade, much like he feared his career was. “You two had better fix this. Get me?”
“Don’t worry,” Jack said. “It’ll play out how we say.”
“I’m just thinking out loud here,” Chaz began. “But say the vehicle didn’t have a plate, or we couldn’t read it?”
“Chaz, what the hell are you saying?” Jack asked. “Just keep quiet.”
“I’m saying, what if we couldn’t see it, which was why we couldn’t run it,” Chaz continued. “If the plate was missing or defaced, we’re in the clear. It justifies the stop…Right?”
Brady slammed his fist against the desk and stood, sending the chair spinning into orbit and smashing against a filing cabinet.
“I don’t want to hear any of this shit. As a matter of fact, I don’t care what you do because, as of this moment, you’re both on leave until the shooting team concludes their investigation. ”
“We’re sorry, Brady.”
“And stop calling me Brady. We ain’t on a first-name basis anymore. I have the right mind to take this up the chain. You went and shot the wrong asshole, and now you two’s ship is sinking, but I ain’t going down with you. No one’s going to take my pension, goddamn it.”
“But sir…” Chaz looked as if he wanted to beg. He was a witless rookie in every sense of the word.
“From here on out, you two are on desk duty,” Brady said. “You’re ordered to finish your reports and wait for Internal Affairs at your desks. I’d suggest calling your union reps. Give me your pistols.”
They unholstered their firearms and set them down in front of Brady, who placed them in a metal cabinet and locked it.
“Now get the hell out of my office.” Brady recovered his chair and wheeled it back to the desk.
Jack exited the office with Chaz following behind.
The precinct was busy as usual. Other officers’ eyes were on them, judging them, he thought.
No one knew the particulars of the incident, but enough details had made the rounds that four cops had shot someone, and the person was possibly a Metra cop.
Speculations were swirling that Hollis had been with CPD earlier in his decades-long career.
Jack figured that once Hollis’s law enforcement background was corroborated, it’d be all over the news—a running loop on every major local and cable network—and soon, reporters would be camped out on his front lawn.
The moment a cop’s face became part of the city’s collective memory, it would be impossible for that cop to work.
He wouldn’t be able to patrol or investigate any crime.
No one talked to cops whose faces had been seen all over the news, especially if they were accused of a dirty shooting.
“Fuck,” Chaz said, sitting at his desk. “What the hell are we supposed to do? Just wait around for those jack-offs from IA to come and officially suspend us?”
“What you said back there about the license plate…”
“Yeah?”
“You think it could work?” Jack asked.
“I mean, it’s worth a shot.”
“It might be the angle we need to prove we acted the same as any other cop would in our position—a dark street, suspicious vehicle, a driver with no ID, and a plate we can’t read.”
“Mitigating factors.”
“We need to get to impound.”
“What about Internal Affairs?” Chaz asked.
“Like you said, it’s not like we can wait around all night. They can fucking reschedule.”
“Well, shit,” he said. “What are we waiting for?”