Only the Dead (9 page)

T
UESDAY
, 14 F
EBRUARY
, 9.31
A.M
.

A
n Auckland Central interview room, the official post-shooting debriefing. A boardroom table separated Devereaux from a line-up of Lloyd Bowen, Frank Briar and a Police Conduct Authority investigator named Thomas Rhys. Rhys was a heavy, flushed man in his sixties, face like a bee sting.

Devereaux had skipped breakfast for fear it wouldn’t stay down. He was running on four hours’ sleep, coffee and half a cigarette. The glass of chilled water in front of him had worked up a full sweat, almost as nervous as he was. He’d shined his shoes, faint tang of polish lingering. Tie so tight he could feel his neck pulsing. He fingered the knot and tried to work up a bit of slack. Fainting wouldn’t look good.

A digital camera stood atop a tripod to one side. Briar stood up and set it running, sat down again and stated the date and time, those present and the purpose of the meeting. He spoke leaning forward on folded arms, tie spilled across a forearm, head bent to read from a printed memorandum. His right hand fanned a ballpoint absently.

He said, ‘I just want to get a bit of context to begin with. Sergeant, could you explain the background to yesterday’s operation?’

Devereaux breathed out, dredged up what he’d rehearsed during the drive over. ‘The occupant of the target address was suspected of involvement in the Auckland Savings and Loan robbery on October eight last year.’

‘Okay. When you say occupant, you’re referring to the man that you opened fire on and shot yesterday afternoon. Is that correct? Michael Porter.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘In what capacity was this man suspected of being involved in the October eight robbery?’

‘That was what we were attempting to determine.’

‘Okay. So what was the basis of the warrant application that enabled you to focus on this particular individual?’

‘Maybe you should pull the paperwork.’

Briar exhaled. He spread his hands and glanced up at the ceiling, appealing to some unseen audience. Bowen checked his watch, stated the time, and announced the interview was being suspended. He stood up and stopped the recorder, sat down again.

‘Sergeant,’ Bowen said. ‘You need to answer the questions, or we’re not going to get anywhere.’ His pen tapped in rhythm with his instruction. Briar smiled, mock warm.

Devereaux looked at him. He remembered Leroy Turner’s story from only hours earlier, imagined Frank Briar in the back seat of an unmarked car, threatening to burn an earlobe if questions weren’t answered.

Devereaux said, ‘This is essentially the prelim for an excessive force investigation.’

Briar said, ‘And?’

‘And don’t you find it a little ironic that you’re the one asking the questions?’

It was a weak jibe. Rhys didn’t get it. Bowen caught the
meaning but said nothing. Briar took it on the chin, held his gaze.

At length Bowen said, ‘Sergeant, I don’t want to have to interrupt this interview a second time. Just answer the questions.’

He set the camera going again, stated the time and that the meeting was being resumed. Briar cleared his throat, repeated the question: ‘What was the basis of the warrant application that enabled you to focus on this particular individual?’

Devereaux said, ‘The getaway vehicle used on October eight was a red ’92 Ford Falcon that was stolen specifically for the robbery. The suspect was seen loitering in the vicinity of the vehicle shortly before it was taken.’

‘And that fact alone provided evidence enough for a warrant?’

‘That fact combined with the suspect’s offending history of armed robbery.’

Such purity in the pause between answer and question: scratch of pen nibs, the clock ticking faintly.

‘Okay. And what was the specific purpose of the operation?’

‘It was intended to install a GPS tracking device on the suspect’s vehicle in order to map his movements and identify potential associates.’

‘How many personnel were involved?’

‘Me and two other uniformed staff, a five-man Armed Offenders Squad team, two additional undercover tactical officers who were to install the device.’

They nodded and jotted intermittently. Bowen kept a frown in place.

Briar said, ‘Why was it that this operation was conducted in broad daylight at …’ He licked a digit and finger-walked through a stack of paper. ‘Four-thirty in the afternoon, rather than after dark?’ His eyes lifted, eager for a faltering reply.

Devereaux said, ‘I didn’t make that decision. You’d need to
refer that question to the officer in charge.’

‘But, to the best of your knowledge, why was the operation undertaken when it was?’

‘The suspect worked nights; best access to his vehicle was during the day.’

Briar said, ‘Describe for us the events leading up to the shooting.’

Devereaux watched the clock, massaged his tie knot for extra breathing space. ‘Just after sixteen-thirty hours, our radio cut out—’

‘Sorry. When you say “our”?’

‘I mean me and the two uniformed officers who were with me in an unmarked vehicle. The AOS team was in a second car further up the street.’

‘Right. So your radio communication failed?’

‘We lost contact midway through a broadcast. A moment later we received a request for emergency support.’ He downed some water. ‘We moved in, and when we reached the target address, there was a large quantity of blood on the driveway. I entered the house and found one of the tactical officers injured just inside the front door. I went upstairs, and discovered the second tactical officer, injured, in a bathroom, together with the suspect.’

Briar flipped through his paperwork. ‘It was at this point that you fired on the suspect?’

‘That’s correct.’

His notes rustled faintly as he palmed them. ‘Explain why you felt it necessary to discharge your weapon.’

‘I could see the second tactical officer on the bathroom floor, injured, against the far wall. As I approached the door, he indicated that the suspect was also in the room, concealed behind the door. At this point I opened fire.’

‘You fired through the door?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Three times?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did the injured officer indicate to you that the suspect was in the room?’

‘Eye contact. He indicated with his line of sight that somebody was concealed behind the door.’

‘And this provided you with a comprehensive description of the situation?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Well. From what he conveyed to you by the direction of his gaze only, was it evident whether the suspect had a hostage?’

‘No, it was not.’

‘So, in effect, you fired blind through a door with no definitive indication of whether or not it was safe to do so.’

‘I knew from Habitation Index records that the house had only one occupant.’

‘But you had no way of being certain.’

‘I was certain that if I didn’t shoot him, someone else would be hurt instead.’

Briar let the comment hang unchallenged. His tie had pooled atop his wrist again. He nudged it free and smoothed it against his shirt. ‘Did you offer a verbal warning before opening fire?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘And given the fact the suspect was behind the door, as you say, it would have been impossible to get a visual fix?’

Devereaux paused, pictured the set-up: the open door, the blood on the floor, bright and irregular. He tried to think whether the hinge side was wide enough to allow a view through.

‘Sergeant?’ Briar said. ‘Did you have a visual—’

‘No, I did not.’

‘So what was your reasoning in choosing to fire as you did,
as opposed to challenging the suspect to surrender?’

Devereaux had another swallow of water. Rhys had racked up a page of notes, Briar and Bowen at a half-page apiece. He hoped the words ‘followed procedure’ were in there somewhere.

‘My appraisal of the injured officer in the bathroom was that he was critically hurt. His colleague downstairs was bleeding severely. From this I concluded that the suspect was both violent and equipped with a dangerous weapon.’ He paused. ‘In light of this assessment, I didn’t want to act in a manner that could lead to anyone else being injured. We were in a confined space with a clearly volatile offender. I felt that any action short of engaging the suspect as I did could result in further casualties.’

Briar and Bowen absorbed it blank-faced. Rhys appended another line to his notes. He was yet to utter a word.

Briar said, ‘So would you say that your ensuing actions were well considered?’

‘With regard to the context, I’d say they were.’

‘Explain what you mean.’

‘I didn’t have time to do anything but pick a course of action and follow through on it.’

‘You didn’t act impulsively?’

‘Two men were badly injured. I think a certain amount of impulsiveness would have been appropriate, irrespective of whether or not I displayed any.’

Briar raised his stack of notes, cut the deck with a thumbnail. He skimmed for a moment then looked back at Devereaux.

‘Sergeant, this is not the first time you’ve been involved in a violent incident, is it?’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

‘Sergeant?’

‘You read the answer straight out of my file; I assumed the question was rhetorical.’

Bowen sighed and shook his head, twirled his forefinger for Briar to continue.

Briar said, ‘August 2011, you were involved in an arrest during which you discharged a taser at a suspect, before ramming another suspect with your vehicle.’

‘I’d been threatened with a sledgehammer.’

‘But it’s true the incident occurred?’

‘Correct.’

‘And also a year prior to that, July 2010, you shot a suspect in the leg with a handgun.’

‘I’m struggling to see the relevance of this.’

‘I’m merely trying to establish a pattern of behaviour.’

‘You mean you’re attempting to introduce prejudicial material.’

Bowen said, ‘Chrissakes.’ He got up and stopped the camera. ‘Sergeant, I told you to answer the questions.’

Devereaux said, ‘Unfortunately, this isn’t just Q and A; you can’t pull the plug every time I make a point you disagree with.’

Bowen sat down. ‘Watch your tone with me.’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

Briar said, ‘All we’re doing is trying to establish whether you’ve been involved in similar incidents.’

‘Right. Why would you want to do that?’

Briar, with a cruel simper: ‘To determine whether this pattern of events occurs because you premeditate violent actions.’ He almost purred on the last three words.

Devereaux said, ‘One minute I act impulsively, next I premeditate my shootings.’ He stood up. ‘Pick one, because I’m pretty sure I can’t be guilty of both.’

He turned and walked towards the door. ‘Let’s take five minutes.’

T
UESDAY
, 14 F
EBRUARY
, 10.43
A.M
.

T
he interview lasted another hour. Devereaux found a bathroom and lit a cigarette: never better than after a sustained grilling, employment prospects shaky. He kept his eyes closed for the first lungful, head raised to vent smoke through a ceiling duct. He undid his tie and pocketed it. The top edge of his collar had stamped a ring in his neck. He ran the tap and finger-combed his hair with water, glanced up just as Briar himself walked in. The sight of Devereaux cued a pause, but he didn’t leave. He stepped up on the urinal pedestal and unzipped himself. Gaze on a shallow upwards tilt, like he didn’t want to bear witness to what was happening down there.

He ducked his chin and hiked one leg as he zipped himself up. He turned and made the hand basin at a slow amble, eyes on Devereaux’s face in the mirror, like it was the only place to look. He began washing his hands. Devereaux’s tie was spilling out of his coat pocket. He gathered it and stuffed it deeper, out of sight. Briar saw the movement and smiled, like he sensed the relief in being free of it. He held eye contact and found the soap dispenser by touch alone, worked up a thick lather.

Devereaux’s mental clock notched twenty seconds. He kept the cigarette between his teeth and puffed idly. The water gurgled gently. The duct fan kicked in with a rush and tugged at
the cigarette fumes. Briar shut off the tap and flicked his hands dry and pushed backwards through the door. He mouthed something on the way out that looked like ‘Killer’.

Back at his desk. He took a five-minute pause to recoup, then called Don McCarthy. No answer. He tried Bowen’s office line.

‘Sergeant. So soon.’

‘I was just wondering if there’s been any news.’

‘In regards to what?’

‘The man shot yesterday.’

The man shot
. Something made him skip the crucial pronoun. Something stopped him saying ‘killed’.

Bowen said, ‘He’s dead. That’s pretty much the end of the bulletin.’

‘I’d like to attend the funeral.’

‘Out of the question.’

‘You say that a lot.’

‘I seem to go round in circles with you sometimes. I don’t want you near the man, even if he’s dead. I don’t want you near the family. I don’t want you anywhere near the issue, and I don’t want you to raise it with me again.’

He walked down to Queen Street. Late breakfast/early lunch was a kebab from a place on the corner of Wellesley, chased by a large serving of McDonald’s fries. The footpath was choked. He kept close to the gutter, twisted litter tottering ahead in the breeze. His cellphone rang as he was walking back up Queen, but he let it go to voicemail. Newsagent’s stands bore grim news:
Man Hospitalised in Police Shooting; Police Shooting Leaves Man Critical
. They hadn’t been told ‘critical’ had been upgraded to ‘dead’. No accusatory photographs, but he kept his head ducked anyway. A brisk march, like he could outpace his problems.

He stopped at a phone booth on the corner of Wellesley. The directories were tattered, but he managed to find Howard Ford’s number. He stayed in the booth, used his cellphone to dial. Ford’s mother answered.

‘Mrs Ford, it’s Sean Devereaux. I’m a police detective, I believe we’ve met—’

‘You let them hurt Howard.’

‘I understand he was arrested last night, I just wanted to check he’s okay—’

‘Well, he’s not. He’s not okay, goddamn you. He’s got a bloody nose, and bruising, and he’s absolutely goddamn terrified. I tell you. You know what he’s like. Here I was thinking you’re a decent man, but you let this happen to him.’

‘Look, I had nothing to do with it; I just wanted to check he’s been released, and that he’s all right.’

She was crying. She shouted to cut him off. ‘I told you he’s not. I told you he’s not all right. You lot, you’re just pigs. You’re a pig, and you’re a disgrace. That you could stand by and let this happen to him. My God.’ Her voice shivered. ‘You’re a disgrace, don’t you dare call me again. Why would a boy like him know anything about the nonsense you were asking him?’

She hung up. He put his phone in his pocket and stood there a moment, shoulder against the glass. The light changed and pedestrians disgorged across the intersection. The earnest urban scurry. The phone handset was off the hook, swinging gently by its cord. He’d seen hangings match that same weak oscillation. His cell went again, but he ignored it.

Do I still really want to do this
?

He got back to the station at eleven-twenty. Thirty-eight unread emails greeted him. Don McCarthy’s name claimed first and second place: message one informing staff of a case progress
meeting at eleven-fifteen, message two a terse instruction to attend said meeting.

Shit. He was already five minutes late, and The Don had a thing about punctuality. He left his tie in a desk drawer and went through to the robbery situation room. Desks were pushed aside to accommodate temporary rows of seating. Frank Briar and a felt-penned whiteboard occupied centre stage. The crowd was thirty-plus: tall, suit-clad men skewed sideways on plastic chairs, on tiptoe, and knees together. A Mexican wave of turned heads as they sensed his entry. A curled patchwork of paper on the walls. He took a seat in the back row beside Grayson. He saw Lloyd Bowen in the front row.

Grayson leaned in for a whisper. ‘How did it go?’

Meaning the interview.

‘I don’t know. If I don’t turn up next week, assume it went badly.’

A tap at his shoulder. He turned around, saw Don McCarthy bent forward and beckoning. They stepped outside.

The Don said, ‘How was this morning?’ A flat tone implied indifference.

‘Peachy.’

McCarthy nodded at the door. ‘The meeting’s a waste of time; we’re just going through the motions to keep the brass at Bullshit Castle happy.’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

McCarthy said, ‘Go home, you look like shit.’

Probably a fair assessment. He didn’t feel that flash. Fast food probably hadn’t helped. He thought of the files on his desk, the work he needed to do. Then again, in his current state he was unlikely to make much headway.

McCarthy said, ‘I need you back here at nineteen hundred. We’ve got some work to do.’

Devereaux looked at him. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say he’d killed a man, that he felt wrung out, capable of nothing. But he sensed McCarthy could see this: nothing like a glimpse of weakness to make the bastard’s day. So he said, ‘What is it?’

McCarthy smiled, like he’d already seen the script. ‘I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.’ He clapped him on the arm. ‘Bring your A-game.’