"You're either a cop or little people."
Harry Bryant
Blade Runner
* *
A man's life is marked by a smattering of significant milestones. Some, such as graduations, a wedding day or the birth of a child, are golden moments that take one's breath away and are tucked away as cherished, pleasant memories. Others are life-changing, shocking events that arise solely by chance, mere rolls of celestial dice or spins of an esoteric wheel. The latter tend to be far more profound than planned, anticipated occasions, altering futures by unleashing powerful forces that drag us into endless nightmares. Or to certain death.
For a small cadre of Las Vegas police officers and its innocent victim, that cursed journey began on a scorching Saturday in July.
Officer Olek Krupa mopped up a pool of thick maple syrup, shoved the last bite of pancakes into his mouth, and pushed the plate away. He scanned the Suncoast employee's dining area, chewing rapidly. The usual mix of day shift casino workers. White-shirted dealers, a rotund security guard, and long-legged cocktail waitresses in skimpy skirts, fishnet stockings and spike heels.
Krupa made eye contact with a young Hispanic busing dishes nearby. The kid's expression registered momentary panic. Eyes downcast, the twenty-something busboy hefted a plastic tub of dirty plates and hustled off to the kitchen.
Damned illegal, Krupa smirked.
They were all over Las Vegas, low-paid, Spanish-speaking shadows who worked brutally long days and nights. They literally kept the large hotels, resorts and casinos humming efficiently. Exploited, pliable slaves from Mexico, Central America and who-knows-where else, they rarely caused trouble. That is, until they climbed the economic food chain and joined one of the many gangs spreading rapidly across the Vegas valley. Krupa smiled. Those Mexican gangbangers made great targets for Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department's finest.
Normally, uniformed police officers ignored illegal immigrants, the serfs who lived and worked in the seams and fault lines of Las Vegas, unseen coffee-skin ghosts just beyond the city's flashing neon and glitter. But now and then, Krupa and his brown-shirt colleagues would kick a little Hispanic tail. Rough 'em up a mite, just so the little devils knew their place and didn't get too "uppity," as Grandma Krupa would say.
The officer stood, hitched up a belt laden with the tools of his trade—a holstered Glock 21 Auto semiautomatic pistol, Taser, handcuffs, extendable metal nightstick, and black leather pouches bulging with extra magazines of .45 caliber, hollow point ammunition. He strolled to the back door, staring down one of the cocktail waitresses, a tall, shapely brunette who reeked of attitude. She stared back, painted lips drawn in a tight smirk.
Another cop-hating broad, Krupa concluded.
There was no shortage of her kind in Clark County, girls who'd been stopped on a back street late at night, questioned at length, maybe frisked… or worse. The smart ones knew better than to complain to Metro headquarters. The not-so-smart tattletales soon learned how things worked in Las Vegas and shut their traps. Or disappeared.
Krupa slid into a stifling hot, black-and-white cruiser, keyed a microphone clipped to his starched tan shirt, and reported to dispatch. Back on duty. He weaved slowly through the Suncoast parking lot, searching for anything out of the ordinary and aimlessly reflecting on the lifestyle he now enjoyed. About time, too. The Army hadn't worked out well, and gigs as prison and casino security guards had hardly challenged his talents and capabilities.
He loved being a street cop, and this was his kind of town. Unlike the chicken-shit, politically correct state prison system he'd worked for in Pennsylvania, Las Vegas Metro appreciated self-directed patrol officers. And Olek Krupa, by God, was definitely a get-it-done cop that didn't need a lot of mother hen oversight.
The only hiccup, at the moment, was his wife. She hated Vegas and was always gritchin' about wanting to move back East. Amy Krupa despised the dry heat and baked, yucca-dotted sand of the western desert, and pined for the east coast's profuse flower gardens, broadleaf trees and lush Kentucky bluegrass. Leaving Vegas was all she yapped about, and Officer Krupa was sick of her nagging.
She'd started blubbering about it again this morning, so he'd backhanded her across the chops. That would shut her up for a few days. Usually did. Krupa felt a twinge of regret for splitting her lip, but the damn woman was seriously getting on his nerves. She just didn't get it. This was where he belonged!
At forty years old, Krupa couldn't count on being hired by another police force or risk applying for a federal law enforcement slot, thanks to an unflattering record that certainly would raise too many questions. And he was anything but a steroid-bulked intimidator, the type of officer most departments preferred these days. Slight of build, narrow-shouldered and sporting a prominent middle-age pot gut, the five-foot-five cop simply did not command respect, even when wearing a thick bulletproof Kevlar vest.
But Krupa had other skills, plus a willingness to ignore the finer points of law, characteristics that Sheriff Uriah and his senior staff — assistant sheriffs and deputy chiefs collectively referred to as "The Tower" — clearly valued.
Besides, few metropolitan departments paid their patrol officers as well as Clark County did. And none could offer the unique side benefits available here. He'd found a home with Las Vegas Metro, and Amy could damn well accept it.
Then came the radio call that, ultimately, would mark the instant Krupa's life started a downhill slide, the first minute of his final days on Earth. Adrenaline surging, he responded to the dispatcher, switched on his cruiser's lights and siren, stomped the accelerator, and slid onto Alta Drive, tires squealing.
Show time!
* *
Two miles to the northwest, Officer Kale Akaka downed his third "GO!" power drink of the morning and tossed the tiny can into a trash barrel. He was dragging tail, after being up most of the night. The tall, broad-chested Hawaiian desperately needed rack time, but still had seven hours of an unexpected Saturday shift to complete. Some wuss had called in sick, prompting a West Substation sergeant to roust Akaka from bed at 0500.
Yeah, it was Saturday and supposed to be his first day off in two weeks, but rookies always got the weekend extra-duty call. Whatever. He'd be drawing time-and-half overtime.
Not that overtime pay really mattered. His financial situation had taken a positive turn of late, thanks to a stroke of unprecedented luck and opportunity. A veteran Metro detective had taken a liking to the Hawaiian rookie, after the two had worked a major drug bust together. Akaka had seen the detective pocket a small bag of prescription pills seized in the raid, but had said nothing. The detective was impressed by the rookie's discretion and "good judgment." The next day, he asked Akaka to "take a ride," after his shift ended.
Since then, the two men had confiscated and sold one hell of a lot of "product" - on the order of 600,000 powerful opioid analgesic pills. Demand for the pain medication was off the charts in Southern California, prompting the partners to adopt extraordinary measures.
Last night, Akaka had pulled a first — breaking into a CVS pharmacy on Charleston and cleaning out the store's supply of oxycodone and hydrocodone. For a street-savvy cop, it was remarkably easy to disable the CVS security system. The grab-and-go was executed in minutes, again impressing his detective partner. One more "take" like that, and Akaka would pay cash for that red, half-ton pickup truck he'd been coveting. Life was good and getting better by the day… or night.
He yawned, hoping the GO! drink's caffeine buzz would kick in soon.
Maybe today will be slow. He could hope, right?
Then the cruiser's radio came alive, erasing that unlikely dream of a no-event shift.
Although the big Hawaiian had no way of knowing, the final grains of sand in his hourglass-of-life started flowing, when he answered a dispatcher's call for "All units in the area… "
* *
Another Metro rookie was not having a stimulating morning. Officer Loring Malovic was in a cramped bathroom, monitoring a 72-year-old naked man sitting on the toilet. The gent was griping about something, but Malovic paid no attention. He was disgusted and embarrassed — and the room had begun to stink like a campground outhouse.
I signed up for this? the cop grimaced, trying to avoid watching the old guy strain.
Suddenly, the thunder mug resonated with gusto. The white-haired dude grinned, his face exploding into a web of deep-tanned wrinkles.
"You gettin' a charge out of this, son?" the senior citizen asked. "Real police work, huh?"
He laughed heartily, causing flaccid pectoral muscles to flutter. Malovic almost puked, as both nostrils and sensibilities were assaulted.
"Sir, finish your business and get some clothes on. You're going downtown."
"Like hell I am, kid! I'm goin' nowhere! Not 'til I finish takin' a crap, then I'm takin' a shower. You can park your young arse outside, or stay put and get an eye-full. I'm gonna steam up this place, and your cute little shirt creases are gonna wilt."
"Sir," Malovic tried again, "My orders are to keep you under surveillance. The sergeant explained… "
"Yeah, yeah," the old guy interrupted, waving a pale-pink palm. "You dumbarses are worried I'll hang myself in the shower or somethin', right? Well, I'm not gonna give that chicken-livered district attorney the satisfaction of goin' belly up. No siree." He grimaced, straining again.
Malovic felt a tad sorry for the guy. He didn't seem like a bad sort. In fact, the old dude hardly fit the profile of "mentally deranged," as the DA's decree claimed. Why the Clark County district attorney had deemed it necessary to send three Metro officers out here - on a Saturday morning, no less - to haul this poor man downtown for a "mandatory mental evaluation" made zero sense.
"Sir, it's none of my business, but why would the DA order a no-notice mental eval?" Malovic asked, shifting to a far corner of the cramped bathroom. A dark-brown stench was about to gag the officer.
The guy shook his head in anger. "'Cause he's a dumb dipstick. That damned fool DA wants to punish me by taking away my concealed-carry permit. And his justification? Because I reported my neighbors blowing off illegal fireworks last Sunday.
"'Course, that's 'bout the tenth time I reported the damned fools. They're running an illegal, unlicensed business out of their home, and there's gotta be at least three families living over there! They're foreigners from some damned God-awful-a-stan, and must have donated lotsa bucks to that chicken DA's election campaign. Nobody in Clark County official-dumb will do a blasted thing about the stuff I reported!"
He erupted into a coughing fit.
Malovic knelt, worried. The gent waved him away, gasping for air. "I'm alright, son. Not gonna croak on ya, okay? Now, if you'd be so kind as to turn around, I'm gonna finish up here."
Malovic turned away, again wondering what had possessed him to become a Las Vegas police officer. A couple of side glances confirmed his fears. The old bugger was climbing into a glass-doored shower.
"Hey, kid!" he shouted. "Did that dumbarse DA tell ya anything about the dangerous old geezer you were sent out here to detain and haul downtown?"
"No, sir. Just what the sergeant said: We were ordered to take a Mr. Donaldson downtown for a mandatory mental evaluation. If you possess a concealed-carry weapons permit, and you've allegedly displayed unusual, erratic behavior, that's lawful reason to detain and require you to undergo a mental evaluation."
Even to Malovic, the DA's order sounded like a crock of dog-doo.
The old man's deep-throated chuckle emerged from the hiss of water. Fortunately, the glass door had steamed up, concealing the guy's white skin and sagging features.
"So, Mr. Woody-the-Dumbarse Ryns, our esteemed chicken-liver district attorney, never mentioned that I was a decorated former cop? Or that I'd retired 'with distinction' from the Minneapolis-St. Paul force after twenty-two years of professional service?"
"No, sir. No mention of that."
"Musta been an oversight."
Malovic felt even more stupid. A retired cop! What the… ?
He waited, but there was no follow-up. Smothering steam was engulfing the room, humidity and heat overpowering the air conditioning. The rookie was about to throw the bathroom door open, when the sound of spraying water abruptly ceased. Donaldson stepped out, displaying more than Malovic needed to see.
"Throw me that towel hangin' on the door," the old man growled, flipping a finger. Malovic complied, averting his eyes.
"Hell, nothin' here you haven't seen before," Donaldson cackled.
He vigorously scrubbed a mane of matted, wet hair, made a show of throughly drying his privates, then wrapped the towel around his waist.
"Open that door, before you turn lobster red, kid."
Malovic followed Donaldson into the bedroom, and again turned away as the old man let the towel fall. Modesty wasn't a Donaldson trait. Struggling into a pair of boxers, the man glanced sideways at Malovic.
"How long you been with Metro, son?"
"Two years, sir."
"Little over one year, you mean. You're still 'sirring' everything that isn't painted. That year in the academy don't count, ya know. Not for real cops, anyhow."
Malovic shrugged. Most civilians didn't know about the year-long academy training phase.
"So… What d'ya think of the police biz?" Donaldson asked casually. He pulled up a pair of dark blue slacks, then sat on a chair to roll on a pair of socks.
"It's… it's good, sir."
"But definitely not what you expected, huh?"
The young officer shrugged again.
"Lot of dumbarse duties like rounding up an old fart for a no-notice mental eval? Not much bustin' bad guys' heads and solvin' murders, right?"
Malovic nodded. The old dude sure got a lot of mileage out of that ancient upper-Midwest term, "arse."
Donaldson said nothing more, as he shouldered into a tailored, button-down, yellow shirt.
Does have taste, Malovic admitted.
Watching himself in a full-length mirror, the retired law enforcement officer continued in a low voice, "Let me guess. You've witnessed your fellow cops and superiors pulling shady stunts. You've seen 'em lie to the sheriff, the district attorney and probably even a jury.
"I'll bet you've talked to a senior officer, somebody you trusted, and he—or she these days—explained the facts of real-world police work. 'Go ahead and accept the free coffee and meals at the hotels and casinos. Everybody does, so what the hey? We put our lives on the line for these damned civilians. We deserve a few goodies!'
"Next it's doctoring a report. Not much. Only enough to, say, protect your partner or a fellow boy in blue." He glanced at Malovic. "Or, in your case, boy in brown."
"Sir, we really need to… "
"Shut up, kid! You're gonna hear me out!" Donaldson snapped, glaring at Malovic. "Now… You've probably been told to keep your trap shut. 'Go along and get along. Don't rock the ol' canoe and you'll do juuuust fine.' Right?"
Malovic was silent, glaring at the geezer.
Donaldson smiled tiredly, almost apologetically. "Yeah, I'm right. Been there myself. But, before you haul my old arse downtown, I'm gonna give you a piece of advice. One old cop to a rookie cop. Okay? And ya better pay attention, kid: Never, ever give 'em your soul! As much as humanly possible, hang onto those naive principles that brought you to this 'protect-and-serve' profession. Don't take the easy road of lying, cheating and covering up. And never, ever discharge your weapon, unless you're absolutely frickin' positive you're gonna be killed.
"In twenty-two years behind the badge, I drew my weapon a few times, but I never fired it in anger," Donaldson said quietly. "Not once. I never killed a man, even though I could have. Many times. And, today, I sleep like a baby every damned night. No regrets. D'ya understand what I'm sayin', son?"
Malovic, taken aback, nodded. The retired officer's words had sliced straight into the young cop's soul. Over the past few months, Malovic had become deeply troubled by the go-along-to-get-along bull that he'd encountered repeatedly, and was haunted by serious doubts concerning his chosen profession. With less than a year in the field, every shining ideal and perception of honorable police service had been shattered.
"Kid, I gotta tell you somethin' else," Donaldson said, staring hard at the young officer. "Your eyes tell me you already know this, but I wanna make damned sure you know that I know. You're working for one of the most corrupt, crooked, dirty, ugly, dishonorable police forces in the nation. Your sheriff is a smooth politician, who finagles meaningless bullshit awards for Metro, but he and The Tower have the moral turpitude of sour-mouthed rattlesnakes.
"If I were you, I'd resign right now. Today! Throw that tarnished star on Uriah's desk and walk out the door with your head held high and your honor intact. If you don't, Metro's bad son of a bitches'll destroy you. Count on it."
Donaldson brushed past a red-faced Malovic, not waiting for a retort. In the living room, the old man spread his arms and said, "Ready to go! Take this poor old wreck of an ex-cop downtown for a trumped-up mental evaluation!"
The front door burst open and a third officer stuck his head inside. "Dude, we gotta go! Dispatch says there's a guy acting weird at the Summerlin Ho's store. Carrying a concealed weapon and claiming he's a Green Beret."
Malovic's heart jumped, as he ran for the door. Excited? Yes. Scared? Maybe.
Either way, given Donaldson's pointed admonitions, a dark cloud of foreboding followed the rookie, a palpable sense of dread that defied logical definition. Flipping on the cruiser's lights and siren, he was vaguely conscious of a nagging premonition that he was racing into a shadowed valley of death.