The Bad Shepherd Page 10

  He’d been drinking heavily since he’d left the station earlier that day, pulling off a bottle of unlabeled tequila he’d brought back from a fishing trip in Mexico. Bo didn’t feel drunk. Sometimes, no matter how much you drink, you don’t feel the buzz; you don’t feel high; you don’t feel anything. You don’t even feel numb. That’s how numb you really are when you can’t detect feel the absence of sensation. You just have the afterglow of bad tequila in your mouth. It isn’t so much a taste as a hairy presence.

  Daphne would not see justice with her death written off as an overdose, a mistake. It was official now. The department would not pursue any charges, would not even give her the dignity of an official record. Bo had to live with her death and the knowledge that he’d set the events in motion that led to it. But what he would not do, could not do, is allow her death to be meaningless. Worse, the department was knowingly ignoring the largest narcotics trafficking operation the city had seen in a long time, possibly ever. Instead, they went for the cheap headlines, the fast payoff to cover up Mitchell mistake.

  Bo reached for the bottle of tequila he and Mitch had picked up on a weekend trip to Mexico earlier that year. He poured another couple ounces into the tumbler in front of him and knocked half of it back. If the LAPD would not follow the case to its conclusion, then Bo would just have to force their hand. He was aware of the consequences, but he also knew that he was right. Some things were more important than police procedure, politics, even careers. He stood and walked over to the kitchen and dug around for his phone book, finding it and looking up the number for KNBC. He dialed it and asked to be transferred to Kaitlin Everett.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mitchell caught his father, Martin Tillman Gaffney, staring intently over the rim of his martini at his son. Though his father was an expert with masks, Mitchell had learned to read them over the years and found that he could spot when the usually granite-faced Martin was at odds. Mitchell speculated he unsure of what to make of this situation. Theirs was tense, often terse relationship. Mitchell hadn’t come to him for advice in years and made it quite clear that he was not interested in his father’s opinion. Yet here we are, Martin’s eyes seemed to say.

  Mitchell paced.

  Martin sipped.

  Mitchell white-knuckled a lowball glass of bourbon and crushed ice, trying to force calm where he felt none.

  Martin regarded his son.

  “What is it that you wanted my advice on?” Martin sipped at his martini, the gin barely stirring as he moved it to his mouth. Evening sunlight filtered into the study through the thick greenery outside.

  “I’m not really supposed to be discussing this because the investigation is still ongoing.”

  “What is it, son?” Martin checked the irritation in his voice, but Mitchell suspected he let a little leak out for his benefit. He frequently became impatient with his son. Mitchell knew he often took too long to get to the point with his father, a delaying tactic to fend off the inevitable rebuke. Martin had no tolerance for preamble. He certainly didn’t have time for or interest in departmental intrigue.

  “I’m just asking for discretion, Father.”

  The local news had been flooded with the story for the last week, and it gained new life when Mitchell was identified as the officer who shot and killed Lorenzo Fremont. Initially, the department was positioned to come out of the Fremont shooting very well with the positive news of a large bust being made. Then, civil rights groups and community activists got involved and the tide turned almost immediately. Despite the chief’s attempt to take back control of the narrative loud voices in the Black community claimed police brutality, excessive force and racist policies. Mitchell knew his father believed calls of racism to be the inner city’s last cry of desperation. After all, what other reason could there be, he’d told his son more than once, when all the facts were peeled away?

  Mitchell, having spent so much of his career in the Southwest Area, knew that those tensions were very real and very acute. But his father was never interested in hearing that perspective.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind? What you can, of course.”

  “The buy was a setup. I was posing as a record executive with some pretty deep pockets,” Mitch’s voice was slow and measured, forcing into calm. Martin knew a practiced speech when he heard one. “I was supposed to buy a large quantity of cocaine from him and then make the arrest. His whole gang was there. The dealer told me he wanted to make the sale in the back room where the drugs were, so I followed him. My team was right outside the front and back doors, but the deal was supposed to be done in the open so the backup would be close. When we got into the back room, h-he.” Mitchell paused. “He went for his gun. I drew and fired. I shot him three times. He was dead before he hit the floor. The department wants to give me an award for valor, father. It’s one of the highest they have.”

  “I’m impressed. You did what needed to be done. Few men have the fortitude to do that when it counts.”

  Mitchell thought his father sounded genuinely impressed and perhaps surprised. Martin been an F-86 Sabre pilot during the Korean War. Martin knew fear, but he faced it and he mastered it. But that was always his way. Martin was relentless. Ruthless, some would say.

  When the war of Mitchell’s generation arrived, his son did not answer the call to serve his country, at least not in the way his father had. The words said between them may as well have been in stone for all the good it would do to try and take them back. Not that Martin would. He’d never apologized to Mitchell, for anything.

  During one of the fierce augments that defined their relationship in those years, Mitchell told his father that he would serve, but on his own terms. He would join as soon as he graduated UCLA, because Officer Candidate School required a college degree. But, the logistical exigencies of war soon caught up with his plan. The lifespan of an infantry lieutenant in Vietnam was about as long as it took him to step off the helicopter skid and the Army found themselves in a shortage for qualified officers. So, the Army began granting draftees who had some years of college but were short of a degree an opportunity to go to OCS, just as they had in the last two wars. Still, Mitchell pushed back, saying he wanted to finish his degree. He did, but Vietnam also scared the hell out of him.

  Martin said he understood fear and there was no shame in it. He told Mitchell that it was a fool who didn’t fear war but it was the coward who let that fear choose his actions.

  All his life, Martin challenged his son to go after the edge one needed to succeed, to be a champion. In his estimation, Mitchell had always fallen short. Martin believed his son lacked the courage. Mitchell did laughable things to prove otherwise, to push himself to beyond his own limits. He played varsity football in high school and then college; he raced motocross beginning in the off-season in college (which almost got him booted from the team) and continuing in his spare time today. All of these things to prove to himself and to his father that Mitchell wasn’t the coward Martin believed him to be.

  But he wouldn’t do the one thing, the only thing that would convince his father that he was a man and worthy of the Gaffney name.

  Instead, Mitchell stayed home and finished college.

  The Army stopped taking recruits.

  Martin Gaffney did not attend his son’s commencement.

  Mitchell joined the police force. He volunteered for patrol in LA’s most dangerous neighborhoods.

  Martin Gaffney stopped taking his son’s calls.

  They didn’t speak again until Mitchell made detective.

  “Now, what was it that you wanted my advice about?”

  “My partner believes we had the wrong target. Says the man we took down was a cutout. A smokescreen.”

  “That seems a little sophisticated for drug dealers.”

  “I agree, but he won’t let it go.” Mitch spoke with his voice behind the glass as he brought it up to his lips for a drink. It made a soft echo. “Now he’s making accusations. His j
udgment, his integrity was compromised.”

  “I think these claims he’s making are a way to distance himself from mistakes that he made.”

  “Accusations of what?”

  “He’s claiming I planted a gun on the suspect. It’s ludicrous, of course.”

  Martin’s eyebrow raised, and he took another sip of his martini. Mitchell observed the tick. When they were together, Mitch subconsciously adopted his father’s speech patterns, his phrasing. He stopped when he caught himself.

  “Today, I heard from an Academy classmate who works in the Office of Media Relations. Someone has gone to the press and it only could’ve been Fochs.”

  “Whether true or not, is this something that could be damaging for you?”

  Mitchell contemplated the question. “Possibly. It’s a fabrication, of course, but I’m concerned that it would give some of the police brutality crowd something to gnaw on. At best, he’s concocted a story to fit the facts but . . .”

  Martin considered this for a time. “As it is, you stand to get primary credit for the outcome of this investigation, yes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Very impressive.” Martin studied his son. “You want my advice? Neutralize him. Take his allegation out of the equation.”

  Mitchell blanched. “He’s my partner,” he said, his voice flat. “My friend.”

  The elder Gaffney paused and took a measured breath. “How many partners does Daryl Gates have?”

  “Only former ones.”

  “I think you have your answer, son.” Martin took a deep sip of his drink and set it on the table next to his chair. “One more thing.” The elder Gaffney leaned forward in his chair. He took a beat and said, “If he persists, and by your indication I assume that he will, this is going to come down to your word against his. Make sure there is no question as to whom is to be believed.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Inside the glass block that was Parker Center, it looked like a bomb went off. To a man, the crowd of reporters massed around wished that the mirrored glass on that iconic building was transparent, certainly more than the people who occupied it.

  The voice on Mitch’s phone was Hunter’s. “Get to Division. Immediately.”

  The time they had was measured in hours, short ones.

  Hunter waved him into Captain Hilliard’s office as soon as he hit the floor.

  “Mitch, have a seat,” the captain said.

  Gaffney took one of the two chairs across of the captain’s desk. Hilliard sat as well. Hunter, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, leaned against the back wall with his arms folded tightly across his chest.

  “Bo called Kaitlin Everett at Channel Four.”

  “Apparently, Detective Fochs has taken it upon himself to leak confidential material and wild speculation to the press,” Hilliard added.

  Hunter flashed the captain a look his superior couldn’t see, but Mitchell caught it. Hunter picked up a yellow legal pad from the captain’s desk. There were notes scribbled on it, but from his position in the room, Mitch couldn’t read them.

  “Fochs told her his theory that Fremont was just a part of a larger organization and that the department was inflating his importance to shift the focus away from his having been killed during the arrest. Everett called Media Relations for their reaction. She won’t identify Bo as the source, but we know it was him. This all happened within the last few hours, and we’ve got very little time to figure out what we’re going to do about it.” Hunter waited a moment.

  “Detective Fochs is done in this department, as far as I’m concerned,” Hilliard said.

  Mitch knew the captain always tried to appear decisive but usually just came across with useless bluster.

  Hunter dismissed the captain and continued, “Fochs also told her that you were carrying a backup weapon and that you shot Fremont because you panicked. He said that when he found you in the room after the shooting that there was a small-caliber pistol tossed in the general direction of Fremont’s body, but it had landed in such a way that it didn’t look like it could have fallen from his hand. He said that he’d interviewed several members of Fremont’s gang who confirmed to him that Fremont wasn’t armed. Fochs also said that when he initially questioned you, your answers were—” Hunter looked down at the notes. “Inconsistent and hesitant, and that he coached you through what to say to the OIS investigators.” Hunter looked back at Mitchell. “Nothing has gone to print yet,” he said, prompting Mitchell to speak.

  Mitch studied their faces. Hunter, stern and glowering, a mustached gargoyle staring down from the gothic cathedral of police work and Hilliard, with his washed-out eyes and ever-pink complexion, a man always running because he was forever two steps behind. “Sir, this is insane,” Mitch said slowly, calmly. “A drop gun? We haven’t done that since the ‘40s.” He saw Hilliard nodding in time with his words.

  “What did you tell the OIS team, son?” Hilliard asked.

  “Sir, I told them exactly what happened. I followed Fremont into the back bedroom to finalize the buy, and he went for his gun.” Mitchell paused. He’d rehearsed this speech so many times he could deliver it in his sleep. “I won’t, and didn’t with the Officer Involved Shooting team, speculate as to his intentions. As soon as I saw the weapon, I believed my life was in danger, so I shot.”

  Hilliard nodded.

  “Do you feel strong enough about your story for it to hold up to IA scrutiny?”

  “Gordon, I think the detective has shown that—”

  “Captain, he’s going to get a lot tougher questions than that from IA, not to mention the press.”

  Mitch broke in. “It’s OK, Captain. Lieutenant Hunter is correct, and yes, I feel strongly enough about my answers for them to stand up to scrutiny. That’s what happened. What are we going to do about the reporter?”

  “We can’t kill the story outright; it’ll just look like we’re protecting one of our own, especially after the chief has so strongly supported you after the Fremont shooting.”

  “We’re offering up your partner as the proverbial sacrificial lamb,” Hilliard said, again overstating the obvious in an effort to show he was calling the shots.

  Hunter lowered his head and sighed to hide his reaction from the captain. “Fochs will be charged with CUBO today and will be kicked out of the detective bureau. He will face a Board of Rights for formal punishment. If they’re kind and God-fearing men, Fochs will spend the rest of his days as a patrolman in Valley Division.”

  Conduct Unbecoming an Officer was the departmental catchall used when they needed to bury the hatchet deep in an officer. The Board of Rights was equally damning. It was a tribunal presided over by two senior police officers, typically captains, and a member of the Civilian Oversight Commission. The officer could have an attorney or union rep present, but because it wasn’t an actual “court,” the standards of jurisprudence did not apply. Guilt beyond a reasonable doubt did not need to be established; the presiding officers only needed to be convinced that an infraction had been committed. “Conduct unbecoming” had as broad of a definition as the department required for the circumstances. Sentencing ranged from suspension to termination. Hilliard could just as easily demote Bo, bounce him out of the bureau, and give him a suspension. They were giving him the board to make it look good for the cameras and to make sure Bo twisted in the wind for going outside the system. There were few unforgivable sins in the LAPD, but airing the department’s laundry to the press was one.

  “I think it’s terrible, sir, that it’s come to this. Bo is a . . .” Mitch gave them a tentative pause. “Hell of a good investigator, and he’s the best undercover man I’ve ever worked with. He’s also my friend.”

  “Son, you don’t need to protect him. Detective Fochs is past saving.”

  “I know, sir. There’ve been a few instances I guess you’d say. I’ve been concerned about him for some time. There’s been some behavior for a while now.” He let his voice trail off again.

&n
bsp; “Explain, Detective,” Hunter said sternly.

  “Lieutenant, it started the night we first brought Rik Ellis in. We’d raided a party at Ellis’s home. We believed that he was in possession of a significant quantity of cocaine and that he was using some of this supply to throw an intimate party for some music industry people we wanted to get next to. Bo was the undercover. Bo stated in his report that he had to appear to be doing a line of cocaine at the party. He stated that he went through the motions but didn’t actually snort. After the takedown, I found him to be acting erratic, excited, and aggressive.” Mitchell paused, just like he’d practiced. “He met that girl, Daphne Lane, that night and made up the story about her being an informant of his so that we wouldn’t write an FI card on her and put her in the system.” Mitch turned to the captain. “She later died of a cocaine overdose. She’d gotten the drugs at a party Rik Ellis threw. Bo was called to the scene because one of the responding officers was on duty the night we brought Ellis in and overheard someone saying she was a CI. Bo assaulted Ellis.” Mitch turned back to Hunter. “He’s also admitted to removing marijuana from the Hollywood station evidence locker for personal use.”

  “He admitted this to you?” Hilliard asked, incredulous.

  “Yes, sir. It was something of a joke with him. He said, ‘cops always get the best grass because we get it out of the evidence locker.’” Mitch exhaled again, heavily, as if unburdening himself of a heavy weight. He left out the part where they spent countless nights in the Hollywood Hills, together, sharing a joint. “Captain, I know I’m not painting a very impressive picture here, but Bo Fochs truly is one of the best cops I’ve ever met. I think he fell in with a bad influence and—”

  “This Lane woman?”

  “Yes, sir. I think he made some bad decisions and got trapped by them. When she died, he snapped.”

  “Why is this the first I’m hearing of this, Gaffney? If there’s a problem in our unit you should have brought it to me.” Hunter leveled his red eyes at Mitch.