"Everything they do is crooked and wrong."
Proverbs 2:15
The Living Bible
Officer Loring Malovic parked behind a red Ford F150 pickup sporting oversized tires and gleaming chrome wheels. Its personalized Nevada license plate read, MAKE, Hawaiian for Death.
Gotta be Akaka's.
Throughout their police-academy training, the burly Hawaiian had rarely missed an opportunity to flaunt his island heritage.
The cop locked his car and followed a faux-stone sidewalk to the front door of a stuccoed tract home. Oleander bushes and cactus plants flanked a five-foot-square slab fronting the doorway.
He punched the doorbell, heard muted chimes, and was greeted by a plump woman with straight, thin hair.
"Hi! I'm Loring Malovic. S'posed to see Mr. Krupa?"
The woman stared. "The other shooter."
She about-faced and led him inside.
"They're in there," she said, pointing. "Want something to drink?"
Before he could answer, she turned toward the kitchen.
"No, thanks," Malovic said to her back. She flipped a palm at the ceiling.
Whatever.
Olek Krupa and Kale Akaka were in a spacious walk-in closet, eyeballing floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with cartons of ammunition.
"Hey, rookie," Krupa said, pointing. "Check out my stash."
Malovic whistled. "Dude! You expecting an invasion?"
"More'n twenty-thousand rounds," Krupa boasted. "Everything from twenty-two long-rifle and hollow-point forty-five to Win-Mag three-oh-eight. Some redneck or gangbanger starts a war, I say, 'bring it on, a-hole!'"
Malovic nodded, trying to seem impressed. Inside, his gut rolled in disgust.
"Hey, you look like hell, rookie!" Krupa said, smacking Malovic's upper arm. "Old lady holding out on ya?"
Malovic shot the guy a withering glance. The comment was too close to painful truth.
"I…haven't slept much."
Krupa laughed, a cross between a rasp and giggle. "Awwww! Boo-hoo! Rookie got a spell of guilty conscience, and mama's bitchin' about her darlin' killing a perp?"
Malovic left the closet, ignoring Krupa's taunts.
"What's keepin' ya awake, rookie? First time ya ever shot somebody?"
Malovic crossed his arms and looked down at the pot-bellied officer. "Yeah, it is. Of course, you hosed that dude in oh-six, so no big deal. Kill once, and the next time's a piece of cake, right?"
He turned to the Hawaiian, adding, "How 'bout you, Mongo? You ever kill anybody? I mean, before you pumped four, five rounds into Steele's back?"
The emphasis was intentional.
Akaka's black eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I have. I whacked seven Iraqis in Fallujah. They were trying to kill us, so I took 'em out."
Malovic looked away, embarrassed. He'd forgotten Akaka had served as a Marine ground-pounder in Iraq. The menacing jarhead had been mustered out of the corps, under less-than-ideal circumstances.
The doorbell chimed.
"That's Dick Nardel," Krupa said, heading for the door.
"The union guy?" Malovic asked.
"Yeah," Akaka answered, following Krupa to the living room. "Vader said Nardel's supposed to brief us on next steps."
Malovic nodded. Captain Greel had called Sunday morning, telling Sandy to make sure her husband was at Krupa's house by 10 a.m. Monday for "a debriefing." At the time, Malovic had been in the shower, precluding follow-up questions.
He'd assumed Vader would inform the three cops about standard department procedures, following an officer-involved shooting. Why would the union chief be handling such details?
Krupa introduced Richard "Dick" Nardel, and asked, "Okay, who wants a beer? I've got a frige full of cold Pabst."
Nardel gave a thumbs-up. Malovic shook his head.
"Thanks; got my own," Akaka said, pulling a can of Red Bull from an oversized cargo pocket of baggy shorts.
Nardel popped a can's pull-tab, took a long draft and wiped his lips.
"Ooo-eee! Good stuff!"
The sandy-haired director of the Las Vegas Police Protective Association settled into an overstuffed recliner and crossed his legs, a picture of casual self-confidence. Dressed in a light-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up two turns, dark slacks and tasseled loafers, Nardel certainly looked the part of a polished union exec.
He'd been a street cop, until the night he slammed a woman facedown onto the hood of his cruiser, giving her a concussion. Nardel had assumed she was just another sexy "working girl," but not so. She was a well-connected graduate student at the University of Nevada-Las Vegas.
To duck a lawsuit, Sheriff Uriah had quickly benched the cocky officer and opened an internal-affairs investigation of the incident. Thanks to Nardel's wife, a corporate lawyer for resort-casino mogul Antone Galocci, "Dickie" had breezed through the cursory probe unscathed.
Connections—and having considerable knowledge of Uriah's penchant for well-endowed young women—had led to Nardel's appointment as director of the PPA. Still drawing a Metro salary, he'd been the union chief for more than three years, thriving on the heady power that came with representing roughly 2,700 Las Vegas-area law enforcement officers. Mixing it up with high rollers at cocktail parties definitely beat herding inebriated tourists on the Strip.
Nardel assessed the three officers. Krupa was sprawled across an overstuffed armchair, sipping a beer. Obviously relaxed.
The big guy, Akaka, was hard to read. Stoic, with slits for dark eyes that revealed nothing.
The other rookie, Malovic, was nervous. A pinched, furrowed brow hooded bloodshot, anxious brown eyes, and he kept stroking a well-trimmed mustache.
"Alright, boys," the union boss began, "Captain Greel asked me to brief you about events going forward. You're officially on administrative leave, as you know, but what does that entail?
"Well, most importantly, it means you still get a full paycheck, and you don't go back to work, until you're told to. Now, how long will that be? Typically, a couple of months. Not until after the coroner's inquest hearing, and that won't be convened, until the homicide investigation's completed.
"Officer Krupa, I know you've been through an inquest, but you other boys haven't, correct?" The junior cops nodded. "Krupa can fill in the details later, but here's the short edition: The county coroner conducts a 'fact-finding' hearing to determine whether you boys were justified in shooting that suspect last Saturday. Of course, the official investigation is being conducted by our own homicide division, so we don't anticipate any problems."
Nardel grinned and winked.
"What about the district attorney, sir?" Malovic asked. "Can't he do his own investigation?"
Nardel nodded and tossed an arm over the chair's back.
"That's right. But DA Ryns won't. Trust me."
A long silence hung between them. Finally, Malovic asked, "Why not? That's his job, isn't it? He's the people's watchdog to make sure we do our job properly."
"Damn sure is. But this is Las Vegas, boys. The DA is… well, an integral cog of a very special machine, you might say. For forty years or so, every DA has… mmmm… . Well, the DAs tend to be very cooperative. DA Ryns and his assistants work closely with our homicide team to achieve mutually beneficial objectives, understand?"
The union chief smiled again, displaying a row of cosmetically enhanced chompers.
Malovic glanced at Akaka. No help there. Krupa was eyeing his fellow shooters, a smirk creasing bloated features. Malovic cleared his throat.
"Got it, sir. So, what happens at the inquest hearing?"
"Well, you testify about the shooting, a jury will clear you of wrongdoing, and you go back to work." Nardel shrugged, sipping his beer.
"What if the jury doesn't exonerate us? What if they come back with a guilty verdict?" Malovic pressed.
"Look, that's never going to happen," the union chief assured. "Since Clark County switched to an inquest system in the seventies, the coroner has conducted almost two hundred hearings. This 'fact-finding' system was set up to make sure juries can return only three possible findings: Justified, excusable or criminal. In thirty-four years, only one officer has been found at fault, and he wasn't prosecuted. The DA has never filed charges against a Metro officer involved in a fatal incident."
"But the DA could come after us, even if a jury clears us, right?" Malovic said.
"Yeah, but he won't. You boys can rest easy. You're absolutely golden." Nardel smiled confidently. "The suspect you shot had a gun on his person. That's all we need to guarantee a 'justified' inquest finding."
Malovic wasn't convinced. "But Steele never touched his firearm! Krupa screwed up!" The officer pointed at Krupa and raised his voice. "He shot the guy, because Steele had a damned BlackBerry cell phone in his hand!"
Krupa glared at the junior cop. The union boss sighed, leaned forward and carefully interlaced his fingers.
"Officer Malovic, that's not the way this incident went down, and you know it. As Captain Greel summarized on Saturday, Erik Steele did draw a Kimber Ultra-Carry forty-five from his waistband and did point it at Officer Krupa, who had no option but to shoot. Had he not fired, he, you and many innocent civilians could have been killed or severely injured. Before Steele could get off a round, you and Akaka fired in support of a fellow police officer. Exactly as you were trained.
"That's how it happened, and that's precisely what your testimony's going to be on the stand. Got it?"
Malovic whipped a glance at the other two shooters. Nothing but dark, menacing glares.
"Got it, sir. This case could be different, though. Ho's had a video-surveillance system that will prove Steele never touched his gun.
"Besides, Steele's no backstreet drug dealer! He's a decorated Army officer and a respected medical-device salesman. He's also a big-time real estate guy — sales director for those high-dollar condo towers over by the Suncoast Casino! He's bound to have connections that could derail the Metro and DA 'machine'!"
Closing his eyes, Nardel shook his head. Patiently, as if speaking to a child, he explained, "All irrelevant. The Ho's video is being handled. It will not be a problem.
"And by next Saturday, everybody in Vegas will be convinced that Erik Steele was a drunk, a wife beater, a drug-abusing scumbag… whatever. Nobody will care that he's a West Pointer or Army veteran or hotshot real estate broker.
"We know how to turn a suspect into anything we want him to be."
"And TV reporters simply buy our bullshit?" Malovic shot back.
"The media isn't a problem," Nardel said. "Nooooo problem at all."
The lips were smiling, but the eyes were not.
"Ya see, boys," he soothed, "average Joe citizens are stupid—and scared. Stability is what's important to them, and they'll do anything to protect their neat little world view. They want police officers to take care of them, the little guys, who are just trying to get by every day. They don't want to believe police officers use excessive force and kill innocents, so we feed that desire.
"We give the folks what they crave—assurance that we're taking care of 'em. As a result, they're willing to swallow whatever we say and discount whatever BS is mouthed by some victim's family or lawyer. They're willing to cut us some slack, so we play to that. And it works!"
He made a show of checking an expensive wristwatch, then pointedly addressed Malovic. "Any other questions?"
"Sir," Akaka interjected. "I put four rounds of nine-mil into Steele. Was that too many?"
Nardel sputtered, "I…er… Not really. Why?"
"You know. Four in the back, after the dude was on the deck? Might not play well to a jury."
"No sweatski," Nardel replied. "You see, there won't be any cross-examination, during the inquest hearing. The process is totally under our control. Actually, under the DA's control. His people pick all the witnesses, then ask the questions.
"The suspect's family might have an attorney in the courtroom, but he's not allowed to say a damned thing. The family—or any spectator—can scribble questions and submit them, but the presiding judge decides which to ask in the jury's presence."
Malovic looked at the floor and shook his head in disbelief.
Akaka grinned. "Awesome! Maybe the DA won't even bring up how many shots I fired?"
"Hell, no. If you get written questions about the issue, you say, 'I was protecting my fellow officer. I fired, until the threat was neutralized.' Something along that line.
"Don't worry about being badgered, either. Our judges never allow follow-ups. One question, one answer, and move on."
Nardel stood and handed the empty Pabst can to Krupa.
"If you boys have any other concerns, give me a shout, and someone will get back to you. Now, if you'll excuse me… ."
At the door, he faced the three cops, who were in trail.
"One more thing. This Steele case could be a tough one, because there were so many witnesses. Captain Greel and his team are working on them, and the ones that'll testify at the inquest hearing will be well-screened and prepped.
"But the suspect's family will probably file a lawsuit against Metro, and you boys will be named. But don't worry about that, either. As long as you're members in good standing with the PPA, we'll take care of your defense. Nice little bennie for those hefty dues you boys cough up every month, see?"
Again, the politician's broad smile. He shook hands all around and departed.
Watching from the doorway, Akaka said, "Hey, check the union dude's wheels."
Nardel was climbing into a late-model Cadillac CTS two-door coupe, painted an unusual nonreflective, flat black.
"Weird paint job," Malovic said.
"Yeah," Akaka answered. "Damned cool, though."
"Cool? A flat-black rig? It'll soak up heat like a cast-iron skillet!" Malovic exclaimed.
Akaka didn't answer, admiring the sinister-looking Caddy making a U-turn.
* *
"Now it's my turn," Krupa announced. "C'mon out to the pool, and I'll lay the good stuff on ya.
"You teetotalers ready for a beer now?"
Both rookies again declined, and waited for Krupa to snag another Pabst.
Outside, they settled into molded-plastic chairs shaded by a striped-fabric patio cover. An inviting, oval swimming pool dominated the Krupa's yard. Tall, cinder block walls shielded the tree-lined grounds from neighbors and intermittent traffic noise.
"Dude, I have things to do," Akaka grumbled. "What did Vader tell you to pass on?"
"Hey, relax, rookie!" Krupa said, propping a heel on a chair. "You're on government-paid vacation! Like you surfer-dudes say, hang loose!"
Akaka rolled his eyes. "Just get on with it. We ain't got all day."
"I need to get going, too," Malovic echoed.
"Yeah, yeah. Okay, here's the dope: We're on paid admin leave for at least a couple of months. No uniforms, no shit details, no night shifts, no nothin'.
"But don't be grabbin' the old lady and skippin' town, ya hear? We're still on call."
Two blank stares.
"What the hell's that mean?" Akaka demanded.
"Means you're one of Vader's Ravens now."
Again, puzzled looks.
"Never heard of Ravens, huh?"
Head shakes confirmed the negative.
"Well, that's damned peachy!" Krupa beamed. "Nobody but Ravens are supposed to know about Ravens. Here's the deal: Any Metro cop who's hosed a civilian in the line of duty automatically becomes a Raven. And Ravens live very well! Vader takes good care of his 'black birds!'"
"In return for… ?" Malovic questioned.
"For helping out now and then. Ya know, special details and missions that regular cops can't handle for one reason or another."
"What's the payoff?" Akaka asked, cutting to the chase.
Krupa laughed and downed a slug of Pabst. "For one, you don't go to prison for shooting a perp. Two, Vader makes sure nobody hassles Ravens. Even Uriah leaves us alone. Three, we pick up a few thousand bucks for special jobs. Know what I'm sayin'?"
"Jobs like what? Bumping off some Mafia geezer?" Akaka asked harshly.
"Maybe. 'Course I've never done anything like that. Usually it's disposing of dead bodies. What Vader calls 'taking out the trash.'
"Ya see, one hell of a lot of people die in the casinos and hotels. Some rich old fart's having a good time with a twenty-something workin' girl, and he keels over from a heart attack or stroke. The guy dies happy, but four or five of those a day can get embarrassing for billionaire owners, ya know?
"Resort-hotel honchos pay Ravens to make sure those bodies go out the back and into unmarked modes of transportation, see? Vader gets a call, he rounds up a few Ravens, we handle the body, and everybody goes home with a wad of Ben Franklins.
"Sometimes, we take trash-on-the-hoof to what Vader calls 'private' locations for 'special handling.' Those are rare, though. Typically, they're problem hookers or deadbeat gamblers, who failed to pay up. They just… disappear."
Malovic was aghast. Krupa was casually discussing killing people and dumping their bodies in the desert, as if human beings were bald tires!
"This Raven thing's voluntary, right?" Malovic asked hopefully.
Krupa threw his head back and hooted. "Voluntary? Yeah, sure! Tell Vader you'd rather volunteer at the soup kitchen than be one of his Ravens!
"Dude, your skinny ass belongs to Vader now! You think he took that forty-five off Steele's body and parked it in front of Ho's, before Homicide arrived, because he felt sorry for three dumb-ass cops?
"Grow up, rookie! This is Las Vegas! Either get your head in the game and do exactly what Vader tells you, or you're his-to-ry!"
Malovic was dazed and disoriented, as if he'd been clubbed from behind. He was trapped. Agree to be a compliant Raven? Or go to prison for shooting Steele in the back? Yeah, there's a choice!
"So how does this work?" Malovic asked. "Sit on our butts and wait for Vader to call?"
Krupa polished off the beer and crushed his Pabst can on a deck table. "Yeah, but not for long. Vader likes to get cherry Ravens 'dipped' as soon as possible.
"Today, though, we're gonna haul our butts downtown and get one of these."
He pulled up his T-shirt's left sleeve, revealing a blue-and-red tattoo: A skull above a pair of dice inscribed with a date in 2006.
"That's when you killed the other dude?" Akaka asked.
"Damn straight. Only Ravens wear this tat. I get another one for Steele."
"You murdered Erik Steele in cold blood, and you're proud of it?" Malovic barked, incredulous.
Smirking, Krupa mimicked aiming a pistol in a two-handed grip, right index finger pointed at Malovic.
"Bam! Bam! Center mass, double-tap. Hell, that perp deserved to die!"
Even Akaka was shocked. "You shittin' me?"
"In my book, it's open season on every jerk running around with a concealed-carry permit. Nothin' but cop-wannabes!"
"Hey, the U.S. government gives them the right to carry!" Malovic said. "Hell, Metro issues their permits! Every CCW-holder's been through a serious background check, and we sign 'em off!"
"So what? As a cop, I have the ultimate permit—a badge that says I can shoot anybody I damn well please!" Krupa shouted.
Jabbing a finger into Malovic's chest, he yelled, "You still don't get it, rookie! Cops are the only Americans who deserve to carry a gun!
"I don't give a shit what the Second Amendment whack-jobs say. I'll shoot every son of a bitch dumb enough to carry a concealed firearm in my town!
"If we kill enough of 'em, they'll get the message: You carry, you die!"
Malovic stood and looked down his nose at the senior Metro officer. "You're a sick lunatic, Krupa! Steele had every right to carry a forty-five for self-defense! And you had no right to take his life!"
"Rookie, with that attitude, you're gonna get nailed by a half-cocked, concealed-carry vigilante! We're in a war with those nut jobs. It's us against them.
"I'm sure as hell not gonna stand back and let some armed civvy take me out! Shoot first and let God sort 'em out! That's how you stay alive in the law enforcement game!"
"And exactly what gives police officers the right to rip up the Second Amendment and kill anybody who exercises his constitutional rights?" Malovic demanded.
Krupa stuck his chin out and jabbed a thumb into his own chest. "My star gives me that right, kid! We're Metro! We do whatever the hell we want!"
Malovic raised both fists and looked skyward. "Holy Mother of God! You worthless… ! I can't believe you were ever given a badge! I'm outta here."
He headed for the patio's sliding door.
Krupa laughed harshly and yelled, "Wuss! You've been bloodied in the line of duty, Malovic! There ain't no goin' back now! You're a Raaaaa-ven!"
* *
That afternoon, Olek Krupa strolled into Discount Firearms, bent over a glass display case and eyed a neat row of semiautomatic pistols.
Unconsciously, he gingerly rubbed his upper left arm. The dark blue "7-10-10" on a second pair of red dice looked great, but he hated needles. Damn tattoos were painful!
"Can I help you, sir?" A clerk with short-cropped gray hair and penetrating ice-blue eyes met Krupa's glance.
"Yeah. Lemme see that nine-mil Glock nineteen," Krupa snarled.
The clerk unlocked a sliding glass door, reached inside and tapped a stainless-steel pistol.
"This one?"
"No. The all-black one."
Retrieving a flat-black sidearm, the clerk thumbed a release and placed an empty magazine on the counter. In one smooth motion, he expertly jacked the slide open, confirmed the action was clear, and handed the Glock to Krupa.
"Polymer frame and grip. Six-point-eight-five inches long, cold-hammered-steel barrel, Tenifer-coated. Fifteen-round magazine is standard. Loaded, it's thirty ounces. A little heavy for some people, but still a very nice concealed-carry weapon."
The officer flicked a release, raised the pistol in a two-hand grip, and sighted along the barrel at the store's barred front door.
"How much?" he asked, squeezing the trigger.
The clerk checked a display card. "That model's five thirty-nine. Plus tax."
"I can get it for four ninety-nine at Cheaper Than Dirt," a giant mail-order outlet.
"And you'll wait two weeks to get it. Plus pay shipping, handling and a background-check fee. Your call."
Krupa grunted, "Yeah, okay. I'll take it."
After filling out the required paperwork, Krupa wandered around the impressive gun store, waiting for a background check to be completed. He was admiring a mean-looking Barrett M82 .50 caliber rifle mounted on a bipod, when the clerk waved him over.
"All cleared, sir. You're good to go."
He slipped the box into a plastic bag and handed it over the counter. Krupa mumbled his thanks.
"Off to kill another decorated veteran?"
The comment caught Krupa off guard. The cop pivoted, prepared to retort, but something in the clerk's hard gaze changed his mind. The two men stared at each other a long moment, neither blinking. Krupa spun on a heel and stomped out, slamming the front door.
Unsettled, he squeezed behind the wheel of a Toyota Camry and tossed a glance at the store. The gray-haired clerk and a young, square-jawed man were standing in the doorway. The old guy pointed at the officer.
Krupa yanked the car into gear, checked over his left shoulder, and merged into traffic on Highland Drive.
The unexpected challenge and hard, unwavering glare had rattled him. He had never felt so exposed and naked. He could no longer disappear in a crowd, when out of uniform.
From now on, people throughout the Las Vegas valley would point and whisper: "That's Olek Krupa. The scum-cop who panicked and killed Erik Steele."
Or worse.