Hard Country (Rogue Warrior Thrillers Book 5), page 4
He reached under the counter and withdrew a brown manila envelope. “I assume you want the police report from the arresting officer. It’s here, along with stills from the security camera footage.”
Dyche tossed it onto the counter. Bob picked it up and undid the string holding its flap closed. “And the arresting officer himself?”
They found Officer Jeb Fowler in the station parking lot, leaning against his Ford Crown Victoria cruiser, smoking a cigarette. He was short and skinny, with straw-blonde hair, spindly arms and a pencil-thin moustache under green-tinted Aviator-style sunglasses.
He was about as undersized a cop as Bob had ever seen.
Dyche introduced them.
“Mr. Richmond, this gentleman—who was just butting out that already lit cigarette he found on department property—is Officer Jebediah Fowler of the Patrol Unit. He and his partner, Officer David Czernowitz, picked up your client at the scene.”
“Sarge,” Fowler said, stepping on the cigarette butt. He tipped back his Montana peak Stetson slightly. “Mr. Richmond. I hope our fair city is treating you kindly.”
Bob didn’t want to waste time on niceties. “Your sergeant showed me the official report on our way out here. It’s only fourteen lines long. For an alleged homicide scene.”
“Uh huh. Stand by every word,” Fowler said. “And will do so again in court when the DA convicts him.”
“I’ll just leave you two to it,” Sgt. Dyche said, before turning and heading back towards the building.
“So… you’re claiming he had the gun on him.”
“Uh huh, right there in his jacket pocket.”
“On the left side, I take it, since he’s left-handed. Your fourteen-line report did not specify.”
“Uh huh, yeah, the left.”
“You’re sure.”
“As I’m standing here.”
“Marcus isn’t left-handed. Why would he fire a gun and then put it in the left-hand pocket?”
Fowler’s smarmy demeanor evaporated. “You think that’s real smart, don’t you, counsellor?”
“Well, now… if you fellas are allowed to lie to get information from people, I figure that’s just fair game. Can you answer the question?”
“Maybe because his wallet was in his right-hand pocket, leaving little extra room for a large pistol. Or maybe…” He took a couple of steps closer, until he was looking up at Bob’s chin. “Maybe he’s just a wrong ‘un, the kind who does unpredictable, wild things. We…” he sniffed, “… we looked him up, you know, your client. He’s got a past.”
Hickory Hills. Newspaper stories about his parents’ “murder-suicide”, cover for a CIA cleanup. That had to be it, Bob knew.
“Rough business,” Fowler said. “Kind of mess that’ll drive a kid right around the bend, make him go and do something crazy, like rob a successful doctor.”
Bob kept his voice equally hushed. “See, the thing is, Officer, I know that kid a little better than you might think, despite being a bottom-feeding lawyer. And I know not only that you planted that gun, but that you must’ve had a darn sight better reason than a robbery. And where there’s smoke…”
Fowler smiled slightly at that, nodding, relishing the challenge. “Well, now, I do believe you’re in the wrong place, Mr. Richmond. I believe you should’ve stopped by the fire department if you needed help on that front. If you’re doing some fire investigatin’. Me, I have to let you take my statement, let you depose me, as the man says. But I only have to do it once, officially, with a steno. Other than that, I’m just a local officer of the law and you’re… well, you’re a visitor in my town. And I’ll thank you kindly to keep that in mind.”
He gave Bob a little wink and turned to open the door of his cruiser.
He looked over his shoulder. “As I am on time-off-in-lieu for the next two working days, I believe I may have some place in my schedule next week, if you’d like to call legal services to set that up.” He got into the car and slammed the door, then started the engine and rolled down the window. “Enjoy your time in Bakersfield, Mr. Richmond. I’ll be seeing you.”
The car rolled off.
“Sir?”
Bob turned. The officer behind him was stockier, a little bigger, holding his hat ahead of him like it needed inspection. He had a tight crewcut and square chin, a neatly trimmed moustache His badge read ‘Czernowitz.’ “I understand you’ve been looking to speak with me?”
Bob nodded towards the road. “Your partner just left without you.”
“I’m not supposed to be working today on account of treatment for a medical condition,” the officer said. “But Sergeant Dyche did indicate that you wished to speak about the Singh case.”
“Yeah… Your partner was just telling me how you found the gun in the car,” Bob said.
Czernowitz frowned. “I do not believe that is accurate, sir. I believe Officer Fowler found the gun on the person of the young man we arrested, Mr. Pell.”
“You believe?” Bob said. “You mean you didn’t actually see him find the gun.”
Czernowitz scowled, appearing confused. His eyes darted from side to side as if weighing options. “I mean… I did, yes. From the accused.”
“You… saw him take the gun from the kid’s pocket?”
Czernowitz’s head bobbed a little, as if he wanted to acknowledge the point again. Instead, he licked his lips anxiously. “I do agree with everything in Officer Fowler’s official report.”
Bob held up both palms in surrender. “Officer… it’s okay. I’m not trying to trick you or trap you or anything. We can just talk about what actually went down.”
“I’ve said all I can say, sir,” Czernowitz stressed. “Because that’s what happened. Yes, sir. Jeb… Officer Fowler, he said you will try to get us fighting over the details. I know that’s what lawyers do, defense lawyers most of all. Try to trick us, make the good people seem bad.”
“I just want the truth about—”
“I need to go, sir,” Czernowitz said, anxiously flitting glances at the door to his left. “If you need me to make a deposition, I will do so and repeat the same thing, that—”
“You agree with everything in Officer Fowler’s report. Yeah, I got that.”
“Okay then. Good day and thank you,” Czernowitz said awkwardly before heading for the door.
Bob watched him head inside, a memory twigged, of a guy he’d known in the Marines. He’d been a hell of a fighting man. It had taken Bob a solid six months to figure out he had the maturity of a toddler and was intellectually slower than molasses in January.
Czernowitz had given him the same vibe.
That could be good, because toddlers are pretty easy to handle. I mean… you’d have to think so, anyway.
Or… that could be really, really bad.
Because nobody sane gives a toddler a gun.
Bob walked around the building to the public parking on Eye Street. He was almost at the Buick beater when a woman called out.
“Mr. Richmond?”
Bob turned her way. She hurried up the sidewalk towards him
“Mr. Richmond, I’m Sharmila Singh. Hap Singh is… was my father. Margaret Swain said you’re representing the kid they charged.”
“Marcus Pell.” She was a shade over five feet tall, East Indian, in a purple pant suit and black blouse. Her hair was swept back in a ponytail, and she had no makeup on. Her eyes were darkly ringed from fatigue.
“Miss, we probably shouldn’t be talking yet. He still hasn’t been arraigned.” The last thing he needed was to be attacked by someone’s grieving daughter, but he didn’t want to just blow her off. The pain was written across her face.
She nodded down the sidewalk. “You see those people on the corner up there?”
A small group of people in business wear were gathered. A few were holding small objects—phones?—but from half a block away Bob couldn’t make it out. “What’s—”
“Reporters. That’s the cream of the local press, such as they are. They’re waiting for the deputy chief to make his statement about how they nabbed a killer moments after the act, and how my father will get justice, and just how much he and the department care.”
“You sound unconvinced.”
She nodded, crossed her arms over her torso, pulling them in tight towards her, her jawline suddenly tense, her lips pursed, her expression glum. “It’s all a show. They know that boy didn’t do this. They know my father had enemies. They don’t want to catch whoever really did it. Knowing Bakersfield, they’re probably working for them.”
Bob nodded. He wanted to tell her about the gun, and how it fit, but he didn’t know the woman from Adam. She seemed grieving and sad, but that didn’t also mean she was stable or trustworthy. And no community was that black and white.
“You say that like you might have some idea on the matter.”
She looked around them to see if anyone was close enough to listen. “Some folks are dirty as hell in this city, Mr. Richmond, and my father tried to clean up one corner of it. I know who killed him, and they know who killed him.”
7
Bob stared at the diner menu. It was nearly eight o’clock in the evening and his stomach was grumbling. Sharmila hadn’t eaten and had a lot to say, so she’d suggested a place a few blocks from the station.
But his expression spoke confused volumes. “Eighteen dollars for a hamburger!?” He shook his head. “Greed is driving this entire country into the ground.” Then he realized how bad his timing was. The woman was grieving. “Sorry. You don’t need my whining right now.”
She frowned and shook her head slightly. “It’s okay. I mean… I guess life just has to go on, right?” She sniffed a little. “Bakersfield is a tough city. There’s so much money in the valley that to folks making hundreds of thousands a year in the oil industry or agribusiness, these prices don’t mean much. But this whole city is just about evenly divided: about half are struggling, and about half are doing real good. And more than ten percent of the population is undocumented, so they get treated quite poorly much of the time.”
“Ten percent? You have 40,000 illegals in Bakersfield? That seems… That’s incredibly high, right?”
“I believe it’s more like 60,000, right around thirteen percent. Something like that. When people have few legal rights… well, that isn’t a situation that lends itself to fairness. If it was, people like my father would have had an easier time protecting the health of the average citizen. If it was… he probably wouldn’t be dead right now.”
She pursed her lips again, holding it together.
“Outside the station you said you know who killed him.”
She looked around again to make sure no one was eavesdropping, before lowering her voice. “A drug dealer named Merry Michelsen. He controls a big piece of the meth trade. My father had made combatting that trade a political issue.”
“How so?”
“He ran an HMO for years and had to treat kids from meth families, kids living in extreme poverty.”
“He was a physician?”
“And a surgeon.
“Intense.”
She nodded curtly. “Which is why I became a GP.”
“And… he was taking on the drug trade?”
“He’d had enough. He heard they were planning to massively expand the trailer parks on the edge of Oildale, where much of the meth is cooked.”
“And he opposed that?”
“Initially, it was sold as more affordable housing. But the more he looked into it, the more the plan seemed to shift from what he thought would be apartment blocks to another trailer park, a massive one. It bothered him. Dad was going to run for Sheriff of Kern County. He might’ve won, too. Everyone loved him.”
Bob ignored the irony of the statement. “Bakersfield has its own police…”
“Yeah, but the trailer parks aren’t in Bakersfield. They’re in the county. They’ve got shared policing arrangements and all, but technically, the county sheriff gets a big say in everything, enforcement-wise.”
“And someone didn’t want him running.”
“That’s my guess, yeah. He hadn’t even made it widely public yet, just let a few key people in the business community know. He filed last Wednesday, had a meeting with business types on Thursday, and Friday…”
“Someone killed him.”
“My father… you have to understand, he wasn’t around much for his kids. But he was really popular in Bakersfield. He treated generations of school kids, often on his own dime.”
“And this Michelsen guy?”
“Expanding the trailer parks, adding new ones… that would mean thousands of new residents… which would mean potentially hundreds of new customers for the dealer who controls them. But… beyond that, I don’t know how he’s involved. Maybe he’s got money in it somehow.”
“I’m guessing he’s not Oildale’s only meth slinger.”
“Not by a long shot. It’s a real problem. But he’s the biggest.”
“Tough guy, then?”
“He frightens people. He’s also hard to miss. He’s a big man with dirty platinum blond hair, sunglasses. Always has an entourage of his thug friends. He showed up at a community meeting and intimidated people. That was three months ago, and the first time he threatened my father. That was when Dad started to see the affordable housing angle as maybe something untoward.”
“And it continued?”
“Three weeks ago, Dad was driving home from business in San Jose and a truck tailgated him, bumped him at high speed. They basically tried to run him off the road. If a cop car hadn’t passed and given him a chance to pull over, I don’t know if…” She paused. “I guess it doesn’t matter now.”
“And you told the cops this?”
“Uh huh. Have you met the investigating officer in his shooting? Jeb Fowler? Lots of good cops in this town…but a lot of pretty dirty ones, too. Most folks who know him figure he’s one of the latter.”
“We talked briefly. He exudes jagoff energy.”
“Jagoff?” She looked puzzled.
“Eastern thing. He’s an asshole, basically.”
“Yeah, that fits. I went to high school with him and he was a piece of work even then. His partner’s okay, but not the brightest bulb at the bulb store, if you catch my drift.”
“I got the same impression.”
“Officer David Czernowitz,” she said. “But everyone’s called him ‘Witty’ since he was little.”
“Because… he’s not bright? Ouch.”
“Yeah, well… he never seemed too bothered by it. But like I said, he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and I’m not sure he ever really got the joke. Even in high school, he was doing pretty much anything Jeb said. I have to admit though… he’s still awful cute. Had a thing for me for a while.”
She played with her necklace when she said it, and Bob had the feeling maybe the crush had run the other way. “So his partner Jeb is his buddy?”
“Sure. I mean, it always seemed a bit more abusive than that. Jeb saved him from some trouble once, when they were little. So David was always worried about hurting Jeb’s feelings, or offending Jeb. And Jeb wasn’t what you’d call kind to him.”
“Hmm,” Bob said.
“What?”
“Nothing. Well… not really, because I don’t know enough about them. But there’s a certain behavioral profile I learned about in the military, the low-empathy individual who befriends a slower-witted one to take advantage.”
“That’s about the case of it, I guess,” she said. “Witty’s just a little dumb. I mean, not so stupid as to not remember stuff. He can learn and such. He passed school and all, but he wasn't going on to educational greatness. He didn’t make good decisions, or know how to handle stuff. He was sort of dazed. Professionally, I’m never supposed to diagnose someone from afar, but if I was forced to, I’d say he has ADHD, maybe a bit of Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder, from his momma’s drinking problem.”
“And he’s a cop?”
“There are people in every walk of life who deal with developmental disabilities, Bob, people who are otherwise gifted in all sorts of ways. So you really never can tell.”
“Hmph,” Bob grumbled.
“What? ”
“Well… you basically just repeated how a shrink in Vegas described me. He thinks I have ADHD and PTSD simultaneously. It shows up similar symptoms to what they used to call Aspergers and now call Autism Spectrum Disorder One. So it’s hard to tell them apart.”
“Wow. That's difficult,” she said.
Bob shrugged nonchalantly. “It seems it to you, I guess. It’s all normal to me. I mean, those are two of the symptoms, being hyper-focused and unemotional. But that can cause attachment issues, not to mention a little depression, too. I don’t really understand it, and I need to if I want to get the most out of my life. So I’m looking for a second opinion. That’s why I was going to Seattle, before Marcus was arrested.”
“It sounds complicated.”
“It is.”
Their food arrived and the waitress set it down and offered refills before departing.
Bob took a bite from his burger and chewed it quickly. “So assuming you’ve got the right guy, and this Michelsen guy is behind it, how do we prove it?” He frowned, thinking back to the arresting officer’s report. “Why that alley, for one?”
She stared at her omelet, picking at it with a fork but not eating. “I… couldn’t tell you. Dad and I… we didn’t talk much in… in the last year.” She pursed her lips tight, holding back tears, emotional weights crushing her. “I… Oh, God.” She had to stop talking. She grabbed the paper napkin from the table and covered her mouth for a moment, then dabbed at her eyes, clearing tears. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…”
“Don’t apologize for crying. You’re not wrong. There’s nothing worse than losing someone you love.”
“Except maybe losing them when you’ve been fighting, and aren’t talking. I… I was so angry at him for placing first his career, then his business and then the HMO above his family, above retiring and being here for the rest of us. My mother died of cancer six years ago, and he wasn’t there for her enough when she was in treatment. She’d insist on taking care of things herself, anyway, but he didn’t have to use that as an excuse to throw himself into his business.”
