The Betrayers (13 page)

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Authors: James Patrick Hunt

BOOK: The Betrayers
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Hastings parked the Jaguar at the front of the lot of the Ace Hardware store on Manchester. Got out and watched traffic go by. It was around one o'clock in the afternoon, sun threatening to crack through the clouds. He squinted something like disapproval. It had been dark on the night of the murders and he wanted to sense it as the deputies had sensed it, but he was out here now and it was better for him to be able to see things.
This was the place where the deputies had pulled over the young white male driving the Chevy Suburban. They had called in the tag on the Suburban at 2043 hours, found nothing on the guy and let him go. They went 10-8—back in service—at 2058 hours. Two minutes shy of nine o'clock.
They were working the second shift, four to midnight.
Hastings had worked that shift when he was on patrol. Patrol. A lot of tedium, then all at once, action. Then coming back down to routine, more tedium. Second shift; the peak hours for criminal activity. Yet he had pulled his service weapon only once when he worked that shift. Dispatch had told them that county deputies needed backup on a guy threatening to commit suicide. They got to the guy's house and the guy immediately bolted inside and Hastings and his partner followed the two deputies inside. What happened next happened very quickly. Within the count of five, all of the cops were standing in a bedroom doorway as the caller stood nearby waving a Samurai sword at them then at himself and then back at them. They drew their weapons and shouted orders:
put the sword down, now, put the sword down,
and the guy not only didn't comply with commands, but
leveled
that fucking
sword and rushed them, screaming like Howard Dean, and they shot him.
Hastings had been behind two of the officers as they all backed up at once and someone tripped and as the gunfire erupted they all tumbled into the hallway like the Marx Brothers in
A Night at the Opera.
Hastings never discharged his weapon and when it was done he gave thanks and praise that he hadn't accidentally put a round in another officer's back. The swordsman died, of course, which was what he wanted.
Hastings felt ashamed later because he hadn't been in front. But Jerry, his partner—who had been in front of him—told him in a tired voice to shut up because the whole thing had happened so quickly and there was no time to see who should stand where. They were in the house and then they were in the bedroom doorway and then it was happening and that was that.
They were hailed as heroes. Killing a guy who wanted to be killed. But,
goddamn it,
it had been close. Hastings remembered seeing the sword about two feet from his partner after it was done. Two, three more feet to close the distance and drive the sword right through Jerry's midsection. It could have easily happened, but it didn't. No cops died that night.
Hastings looked at his notebook.
10-8 at 2058.
Hastings got back into the Jaguar. Started it, paused at the road to wait for traffic, then pulled out and drove west on Manchester.
Went that way for 1.8 miles, trying to feel a time when a Nissan Pathfinder came into his view. Slowed at the street where it happened and turned right and stopped.
He pulled over to the curb, pictured the Pathfinder's brake lights reddening as it pulled over and stopped.
They had not called in the tag.
Hastings got out of the car and stood by his door.
Just then his cell phone rang.
“Hastings.”
“It's Joe.”
“Hey, what's up?”
“I called the store security. No videotape of the parking lot.”
“Shit. Well, thanks for trying.” Hastings said, “I'm at the crime scene now.”
“Yeah? What do you think?”
“I think they pulled over a guy in the Pathfinder, and then another vehicle came along and someone in that vehicle shot them.”
“How many guys in the second car?”
“I think two.”
“I think two too.”
Hastings said, “Why do you think that?”
“If it's one, it would have taken too much time, given the deputies time to react. I don't think these were thrill seekers. I think they were professional, experienced killers and they had a plan.”
Hastings read from his notepad. “The Pathfinder was reported stolen from the Schnucks at 1722 hours. So …”
“So it would seem it was stolen for this purpose. No joyriders.”
Hastings stood in the road. It led north into a neighborhood, quiet street with trees on the sides, most of the leaves gone now. He looked behind himself at Manchester Road. He said, “I think they came off Manchester, shot the guys, picked up the driver of the Pathfinder, and continued north.”
Klosterman said, “That would make sense.”
“Three guys,” Hastings said. With guns and a thought-out plan. Worse odds than a lunatic with a sword. He said, “The guys in the second car would have been waiting somewhere. Probably followed the deputies for a while.”
“Predators,” Klosterman said.
Hastings began walking north.
“If it wasn't kicks, they must have had a reason.”
Klosterman said, “Political statement?” He didn't sound convinced himself.
“Here?” Hastings said.
“Just thinking out loud.”
Neither Hastings nor Klosterman was the product of an especially politically active generation. They had once passed by a bunch of college students gathered on the beautiful grounds of Washington University on their way to interview a witness. The kids, with arms linked, were singing “We Shall Overcome” for some reason, and Klosterman said, “Overcome what? Capital gains tax?”
If not politics, then what? What would motivate someone to murder two policemen? Hastings had worked homicide for many years. He had handled cases where people got killed because they wouldn't give up the television remote control. Had seen toddlers murdered by their own mothers because they wouldn't stop crying. Had seen things that kept him awake at night alternating between wondering if there was a God who could allow such cruelty and hoping He did exist and that victims now rested in a better place.
Yet in his entire career he had not seen policemen murdered merely because they were policemen. It was either luck or some quirk of American society.
“George?”
“Huh?”
“You still there?”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“So … what are you thinking?”
Klosterman, sounding like a woman now, in bed afterward. Like most men, he'd be thinking who was on
Letterman.
Hastings shook his head. It had been a while since he'd been with a woman.
Hastings said, “I don't have any ideas. Two cops killed under circumstances
that look thought out, planned. And I don't know why.” He said, “I'd like to think Steve Treats was behind it. But that's just a theory. There's no evidence to support that he did it.”
“There's motive,” Klosterman said.
“Steve Treats is a little punk. He made some money, rode high for a while. But he's no kingpin.”
“You think Elliott wants you to hang it on Treats anyway?”
“You mean, even if he's innocent?”
“Yeah.”
Most cops, including Hastings, developed a mind-set about criminals. Basically, that if they weren't guilty of the criminal charge filed, they were surely guilty of another one not filed. It was hard not to think that way. But if you weren't careful it could lead to fabricated cases and embarrassing cross-examinations in court.
Hastings said, “I wouldn't put it past him. But if we succeed in hanging it on Treats, the real killers will get away.”
“And if they do,” Klosterman said, “you know what they're going to think, don't you?”
“What?”
“That they're smarter than you.”
Hastings pictured his partner smiling, jabbing at his ego.
“That's right,” he said. “And you know how I feel about that.”
“Call me if you need me,” Klosterman said.
Hastings got to the bar at the Cheshire Inn fifteen minutes early. He took a seat at the bar and ordered a cup of coffee. He was still flipping through his notebook when Carol got there.
She was dressed in lawyer clothes this time. Sort of: a gray tweed skirt and a white sweater with a jacket on top. She said hello and asked if they could sit at a table. They took one near the fireplace. She took off her jacket and set it on a chair, and Hastings found himself looking at her again.
She looked at the coffee cup sitting on the saucer.
“You don't drink?” she said.
“No, I drink.” He set the saucer on the table. “I mean, not much.” She ordered a glass of wine and he ordered a Jack Daniel's on ice. Hastings felt a little awkward, the coffee cup and the whiskey glass somehow reflecting indecision on his part. He could throw the coffee cup in the fireplace like he was Douglas Fairbanks. Then she would think he was crazy and leave.
Hastings said, “Did you and Kody talk again?”
“Yes.”
“Did it go okay?”
“Yeah. He should be able to get a decent plea.”
“Good.”
They were both quiet for a moment, conscious of how they had met through Kody and the accusations they had made after.
Hastings said, “I guess we never met before. I mean, we never saw each other in court or anything like that.”
“No.”
Hastings said, “My partner knows you.”
“Who's that?”
“Joe Klosterman. He's a sergeant in homicide.”
“I thought you were a lieutenant?”
“I am. He's still my partner.” Hastings said, “He's in the hospital now.”
“What's wrong?”
“He had a tumor removed. They think he's going to be all right.”
Carol said, “He's a sergeant detective?”
“Yes.”
“Got a mustache?”
“Yeah.”
“I think I remember him.” She smiled. “He say something mean about me?”
“Look, I wasn't—I just asked him if he knew you, that's all.”
“I know.”
“But, yeah, he said that you were a pretty good lawyer.”
Carol said, “That's mean?”
“It is from our perspective.”
The woman said, “My ex-husband, who's a lawyer, he once represented a police officer in a divorce. I won't tell you who. And the officer was pretty happy with what Edward had done for him and when it was done, he took Edward to … what's that cop bar?”
“Dunnigan's.”
“Yeah, Dunnigan's. And they walk in together, and the police officer says, ‘This is my lawyer.' And all the cops, you know, groaned at him. And the cop says, ‘Hey, I hate lawyers. All except this one.' Then they all bought him drinks. Edward said he'd never been so flattered.”
Or so drunk, Hastings thought. Typically, they served whiskey in jelly jars at Dunnigan's, filled to the top. Cops drank like hill people, with similar consequences thereafter.
“That's nice,” Hastings said. “So, you're divorced?”
“Yes. Two years ago.” She said, “You?”
“Yeah. Last year.”
“I'm sorry,” she said. “You have kids?”
“One. A daughter. We have joint custody.” Hastings said, “She's a great kid.”
“How old?”
“Twelve.” Hastings said, “Do you have children?”
“No.”
Hastings thought, you could ask her: what happened? How did the marriage end? She might tell him and then expect him to reciprocate and he would have to talk about Eileen and he didn't want to do that. They'd be starting with the most intimate and, frankly, painful subjects and then perhaps be stuck with the prospect of having opened up to a total stranger you may not even like that much. Better to talk about movies or baseball, but then those things didn't really interest him much. He was attracted to Carol McGuire but he was pushing forty now, recently divorced, and he didn't know what people did on dates at this point. In a warped way, he wished she had committed or witnessed some crime so he could relax and get down to interrogating her.
Carol said, “It gets better.”
“What?”
“Being alone,” she said. “It gets better after a while.”
“Oh. Yeah, I suppose it does.”
After a moment, she said, “Listen, about the other night … I'm sorry if I offended you.”
“You didn't.”
“No, I think I did. I don't … like policemen all that much, I'll admit that. But I don't think I was being fair to you. It's just that, you're all so tribal and I've seen—I've been involved in cases where I know cops have lied. That's all.”
“Are your clients known for being excessively truthful?”
“No, they're not.” She said, “But … they haven't taken oaths, have they?”
Hastings frowned.
Carol said, “I won't say anything more like that, okay? I don't—like to fight off duty.” She said, “Really, I don't.”
Hastings thought he understood. Eventually he said, “No, I don't either.”
“I just wanted to let you know where I was coming from. The other night.”
“You have.”
They looked at each other and then they looked away from each other. A man and a woman drawn to each other in spite of everything, or maybe because of everything.
Carol said, “I'm sorry about what happened. To those police officers, I mean.”
“Thank you.”
“Did they have families?”
“One of them did. Wife and children. The other one didn't. He was young, had only been a deputy for a few months. A kid, really.”
“He was twenty-four,” Carol McGuire said.
“How did you know that?”
“It was in the newspaper.”
Hastings wondered why she had said that. Was she telling him he wasn't really a kid? Okay, he was twenty-four, older than most soldiers. Approaching middle age for a professional football player. But, man, to end life at twenty-four.
Hastings said, “I guess it doesn't make any difference.”
Carol said, “I didn't mean it like that.”
“I know you didn't,” he said. Although he hadn't been sure. But her tone was different now. And she was looking at him with an open, frank expression.
Carol said, “May I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“It's somewhat personal.”
“That's okay.”
She said, “Outside of people working in law enforcement, who do you talk to?”
“My,” Hastings said, “that is personal.”
“We're alone now.”
The place was filling up now. Grad students from Washington University, yuppies from Clayton. Voices and glasses clinking.
Hastings said, “Oh, I don't know. I talk to my daughter. We talk quite a bit, actually.”
“Any grown-ups?”
“She's more grown-up than I care to admit.”
Carol McGuire frowned. “Come on.”
“I guess—well, no one. My wife and I used to talk. She was very supportive.”
“I'm not going to ask you what happened.”
“It's all right if you do.” Hastings said, “She left me.”
“Hmmm,” Carol said. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“No, I don't mind.”
She took cigarettes and a lighter out of her purse. She lit a cigarette, turned her head sideways to exhale. Her legs folded now.
“Listen,” she said. “I was probably a little too cautious earlier.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you called and asked me to dinner, I said let's just have a drink. That's what I mean.”
“That's understandable. It goes badly and you're still waiting for salads. I guess it can make for a long night. And they never look as good as their pictures on the Internet.”
“What?”
“I'm kidding; I've never done that.”
The woman smiled. “You had me, there.”
Hastings gestured that he had his moments.
“Actually, that's how I met my ex-husband.”
“Really?”
Carol McGuire shook her head.
“Okay,” Hastings said, “enough of this cute shit. Do you want to have dinner with me or not?”
“Sure,” Carol said, “let's get it over with.”
 
 
Later, plates with half-eaten food had been taken away and fourth drinks were brought back to the table.
Carol McGuire, with a fresh cigarette in hand, leaned forward and placed her lighter in Hastings's hand. He lit her cigarette and set the lighter on the table.
She leaned back and said, “You're full of shit.”
“I'm telling you,” Hasting said, “I can do it. Any good detective can do that.”
“You can look at two people, total strangers, and tell if they're on their first date, and if they've been to bed together? No. You just
think
you can do that.”
“It's not like I'm Kreskin.
You
could do that, if you wanted. You see those people over there? … No, don't point at them, for Christ's sake. You see her, right. She's pretty and he's handsome. He's also gay. Although he's not ready to acknowledge it. In fact, he probably never will be. He's got money though. I'll bet he's a doctor. And she wants to get married. He wants to get married too. They probably both have children from their first marriages.”
“A gay man with children wants to marry a woman? Come on, this isn't 1955.”
“My dear, you could pass the most open-minded gay rights legislation in western civilization and guys like that still ain't gonna come out. It's not gonna happen.”
“Because people like you don't understand.”
Hastings smiled. “Oh, please. You don't know what I understand
or don't understand. Besides, it has nothing to do with me; it's human nature.”
“You know my first impression of you was right. You
are
far too sure of yourself.”
“No, I've just seen things. That's all.”
“You work vice squad?”
“Yeah, for a few months.”
“Oh? Any prostitutes in here?”
Hastings examined the surroundings, a slow pan. “No, not yet.”
“So when you worked vice, did you roll your jacket sleeves up like Don Johnson?”
“Yeah. When I dropped my car keys in the fish aquarium.”
“Don fucking Johnson,” she said, slowly emphasizing each word. She'd been drinking. She said, “He always had that stubble on his face. You, you look like you shave every day. Did you ever wear a mustache?”
“Never,” Hastings said. “But there were plenty of weekends I didn't shave. There were times I'd go days without shaving.”
“How bold of you. How existential.”
“Do you want to hear about it?”
“Hear about you not shaving?” She gave him another mock sigh. “Sure,” she said.
“I used to go hunting. A lot. And I was very serious about it. Before the hunting trip began, I'd go two, sometimes three days without bathing. I'd brush my teeth, but that was about it.”
“That's disgusting.”
“No, it was necessary. You have a dog?”
“No. I have a cat though.”
“Oh, a cat, that's marvelous,” Hastings said. “Well, any dog owner usually has a story about his dog rolling over something that died. Sometimes it's a dead snake. The smell is unholy. A mutt will do it, a show poodle will do it. Do you know why the dog does that?”
“Tell me, o wise man of Nebraska.”
“Because every dog is a descendant of a wolf. They're all wolves deep down. And the wolf did that. Any predatory hunting animal will do that before he goes hunting, before he goes after the deer or the rabbit. So the prey doesn't smell him coming.”
“But you're a man, not a wolf. You do understand that, don't you?”

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