Playing the Game (11 page)

            ‘Well you will find out one way or another, eventually, won’t you?’ The Chemist taunted, ‘I’m aware you are probably trying to trace this call, so I’ll be brief. I just wanted to say, ‘hello’ really, now we’ve been chasing each other around for a few weeks, and that I do hope you are enjoying our little games together. But don’t forget Detective Patton; fourth time’s a charm!’

            I took that to mean The Chemist was confident that Stella would die, and a fourth game would eventually begin. My stomach turned at the prospect.

            ‘But for now’, The Chemist paused seemingly for effect, ‘Let’s just say that the next step is in your car, along with a little surprise for you’.

            The line went dead. Then it slowly dawned on me. We had left Ferguson in the car.

30

            I rushed past Charlie, leaving the receiver hanging, knowing full well he would have my back a split second later.

            ‘Hey man, what’s the score?’ Charlie’s voice came from just over my right shoulder. I was sprinting now, beginning to breathe hard. ‘What’s going on?’

            ‘The Chemist told us to check the car’, I panted. I took Charlie’s silence as an indication that he understood the implications of that last sentence.

            Reaching the corner, I used the side of the diner to swing round to prevent my momentum carrying me past. I had a visual on the car but couldn’t tell from here if there was anything wrong. I could see that there was no-one around the car; no-one in sight in fact. Shit. Our backup hadn’t arrived yet. Where the hell was it?

            Charlie overtook me on the home straight and I knew even before I reached our car that the news wasn’t good. Charlie stood, bent over; his hands on his knees, trying to get his breath back, shaking his head.

            I pulled alongside him, just as out of breath as he was, probably even more so.  I didn’t see the envelope with my name on it at first. It was hard to focus on anything other than Dave Ferguson, who sat upright in the back seat, his head slumped forward; the pool of dark blood still growing around him on the car interior and dripping onto the floor.

            His throat had been sliced almost from ear to ear, dicing his larynx in two. From the projected blood spatter all over the car’s ceiling, windshield and front seats, it looked like an artery had also been nicked causing a high-pressured jet of blood to spurt from his neck with every one of his final heart beats. It looked nasty and I only prayed, if God had any mercy, that Ferguson had never seen it coming.

            ‘Motherfucker’, was all Charlie could muster, and that pretty much summed it up.

            Turning away, cursing the fact that we had left Fergs alone and that our backup hadn’t arrived in time, I sensed his murder had been opportune, not a planned part of
The Game
. The next letter eventually caught my eye. Tucked inside a window wiper, like some cheap flier advertising an even cheaper product; there it was.

           
Just waiting to be opened.

            Charlie’s cell went off, and it was Captain Williams, who took the news of Ferguson’s death hard and went ballistic that the backup units hadn’t arrived but he didn’t blame us for not waiting. He knew we were against the clock. Nevertheless, he remained focussed and re-composed himself giving us news that up until now, I hadn’t dared hope would come.

            ‘There’s an ex-con, a guy called James Tetley, he tried to take down the Pacific this morning’, he sounded angry now, the reality of losing Ferguson hitting home. ‘Took one in the leg, and is laid up at LA County. He claims, and I can’t stress that enough guys, he
claims
he knows who The Chemist is. How likely that is, I don’t know, but this guy has got a quite bit of previous. He’s been around so who knows?’

            We’re going to need another car here Captain’ I said, not wanting to look back on the Subaru for one second. How long before you can get us a ride?’

            ‘And don’t send us no piece of shit either’, Charlie chimed in. It always amazed me how he could keep his sense of humour at the grimmest of times, and I envied him that.

‘Take one of the backup units’, he growled. ‘When they fucking arrive’.

‘Copy that, Captain’, I confirmed as I heard sirens in the distance approaching. ‘They’re here now’.

As much as I disliked just leaving Fergs there for all to see, we had no choice. The backup units would have to take care of the crime scene until CSI arrived. Less than two minutes later we were speeding towards Hollywood Boulevard, the latest envelope unopened in my pocket.

31

            As I scanned through the information we had on James Tetley, which had been delivered to my PDA, I wasn’t sure if this was a waste of our time or not. That we had a possible lead on the identity of The Chemist was completely unexpected, and I remained highly sceptical. After all, The Chemist had been meticulous so far, leaving absolutely no trace and no evidence. It seemed highly unlikely that somebody would be able to provide us with an identity. From the profile we had built up, it was clear that The Chemist was a loner, an outcast, but highly motivated. Still, The Chemist had to have a massive ego to be playing these games in the first place. Was it out of the realms of possibility that The Chemist had bragged to someone, gloating over our lack of progress?

            More to the point, could we believe this guy, Tetley? Was he just offering up some fictitious information to try and strike some kind of deal? I suspected he wasn’t overly keen to return to prison, and I’ve been in the position before where ex-cons who re-offend will say and do just about anything to try and preserve their freedom. If this was a dead end we wouldn’t just be wasting our time, we’d be wasting Stella’s.

            ‘Hey man,’ Charlie saw I was despondent. ‘This could be it. This could be just the break we need’.

            I nodded. The thought briefly crossed my mind that this was still part of The Chemist’s game. Was it a planned part of
The Game
, becoming even braver, even more taunting? I soon cast that aside, there was no way the botched bank robbery at the Pacific this morning could have been planned and executed with the outcome that had prevailed. This had to be something that The Chemist didn’t know about.

            It didn’t take us long to reach the hospital. After mulling over the prospect in hand, I was actually cautiously optimistic now. Perhaps Charlie was right. Maybe this was the break we were looking for.

            We arrived at ward 5A a couple of minutes later and it was James Tetley who spoke first. ‘I think I know who you’re looking for’, he sounded pretty convincing. ‘But let me say right off the bat, I give you The Chemist, you give me a deal. I want this bank thing gone and I want witness protection. And even if you don’t get The Chemist, I want relocating. I won’t be safe if The Chemist is out there. If it becomes public knowledge I gave you The Chemist I’m a dead man, I’ll tell you that.’

            I’d heard it all before. It was pretty much your standard demands from someone who is looking at a long time back behind bars.

            ‘I’m sure we can work something out’, I replied ‘but we don’t have much time. If you have something for us, then give it to us and give it to us now. We will have to work out the details of any deal later’.

            ‘Not good enough’, Tetley retorted. ‘I want the deal first. No deal, no Chemist’.

            ‘Your choice’, I said to him. I’d never been one to give into the demands of a grass and I wasn’t about to start now. Invariably what they had to lose was more than you had to gain. ‘You got one more chance before we walk out of here. Who is The Chemist?’

            Tetley remained silent. I gave him ten seconds or so. ‘Goodbye James. Enjoy prison’.

            We turned and walked towards the exit. Charlie was already out of the door and I was almost there, not looking back. Sensing his only chance of a reprieve was almost gone, Tetley’s hand was forced. ‘Wait, wait!’ he called out. ‘The Chemist, I think it’s Caldwell’.

            Hearing the name, I momentarily froze but then spun around, looking Tetley directly in the eyes. ‘Caldwell?’ I repeated. ‘You said you think The Chemist is Caldwell?’ I looked on in disbelief.

            ‘Yeah I do’, Tetley nodded. ‘We were in San Quentin at the same time. Tell me one thing Detective. Is Clozapone unique to this case? Are there any past case histories where injecting Clozapone has been a factor? A calling card maybe?’

            I paused, not sure whether to divulge that information. Well, what harm could it do? ‘It is unique’, I replied. ‘First time, first case I’ve ever worked where it’s been used’.

            For James Tetley, this was all the confirmation he needed. ‘Well then Detective. I’m pretty sure the person you’re after
is
Caldwell. Sarah Caldwell’.

            I pulled two seats closer to the hospital bed. ‘Tell me everything you know about Sarah Caldwell’, I instructed. ‘Be quick but leave nothing out. I’ll get you your deal’.

            If I’d been wondering why The Chemist was targeting me, that question may have just been answered.

32

            Although it had been some eight years ago, I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember lots of things like they were yesterday. Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do. I like to think I’ve made a difference during my career in the LAPD. I’ve made some wrong calls here and there, of course I have, but I can hold my head high and stand proud of what I’ve contributed. There are very few individuals in the LAPD, either active or retired, that could hold a candle to my arrest and conviction rate. For the most part, I’ve done things the right way; I’ve never planted evidence, only used excessive force when absolutely necessary and I could swear on the Bible that I’ve never put away an innocent man.

I’ve sailed close to the wind on occasion, but the job sometimes needs you to. I’ve made some bad decisions, some errors of judgement and I whole-heartedly regret every one. There are some members of the LAPD who shrug their bad moves off easily, putting them down as inevitable. Many police officers liken their wrong calls to that of an ER doctor: Sooner or later you are bound to get slapped with a malpractice suit simply because the law of average dictates the more patients you see, the more pressure you are under, the more opportunity you have for things to go wrong. Our situation was similar; the more bad guys you arrest, the more chances you have to screw up. It was as simple as that. Just under eight years ago, I’d made one of those errors of judgement.

It had been a routine bust. We had got the tip off from a reliable source; one of mine in fact, so we had every confidence there would be the whole fifty keys of cocaine at the address we were given in Crenshaw, which would have been just enough for  a base offence level 36 bust – a damn fine result. It was there, no doubt about that, and that was a shit load of cocaine. The only problem was that when we turned up to make the bust, at a shade after seven o’ clock one morning, the dealer we expecting to arrest was in the middle of selling it to three more scumbags, who were heavily armed with P90 submachine guns, and had thought nothing of opening fire on us immediately, as soon as we rammed the door down.

The team had fortunately only sustained a couple of minor injuries; two officers took a flesh wound each and thankfully our numbers were intact.  As you would expect from highly trained individuals, we had more success. The dealer and one of the buyers were gunned down in return fire. Two of the buyers fled the scene through the back of the house, killing the police officer coming in from the rear. I led the chase but couldn’t get a clean shot off on either of the buyers.

Only a hundred yards or so behind them, I watched them run across Chesterfield Square towards a parked two-door Sedan. Just as I was radioing the movements and location of the suspects, one of them got clipped in the side by a passing Volvo, taking him down hard. I shouted to one of the officers coming up behind me to take the fallen buyer, I was carrying on in pursuit of the other one.

Just as he made it to the Sedan, speeding off immediately with tyres squealing, a squad car rounded the corner, pausing only momentarily to pick me up.

The chase lasted around eight minutes, winding through the King Estates and up to Windsor Hills. For the last three minutes of the pursuit, as we sped up the narrow winding road that led to the top parts of Windsor Hills, it was clear that this guy wasn’t pulling over. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have done what I did but sometimes your thinking gets clouded and the adrenaline sometimes masks the right decision.

            Without really thinking where we were, I edged out of the window, just enough to give me a clear aim at the Sedan. I’m an extremely good shot when the opportunity presents itself, even if I do say so myself, and I’d only needed one shot to take out the rear passenger side tyre.

The effect had been immediate; the Sedan lost control and went into a tailspin. We had to slam on the breaks just to avoid a collision. What I remember most about that day is the look of sheer panic on the Sedan driver’s face as our eyes met for a split second when the Sedan was in the middle of its second complete revolution. I knew then I’d made the wrong decision and I knew then where the Sedan was heading.

All I could do was watch in disbelief as the Sedan careered sideways, spinning out of control and smashed through the roadside barrier, dropping almost two hundred feet and exploding viciously upon impact. I swear I could almost feel the heat from the explosion all the way up, where we had come to a complete standstill.

The driver of the Sedan on that cold December’s morning turned out to be a pretty insignificant dealer in the grand scheme of the LA underworld drug culture, but word on the street had been that this guy had been talking about grand plans and had loftier ambitions than his current status afforded. He was one to watch maybe, could have been a mover and a shaker in the years to come; and who knows, maybe he would have been.