Nailed (7 page)

Chapter 8

By the time Ron got back to the Muni Complex, he was surprised to find a contingent of reporters waiting for him. Sergeant Stanley had them efficiently tucked away in a conference room, but the room had a glass wall and the newsies all leapt to their feet when they saw the chief arrive.

They sat back down, however, when the sergeant pointed a stern finger at them. He’d given them strict and simple ground rules: Good manners would get every bit of cooperation the department could reasonably give; rude, disruptive behavior that distracted the department from its important work would meet with instant ejection.

“Who’s here?” Ron asked.

“The town paper and both local radio stations, the
L.A. Times,
the
San Francisco Chronicle, The Sacramento Bee,
and two network TV affiliates, one from San Jose, the other from Reno.”

“So, it’s just regional right now.”

“Planes are landing as we speak, Chief. Won’t be an empty hotel room by evening.”

Ron sighed. “I better go give them something.”

“Before you do,” the sergeant said, “I have to tell you they’re not the only unwelcome visitors this morning.”

The chief gave the sergeant an inquiring look.

“You’ve got feds in your office. I had to put them there because I’d already put the press in the conference room.”

“FBI? Trying to big-foot the case?”

Sergeant Stanley nodded. “I’ve got Annie coming in, so at least you won’t have to spend much time with the media.”

“Thanks.” Ron started for the conference room, then stopped. “Sarge, you didn’t tell the feds we’ve ID’d the victim?”

Caz Stanley felt he was well within his rights to give his boss a disdainful look.

“Sorry. Just wanted to be sure I can piss them off by telling the media first.”

Sergeant Stanley grinned his approval.

Ron stepped into the conference room to meet the press.

“Chief, Chief, Chief!” Every voice in the room shouted, demanding attention. They were all on their feet again, leaning forward as if to rip him apart and study his entrails for his every secret. Not even the formidable Sergeant Stanley could potty train the press completely.

“Please,” Ron said, holding up his hands, calling for order. “Please take your seats and I’ll give you my statement.”

The reporters sat down reluctantly. The two refugees from grunge bands behind the videocams stayed on their feet and cast their harsh light on Ron.

“Yesterday morning at 6:30 AM, Deputy Chief Oliver Gosden and I were on routine patrol and —”

“It’s routine for the chief and deputy chief to patrol the town?” the
Chronicle
interrupted.

“Every Friday morning. We like to stay in touch with the patrol officer’s point of view and discuss department business without distractions. As I was saying, we were on patrol when we found the body of a man nailed to a tree adjacent to Highway 99.”

“A
black
man,” added the
Times
reporter, an African-American.

“That’s correct. For the past twenty-four hours the department has made every effort to identify this man.”

“Isn’t it true,” the San Jose TV reporter asked, drawing the attention of both videocams, “that if the police don’t
catch
the killer in the first twenty-four hours, they most likely never will? And you’re still trying to identify the victim.”

The cameras swung back to Ron.

He took a moment to compose himself.

“Homicide investigations, unless closed by an immediate and credible confession, are never easy. And it’s true the passage of time makes the task ever more difficult. But the idea that a murder must be solved within the span of a single day or it never will be solved is absolute
garbage.
If it weren’t, it would be reasonable for police departments to conserve their resources and stop looking for killers after the twenty-four hours. How do you think the public would respond if we did that?”

Ron focused his question on the TV reporter who’d implicitly insulted him, and now the cameras were back on the reporter. He turned red and groped for an answer, one that wouldn’t make him sound like a complete jerk.

As much as Ron enjoyed roasting reporters, he didn’t have the time.

“I can also tell you that we have identified the victim.” He held up his hand to forestall the obvious question as the cameras pounced on him again. “I can’t reveal that identity right now as I’ve yet to identify the next of kin. I was on my way to do that when Sergeant Stanley pointed out that the media had arrived.”

“Chief,”
The Sacramento Bee
said, “you spoke about resources just now. Do you think you have the manpower for this kind of investigation?”

The
Times
quickly added, “More to the point, do you think
you’re
the man to investigate the killing of an African-American?”

Annie Stratton slipped into the room in time to hear that last question. She was Clay Steadman’s press secretary. A former journalist herself, she’d gone over to the other side when the mainstream press started picking up stories broken by supermarket tabloids. She’d figured the moral climate couldn’t be any worse working for Clay, and the money was a whole lot better.

She came as naturally by her red hair as she did her incendiary temper. She raised an eyebrow at Ron, silently inquiring whether he’d like her to ream the asshole who had asked the insulting question.

Ron gave a small shake of his head.

“Answering your questions in order,” he said. “Yes, I believe we have both the personnel and other resources we need within the Goldstrike Police Department to successfully complete this investigation. And more to the point,
I’m
the man who’s going to catch this killer.”

He left the room, letting Annie take it from there.

Now, he’d have the pleasure of dealing with the feds.

Two young FBI agents sat in Ron’s guest chairs and their boss, a pugnacious looking guy in his late forties, had helped himself to Ron’s seat behind his desk. It was a calculated affront, and the grin he gave Ron was both an insult and a further provocation. He wanted to see what kind of rise he could get out of the chief.

Ron regarded him silently for a moment, and then called out through the open door behind him. “Dinah,” he asked his secretary, “has the deputy chief returned yet?”

“Just this minute, Chief.”

“Would you ask him to step in here, please?”

“Right away, Chief.”

“Get Sergeant Stanley, too.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ron didn’t have to wait ten seconds for his subordinates to join him at the threshold of his office. The feds held their positions silently as the opposition evened the numbers.

“Sarge,” Ron asked, “are these gentlemen from the federal government sitting in the same places where you left them?”

“No, sir. I left them seated at your planning table.” He indicated a teak table, across the room from Ron’s desk, with six empty chairs around it. Three of the places at the table had coffee cups in front of them. Stanley continued, “I offered the agents refreshment and told them they should buzz Dinah or call for me if they needed anything else.”

The two agents in the guest chairs had to turn sideways to keep an eye on the cops. Their boss still hadn’t given the least indication that he was willing to budge from Ron’s chair, the seat of power in the room. But he was no longer smiling. He was doing his best to look intimidating.

“Then you didn’t invite that gentleman to sit behind my desk?”

“No, sir. I most definitely did not.”

The chief turned to his deputy chief.

“Are we clear on the situation here?”

“Yes, Chief. We are.”

“You think that fed was poking through my desk?”

“Hey!” shouted one of the junior agents. He might have said more but he caught sight of the frown on his boss’s face.

“It wouldn’t surprise me at all if he went through your desk, Chief. Might even have photographed everything in it with a smart phone.”

Ron considered this possibility, then he turned to the sergeant. “Let’s get Officer Marx in here to dust my desk.”

That finally got a rise out of the guy in Ron’s seat.

“You can’t do that! Do you know who I am?”

Ron continued, “And have that man fingerprinted so we can see if there’s a match.”

Now the fed was on his feet, and his subordinates quickly joined him. “I’m Francis Horgan, special agent in charge of the FBI’s San Francisco office.”

Ron ignored the man. “If you get a match, Sarge, we’ll have to consider the possibility the deputy chief mentioned about them photographing my papers, so seize their phones.”

“Like hell you will!” Horgan shouted, stepping out from behind Ron’s desk.

Now Ron looked at the man, looked him square in the eyes.

“If they try to escape or go for their guns, Sarge …”

“Yes, sir?”

“Shoot them.”

Several more cops appeared in the doorway behind their superiors, and the FBI agents felt they were in a very bad spot. One in which there would be no explaining whatever happened next.

What happened next was the phone rang.

Sergeant Stanley said, “I believe that’s for you, Mr. Horgan. Probably Mayor Steadman wanting to have a little talk with you and your colleagues.”

As usual, Sergeant Stanley had it exactly right.

The meeting reconvened thirty minutes later in the mayor’s office when Clay Steadman arrived at the Muni Complex. There was no question at all who would sit behind his desk. Ron was the only member of the Goldstrike PD in the room. With Clay also present, the odds were stacked decidedly in the town’s favor. Especially after Ron told the mayor his suspicion regarding the federal agent.

“Did you rifle Chief Ketchum’s desk, Agent Horgan?”

The fed couldn’t hold the mayor’s glare, and he evaded the question.

“I came here to advise the chief that the bureau will be taking over the investigation of the homicide that occurred in Goldstrike yesterday.”

“Is that right?”

The amount of contempt and sarcasm Clay packed into three innocuous words made the FBI men shrivel. It was the best delivery Ron had ever heard from the mayor. But then he wasn’t acting.

“A hate crime like this, a racial killing, comes under federal jurisdiction.”

“Well, it’s plain to see that there were some very hard feelings involved in this killing. But I’d like to know how the FBI has determined from its offices in San Francisco that the nature of that animosity was racial, when our police department, working around the clock right here, has yet to determine a motive.”

Horgan found the nerve to sneer at Ron and, implicitly, the Goldstrike Police Department. Then he turned to Clay and said, “Mr. Mayor, you, yourself, said on television last night that race was the first thing you thought of when you saw the body.”

Clay agreed. “I did say that. But I also said we needed to learn more before we reached any conclusion. And I said only then could we hope to find the killer. Right now, Chief Ketchum’s department is investigating to find out just what happened.”

“With all due respect to your town’s department,” Horgan said in a tone devoid of any respect, “I think the bureau is better equipped both to make a determination of motive and apprehend the person or persons responsible for this killing.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion, Mr. Horgan.” Clay paused until he had the fed looking at him again. “But unless you have
proof
that this crime was racially motivated, you have no jurisdiction, and you will
not
involve yourself or your agents in Chief Ketchum’s investigation within the town limits of Goldstrike.”

Even with the weight of Clay’s stare upon him, Horgan managed to bristle. He was a senior federal officer. He wasn’t about to take marching orders from any small town mayor, no matter how many movies the drug-snorting sonofabitch had made, no matter how much money the asshole had.

Through clenched teeth, Horgan said, “With all due re—

The mayor cut him off, keying his intercom. “Jenny, has my call to Washington been placed yet?”

“I just reached your party, Mr. Mayor,” his secretary responded. “Line one.”

Clay picked up his phone, said hello and made small talk for a moment. The three FBI men watched in tense anticipation as the mayor said, “We have a little situation here.”

Ron had a hard time not smiling, wondering if the president was actually on the other end of the line. Everybody knew that guy had a thing for rubbing elbows in Hollywood. But it wasn’t the president. Almost as good, though.