CHAPTER SIX

DELIA

Work, and then work, and then more work. My day started before dawn and it’s almost eleven before I leave the Bradford home and return to the station. The State Crime Scene Unit is already working the Dwyer location (we don’t have our own CSU), counting the shell casings, measuring trajectories, investigating the fire that consumed the house. I have an interest in the results, obviously, but not in the procedure. I don’t intend to revisit the scene until later.

Tucked behind City Hall on Polk Avenue, the Baxter Police Department is headquartered in a nondescript, single-story building universally called the House. Several officers greet me when I enter, but I merely nod as I walk through the reception room and into a corridor that leads to my office. Long wooden benches line both sides of the corridor. On one side, the benches are bolted to the floor and marked by steel rings, also bolted down. Four people sit on these benches, cuffed to the rings. Two are women and two are men. Speed comedowns in high gear, their eyes plead for release. In fact, they’re right where I want them as I enter my office to find Danny waiting for me.

My son and I both contracted the Covid virus last year. By some quirk of fate, my illness was short-lived and my symptoms mild. Not Danny’s. His fever remained at critical levels for many days and his cough barely responded to the codeine-spiked medication prescribed by his doctor. Danny eventually recovered, but the process took weeks in which I rarely left his bedside. And it’s not that I loved him more afterward. No, his illness taught me just how much I’d loved him from the beginning.

Now he looks at me, eyes wide, probing for damage. I’m touched, but there’s a lot of work ahead. I’ve just got time enough for reassurance.

“Danny, listen. I wasn’t part of the shooting, not even as a witness. It took place on the far side of a house.”

“But you’re a hero, Mom.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, take a look.” Danny’s tablet rests on my desk, next to his backpack. He picks it up, pecks away for a few seconds, and finally turns the screen in my direction. And there I am, running toward the camera, the child in my arms, bright orange flames rising from the house behind me.

“Holy shit.”

“Language, Mom.” Danny’s grin is always contagious and this time is no different. He gestures to the screen. “You’ve gone viral. I mean like global viral.”

“Great.”

The video was obviously taken by one of my cops. I’m seriously pissed, but sorting out the culprit is for later, as is retribution.

“Thanks for the heads-up, honey. There’ll be a press conference this afternoon and the reporters are sure to ask about the girl. Meantime, I’ve got a mountain of work ahead of me and I need to get started. Abe Washington’s the duty sergeant today. Go out there, tell him I need a favor. I want him to find some loose cop to drive you home, or back to the Taneys’, whichever you prefer. We’ll talk more if I get home at a decent hour.”

Danny chooses door number two, the Taneys and his buddy Mike. At age fourteen, both expect to have Major League careers. Hall of Fame careers. They’ll undoubtedly head for a nearby ball field and hours of practicing. Of course, the odds against even the most gifted fourteen-year-old eventually playing Major League Baseball are very, very long. I know that, and so does my son. But Mike and Danny are talented and determined, which has me thinking about college scholarships. College costs are out of control and I’m a practical woman. Danny will begin playing high school ball next spring and I’m going to send him to a summer baseball camp after school lets out next year. One noted for attracting scouts and college coaches.

Vern walks into my office a minute after Danny leaves. He doesn’t have to be asked. Called away by Chief Black, I left Vern to run the scene. Now I need an update.

My office is relatively small and sparsely furnished, as befits any office in a city with a vanishing tax base. Faux-wood shelves on frames bolted to the wall. Two wooden chairs with rounded backs in front of my desk, an ergonomic chair (which I bought myself) tucked behind. A keyboard and monitor wired to a computer sit on the desk, alongside an intercom/landline old enough to be featured on Antiques Roadshow. The only personal anything is a photo of Danny in his Little League uniform after a game. He’s covered with dirt and a tear at his left knee reveals dried blood beneath. As far as I could tell at the time, he was proud of both.

Vern drops his lanky frame onto one of the chairs in front of my desk. Nearly a foot taller than me, his features are Midwestern plain, his smile contagious, his dark, unruly hair only beginning to gray. And while his ears stick out a bit, they’re a nice complement to an affable, hayseed persona he employs to good advantage. Vern grew up in Baxter. A high school football star, everyone seems to know him.

“You allowed to tell me what the Chief wanted?” he asks.

“No, but I’m gonna tell you anyway.” I quickly describe the situation at the Bradfords’, concluding with the welcome news that the Baxter PD will not be needed. “The Bradfords are going with the FBI.”

“Bye-bye to the Baxter Police Department?”

“That’s about it. And the whole deal’s on the hush-hush for the present. Anybody speaking out of turn is likely to be held responsible if things go bad.”

“And they go bad real easy with hostages. For some kidnappers, killing the hostage is no more than destroying evidence. Like shredding files in a swindle. If the FBI wants to shoulder the risks, so be it.”

“My sentiments exactly. But I also spoke to the victim’s mother and she’s having second thoughts about putting all her eggs in the FBI’s basket.”

“So we’re not out of it yet?”

“Exactly, but for now take me through your own adventure. What went on behind the house?”

Vern crosses his legs, laying his left ankle on his right knee. “They came through the back door, one after another, real fast. We stood up before they covered fifteen feet and ordered them to stop. Four hit the ground, three drew weapons and fired at us, pulling the trigger as fast as they could. Two officers returned fire, Goody and Mel Canning. . . .”

“Hang on, Vern. You didn’t fire?”

“Nope. Maya Kinsley, either.

“Okay, go on.”

“The firefight was over in a few seconds. Two of the three who fired on us were obviously dead. As dead as you can get. Maya administered emergency treatment to the third and we called in ambulances and backup.”

“Right away?”

“Right away.” Vern stops long enough to stifle a yawn. “I also photographed the crime scene before I came to you. I wanted to capture the scene undisturbed. Pristine, right? No misunderstandings?”

Grisly doesn’t begin to describe the photos on Vern’s phone. The first series is of the wounded shooter. Maya Kinsley kneels beside the man, partially screening the shot, but Vern’s caught a mini-fountain of spurting blood that appears in all but the last photo. The other two lie ten feet apart, their bodies having adopted the postures I associate with violent death. Arms, legs, feet, necks, and heads are twisted at opposed angles no living human can mimic. There’s plenty of blood here as well, and the third shooter’s jaw has been torn from his face.

I take in these details automatically, but they’re not what I’m looking for. My attention is captured by three semiautomatic handguns lying next to the bodies, and by the spent cartridges visible in the dirt. All three were armed. All three fired their weapons.

“Vern, who did you say fired on our side?”

“Goody and Mel Canning.”

Goody is Marcus Goodman, a new hire and the only Black man on the force. Mel Canning has been with the Department for more than a decade. He’s conscientious, but I suspect that his main interest is in the paycheck he brings home to his family.

I reach out to the intercom on my desk and push the little button. I have a personal assistant named Martha with a desk in the administrative office. That’s in theory only, because Martha has many other responsibilities. This time she answers right away.

“Yes, boss.”

“Goody and Mel. Tell them to report to my office. Immediately, Martha. Like right now without delay.”

“Got ya, boss.”

The two men walk into my office a moment later. Goody, the younger, looks at me with pleading eyes. Like he can’t process what happened even though he’s seen the bodies. Mel Canning stands with his gaze fixed on the ceiling as he shifts his weight from side to side.

“Look, I know you’re shaken up,” I tell them. “And maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I could have come up with a better plan. But for now, it’s a done deal, so I’m putting the both of you on paid leave. Go home, hug your families. The regs allow you twenty-four hours before you give a statement. Take them and let me handle the rest. I’ve got your backs. And don’t forget, it could have been you lyin’ on the ground. It could be you in the morgue. No matter how you feel about taking a life, you have a right to survive.”

The two start for the door, but then Goody hesitates. He looks at me. “You saved that girl, Captain. You and nobody else. And I just wanna say that I’m proud to be working under your command.”

The compliment is well intended and I thank him for the sentiment, but not for the reminder. As it is, I keep returning to the girl, to that wail of abandonment, and I keep asking myself stupid questions that I can’t answer. What happened to her? What will happen to her? I have to know and I don’t want to know. There are too many bad endings to her story. Will she be returned to a family member? Is her mother or father one of the four sitting on the bench outside, a committed drug addict? Or will she have nobody and be put into foster care while a relative is sought? I’ve arrested foster parents for abuse and I know that many think of their foster kids as little more than paychecks at the end of the month.

I call in Cade Barrow, my sniper, next. Barrow probably killed John Dwyer, though I can’t say for sure, but one look puts me at ease. As does Cade’s smile and opening remark.

“What’s up, Cap?”

“You okay?”

“Are you talkin’ about Dwyer?”

“Yeah.”

“All in a day’s work. Been there, done that. On three continents.”

I huddle with Vern for a few minutes after Cade leaves. My goal is to support the official version of what happened at the Dwyer house and that means dealing with the four tweakers sitting in the corridor. Once Vern and I are in accord, I quit my office and cross the corridor to the squad room. I find my detectives hard at work. I’ve ordered them to produce detailed accounts of their actions and observations. I’ll review their statements later. For now, I enter one of the three interrogation rooms lined up on the far wall. The room is sparse, the blank walls dirty. There’s a small table toward the back of the room with chairs before and behind. A third chair sits in a front corner. I take the chair in front of the table, my back to the door. A moment later, Vern leads our first witness into the room.

Her name is Amelia Giordano and she’s twenty-three years old. Gaunt to the point of skeletal, her hair is brittle and thinning. She wears no makeup, not even to disguise the sores around her mouth, and when she opens her lips far enough to sneer, she reveals several missing teeth. Still, her dark eyes announce a stubborn defiance. I know what you think of me, they announce, and you can go fuck yourself. As the woman’s not that far off the mark, I don’t pretend to a sympathy I don’t feel.

Trapped is not a comfortable state for a woman whose every nerve is twitching, but Amelia doesn’t argue when Vern points to the chair on the far side of the desk. She sits and crosses her legs, her raised foot jerking up and down.

“I’m gonna be as plain as I can,” I tell her. “First, you won’t be charged with a crime. You didn’t have drugs on you and whatever incriminating items you left in the house are toast. Burnt toast. Do you understand?”

Her chin comes up and she draws a long breath through her nose. Her eyes swap out the anger and swap in the hope. Most likely, she’s already working her way through a list of meth dealers. Deciding which one to contact first.

“You’re not gonna charge me with nothin’? Does that mean I can leave?”

“No, you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have a problem, Amelia. I’ve got a pair of bodies and a wounded man hangin’ on by a thread. This you know, of course, since you were there. Which is how come I need your cooperation in the form of a written statement. Now, most people? I don’t have to ask. That’s because your average citizen is eager to help the police. So, what’s it gonna be with you, Amelia? Are you eager?”

She taps a chipped fingernail on the table. “That don’t answer my question, officer.”

“Captain.”

“Captain, okay. What I wanna know is how you can keep me here when you’re not chargin’ me?”

“Simple, you’re a witness. A material witness. Now like I said, cops expect cooperation from Joe Average. But you, Amelia? You’ve been arrested twelve times in three states. That makes you a flight risk and there’s no judge in this city who’ll release you if I ask that you be held as a material witness.”

“That’s not right. . . .”

“Hey, I don’t wanna hear your grievances.” I slap the top of the table. “If you cooperate, you go home. If you don’t, you’ll be taken into custody. It’s your move.”

Amelia stares into my eyes for a moment, then shakes her head and laughs. “You are one serious . . . woman. So, what hoop am I supposed to jump through?”

I think she was about to call me a serious dyke, a compliment if ever I’ve heard one. “Let’s begin with a verbal account of what happened. Then we’ll move to a written statement. Start inside the house when Dwyer yelled the word ‘cops.’ ”

Thirty minutes later, I have what I need. Committed to paper, Amelia’s version has been read back to her with a camera recording every second. There can be no going back, or doubting that the Baxter PD fired in self-defense. I didn’t prompt her either. I didn’t have to because the facts spoke for themselves. After being awake for two days, and stoned out of her mind, Amelia panicked when Dwyer announced our presence. Along with the others, she fled through the back door, only to be confronted by Vern. Amelia hit the dirt, but not before the man next to her, the one in the hospital, fired off a few quick shots.

I dismiss her with a parting message. “I know you’re gonna make a run for the nearest dealer as soon as you walk out the door. That’s okay. I wasn’t expecting better. Only I want you to carry a message from Captain Mariola. That’s me, right? Tell every dealer you know that time is running short. Their time. I’ve got a list that includes just about every dealer in the city and I’m comin’ for all of ‘em. Tell them it’s time to close the doors. Time for greener pastures. Otherwise, they can expect the same treatment John Dwyer got this morning.”

Vern’s standing behind Amelia, grinning from ear to ear. He doesn’t speak, but merely steps aside. The woman’s route will take her right past her handcuffed comrades. Past them and out the door, a free woman. I’m hoping they’ll get the message and take the same deal without too much back talk. Of one thing I’m certain. There’s a gravely injured man being treated at Baxter Medical Center. If he lives, he’ll be charged with the attempted murder of a police officer. That will leave him with a single defense. The cops shot first.