I need to get my act together, he told himself. Right after I nail Norris Peterson for this murder.
Chapter 47
Saturday, January 9, 1645 Hours
Pierson picked him up from the hospital at three in the afternoon. They didn't speak, except for the barest minimum communications necessary to get out of the hospital. Pierson did not seem inclined to say anything, and MacFarland was feeling oddly intimidated by her silence. Never in their long partnership had she seemed so angry with him. He wasn't sure why she was angry, and he certainly did not know how to respond to it. His normal strategy of just ignoring her mood swings did not seem to be working. Yet it was the only strategy he had.
Finally, as they neared the University Park neighborhood, he spoke up. "Did you see Rufus?"
She stared at the traffic ahead of her. "Yes, I did. He gave me your cup of coffee."
"Did you tell him what happened?"
Silence. Then, curtly, "Yes, of course I told him. He doesn't remember seeing the two men who beat you up, though he did mention two cops that were rousting him and you a while ago. Could those be the two men who attacked you?
MacFarland tried to remember what had happened. Most of the events of that evening were still hazy in his mind. Although he did not get a good glimpse of his attackers, his recollection was that they were bigger men than either Larry Lucas or Dwaine Schmidt. On the other hand, Schmidt did have a mean streak in him. MacFarland could easily see him stomping on his head.
But he didn't think his assailants were either of these individuals.
"Did you get anything on Grey Wilson?" he asked.
Pierson shook her head. "His name didn't pop up any of our databases. I even contacted the FBI and they didn't have anything on him. Except..."
"Except what?"
Pierson shrugged. "They just took a long time to get back to me. I almost had the impression that he was a person of interest for them, but they didn't want us interfering with their case."
He considered this information, but it didn't really ring true to him. Then, as he tried to order his thoughts, he had a sudden flash of insight. "Wilson said that he called for the police, but I don't think he actually did. No patrolmen ever showed up, even though we must have taken a much longer time to reach my truck than usual. And then he told me not to contact the police. Why would he not want the police involved?"
For a few minutes, Pierson didn't say anything. "I don’t know," she replied.
"How did he know where I lived?" asked MacFarland. "How did his friend know your cell phone number? Maybe he’s a cop too. That would explain how he knows who was attacking me. Hell, Cyn, for all I know, maybe he is one of the guys who attacked me."
"I wish you had seen something that would identify your assailants."
"Well, I didn't see them. They came from behind me, and normally, that close to the courthouse and police headquarters, you don't think anything is going to happen. But wait...I did hit one of them in the face. I had my ring on, which is pretty bulky. I think it must have scratched him.” He smiled, holding up his hand. "I’m pretty sure my ring has his blood on it."
Pierson stared at the ring intently. "There does seem to be blood on it," she said thoughtfully. "I could get it analyzed for DNA. The question is..."
He looked at her expectantly. "What is the question, Cyn?"
"Are you sure you want to know who it is if it really is a cop?"
He looked at her, his face a stony mask. Finally he nodded. "Yeah. Yes I do, Cyn. But more importantly, I want to find out who is giving these cops their orders."
She grabbed a tissue and held out her hand for the ring. "I hope you don't regret this, Mac. You do realize that you're close to the bottom of the food chain these days."
He smiled ruefully. "I've been at the bottom of the food chain for a long time, Cyn. At least now, I’m high enough on the food chain to be able to fight back."
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Mac.”
Chapter 48
Tuesday, January 12, 1425 Hours
Despite the attack, MacFarland was anxious to get back to his corner and resume his business. He was also concerned because he had not been able to keep tabs on Newsome. Except for some activity on Friday, by Saturday, the transmitter he had hidden under Newsome's car had gone quiet. Or else Newsome had stopped using the car. On Monday morning, MacFarland had sent a signal to the transmitter, asking it to identify itself, but it remained silent. There were two possibilities. First, the transmitter had somehow malfunctioned. That possibility was somewhat unlikely, but not impossible. The second possibility was that someone had found the transmitter and destroyed it.
By Tuesday morning, MacFarland was pretty sure that the second possibility was the correct one.
So much for his sophisticated surveillance methods. Once more, MacFarland lamented not having access to the resources of the police department. He shrugged, put on his headphones, and repeated the lesson on catching the damn train to Barcelona.
By ten o'clock, MacFarland, who by now was getting pretty proficient at telling the conductor that he was on the wrong train, saw Jerry Baker walking towards him. He took off his headphones and greeted the lawyer when he reached the corner.
"I heard what happened to you," said Baker. "Was it a typical mugging?"
MacFarland was not sure what a typical mugging actually was. Since he was the victim, he didn't regard it as typical at all. "I don't think it was robbery," MacFarland replied. "Although someone interrupted the dirtbags and maybe that prevented them from ripping me off."
"Someone stopped the mugging?"
"Affirmative. Guy named Grey Wilson. Ever heard of him? He disappeared before I had a chance to properly thank him."
Baker shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell with me," he said. "Tell you what, though. I will see what I can find out about him and let you know. We need more good Samaritans these days.” Baker paused a bit, then decided to order his usual bratwurst. "I asked the DA about the pine needle evidence. He was surprised that I was asking about it. I suspect he was more surprised that I even knew about it. He came back the next day with the story that it was a mix up in the crime lab, though he seemed more concerned with who I was talking to in the crime lab."
"Did you tell him how you found out about the evidence?"
"Of course not," laughed Baker. "My sources are always confidential.” He slowly finished his bratwurst, then sipped on a soft drink. How anyone could drink a cold beverage in this temperature always eluded MacFarland's understanding, but a lot of people did.
"Any more progress with finding the real crime site?"
MacFarland shook his head. "Too much snow up in the mountains to be able to find anything, at least without dogs. I’m fairly certain, though, that Freeman was up at Gross Reservoir on Thanksgiving Day. It's a day use area, so it is unlikely that they were up there after dark. Although I can't prove it, I’m fairly certain that he was killed up there, then brought down to Denver to the residence."
Baker looked despondent. "Here's my problem, Mac. Unless I have some way to introduce that evidence, I can't do anything with it. I need a witness or some hard physical evidence that clearly puts the deceased up at the reservoir at the time of his death. Even that won't get Maureen off, but it might mess up the prosecutor's case."
MacFarland nodded, wondering if there was any way to put Freeman’s fishing log back in the house. Had he really messed up this case? "I'm doing what I can, Jerry. But I won't manufacture evidence."
Baker took a step backwards, his eyes wide with surprise. "I wasn't even suggesting that, Mac! I've gotten a lot of questionable defendant's out of trouble, but I've never had to resort to anything illegal."
MacFarland was surprised at Baker's reaction. He is protesting too much, thought MacFarland. On the other hand, what did he really know about Jerry Baker? Nothing, except that the man dressed fairly well and was defending an innocent woman. MacFarland h
ad a bad habit of allowing many of his stereotypes to cloud his judgment. Sometimes those stereotypes saved his life, but just as often, he found them impeding his thinking. Not all husbands were wife beaters. Not all blacks were criminals. Not all gang members carried guns. Not all women standing on a street corner were whores. Not all defense lawyers were scumbags.
On the other hand, MacFarland was getting too old to change his views of the world. Baker probably wouldn't fake evidence, but he sure would distort its importance if he could influence a jury. Lawyers didn't search for truth. They worked to get a jury to see the truth the same way they did.
"I know that Jerry. I'm sorry for even suggesting it."
The morning was quiet after Baker left. Business picked up as the lunch hour came and went. The afternoon looked like it would remain quiet, until two twenty-five. Pierson was able to sneak up behind him as he was struggling to tell an irate train traveler that she mistakenly had picked up his luggage. He would have just taken his luggage back, but apparently in Spain you had to use language to get your luggage returned. And worse yet, you had to be polite while doing it.
"How's business?" asked Pierson.
MacFarland looked up in surprise, then turned off his CD player. He smiled at his former partner. "It's good to be back at work."
Pierson raised an eyebrow. "Which work? Selling hot dogs or solving crimes?"
MacFarland coughed in exasperation. "I’m hardly solving any crimes," he said. "I was referring to my real job, of course. Selling hot dogs."
"Guess who I saw in the squad room today?"
MacFarland looked at her questioningly. "Someone I know?"
"Probably quite intimately. Patrolman Orlando Mendoza. He had an interesting scratch on his cheek. He got it trying to restrain a suspect last Friday. But there wasn't any arrest on the blotter. In fact, Mendoza wasn't in service that night.” She was thoughtful. "I don't know much about Mendoza. He moved here from LA about a year ago. Used to be with the LA County Sheriff out there. Everyone says he is a pretty good cop."
"Who is Mendoza's partner?" asked MacFarland. All cops regarded each other as pretty good cops. It took a real bad apple for anyone to badmouth one of their own.
"Peter French. Both of them were originally assigned to District Two, and then about a month ago they got re-assigned to District Six."
"I wonder why," mused MacFarland. District Two covered north central Denver, while District Six covered the downtown area.
"That's a good question. An even better question is, who engineered the transfer? If we could figure that out, we might figure out the why.” She looked around. Like most cops, she was constantly checking her surroundings.
MacFarland handed Pierson a hot dog. He figured that if Pierson was going to stand around a hot dog cart, she better look like a customer.
"The fact that he has a scratch doesn't prove that he is the one who attacked me. Wish I could find that asshole who came to my defense. Maybe he could identify the guys. After all, he seemed to know they were police."
"Well, we don't have him. We don't have a lead on him."
MacFarland scowled, then started wiping down his cart. "Why did those two cops attack me?" he finally asked. There was no longer any doubt in his mind that his assailants were cops.
Pierson shrugged and finished putting condiments on her hot dog. "How much do I owe you for this?" she asked. MacFarland shook his head no. "That's another good question, Mac. Here's my answer. Someone is feeling uncomfortable with you doing your unofficial investigation. I would surmise that you are getting close to someone who doesn't want any light shined on him. Who are you checking out?"
"The partner--Newsome. But I might also be getting close to Peterson. The other day, Newsome went to see his cousin."
Pierson hurriedly tried to swallow her bite of hot dog. "That is really stretching it, Mac. As you say, they are cousins. They are business associates. We've looked into that jewelry store, and it turns out that Peterson fronted a large portion of Newsome's investment. You know that. Of course they would see each other every once in a while. You need to do better than that."
MacFarland nodded. "I know. But I also confronted Newsome in the parking lot outside his store. I think that spooked him because it was right after that when he went to see Peterson."
"So you think it was Peterson who got a couple of cops to beat you up?"
"Nothing quite so direct. But I’ve suspected for a long time that Peterson had a contact inside the Department. I just don't know who that person is. For all I know, it’s Iverson.”
Pierson shrugged, finally wiping her hands with a napkin. "So where are we?"
MacFarland stared over at the court building. "Not much further along than we were when Baker asked me to help him," he said.
Chapter 49
Wednesday, January 13, 0909 Hours
"Rufus, I need some help."
"Want me to watch the wagon, boss?"
MacFarland shook his head. "It's more than that. I need eyes and ears."
Rufus looked at his friend. "You got eyes and ears. I don't understand what you're getting at, boss."
MacFarland had thought all night about the two cops who had beat him. He had found them on the internet. Surprisingly, there were sites for everything on the internet, including one that posted the pictures of just about every police officer in Denver. Ostensibly, the site was intended to be a method of rating the quality of service provided by an officer, but MacFarland thought the site served a more sinister purpose. It exposed cops to public scrutiny, but not everyone in the public was a friend of the police. Such a site could be just as easily be used to ruin a good cop's career as well as do any social good.
Yet, in spite of his disgust at the mere existence of the site, MacFarland found himself printing out copies of the pictures of Mendoza and French. He checked out the comments posted for each of the officers. Mendoza had one complaint of excessive force and two complaints of racial profiling. French, on the other hand, didn't have anything negative about him posted on the site.
MacFarland pulled the pictures from his pocket. He put the pictures on the work area of his cart. "I think these are the two men who beat me up, Rufus."
Rufus stared intently at the pictures. "You mean them was cops?"
MacFarland nodded. "I’m not positive. I would like to think that I’m wrong. But I need to know more about these two. Do you know anyone who might have come in contact with them?"
"Well, boss, I seen one of them.” He pointed at French's picture. "He's been down near the shelter. We all have seen him."
"And what about the other one? Have you seen him too?"
"Yeah, I seen him too. He's not so bad. Not like this one."
"Can you ask some of your friends to keep an eye on them for me? See who they talk to? Don't go up to them, you know, stay out of sight. But let me know if they talk to someone who looks like they don't belong."
"Sure, boss. Spy on the cops! Sounds like a plan.” Rufus laughed, a short, cynical laugh. “Wonder what could possibly go wrong with that?"
Chapter 50
Thursday, January 14, 0930 Hours
MacFarland was not certain who Rufus had contacted to keep a watch on French and Mendoza. He was a bit concerned when Rufus didn't show up on Thursday with his usual two cups of coffee. Was Rufus himself trying to keep an eye on the two officers? MacFarland was beginning to have doubts about his request. He should have given more thought to the entire plan.
He was listening to the next lesson in the Spanish series, one that concentrated on talking about really wonderful experiences at a movie theatre. Cynthia Pierson, closely shadowed by Benny Lockwood, walked up to his cart. "I'll be just a minute, Benny," she said, pulling on MacFarland's arm. Benny dutifully stood off to the side, watching the heavy morning traffic pulling into the parking garage.
"Mac, those two cops I told you about yesterday. You
better be careful with them."
"I'm always careful," he said.
Pierson blinked, then tried to suppress a cynical laugh. "You've gotten sloppy since you've been off the force, Mac. If you were careful, you wouldn't have had the crap beaten out of you. When we worked together, you would have been able to take three guys like that."
"That was five years ago, Cyn. I was a cop then."
"Yeah, and you're a hot dog vendor now. That's my point exactly, asshole. So watch your back."
MacFarland was puzzled. "What's got you spooked about these guys, Cyn? Yesterday they were just a couple of problem cops."
Pierson looked towards where Lockwood was standing, watching people emerge from the parking garage. Then she lowered her voice, speaking in a whisper. "I’ve heard rumors that the guy who got them transferred over to District Six was Lieutenant Griffin. It seems that Griffin has a lot of guys under his thumb. Mendoza came to us from LA. He had some problems there, but Griffin took him on anyway. Mendoza brown-noses Griffin so much, he practically lives up Griffin's ass."
MacFarland rubbed his chin. "When I knew Lorne Griffin, he was a captain, in line to become a Commander. Why is he now a loo?"
"It happened about the same time as when you got kicked off the force. The new mayor wanted his own guy in charge of the Department. They found some dirt on Griffin, and he got bumped back to lieutenant. Lucky even to keep his job. He had a lot of friends in command, though, and with their help he got transferred to Internal Affairs. He's been there for at least three years."
"So what's the problem with him?"
"Aside from possibly using his position to get back at the ones who screwed him? Well, probably nothing. Except, it seems that Griffin and Norris Peterson went to college together. They were even roommates for a year. I think we found the link between your snooping and your mugging. I think Griffin is the plant in the department."
Chapter 51
Friday, January 15, 1300 Hours
The Friday lunch crowd had finally thinned out enough for the shadow people to come back out into the open. MacFarland greeted his friends Kirk and Gracie, then noticed that they seemed more reserved than usual, particularly Gracie. While Kirk was a dour individual, Gracie usually had a smile on her face. No matter how bad things got, she always anticipated better times ahead. To see her looking crestfallen and despondent was totally unexpected.