Director's Cut (27 page)

“Bill” Webb.'”

“Well?”

“That's a lot of ‘whereas,' Chief.”

“So you can't even take my resignation seriously.”

“I take it very seriously. Please sit down.”

“I prefer to stand.”

I sighed and sat, folding my hands on my desk. I said nothing. The thing with Bill Webb is that he's gruff, opinionated, impossible to intimidate, and quick tempered. He's also a man of old values and a believer in authority, even if that authority requires he do something he doesn't wish to do. His mayor was seated and he was not; it was ungentlemanly to hover. Finally, he eased into one of the desk chairs.

“I take it Detective Scott complained to you about our decision to have a press conference.”

“He did.”

I waited for more but nothing came. “You think the press conference is a bad idea.”

“I think when one of my detectives tells you a press conference will interfere with his investigation, you should listen.”

“I did listen and I weighed the pros and cons before making a decision.”

“He's of another mind.”

“Chief,” I said. “I know you want to catch this guy. I want you to catch him too, but I also have to be concerned about the legal exposure of the city, the safety of its citizens, and—”

“Please don't lecture me about law and safety, Mayor. I've logged over twenty-five years with a badge.”

“Exceptional years, I might add,” I said. “Look, we've never gotten along, but I have never once considered you anything less than the finest police chief in the country.”

“My resignation stands. I'm tired of your meddling in my department. I'm tired of being told no on budget and hiring issues. It's time you got a new patsy. There are people out there who would kowtow to your every whim.”

I glared at him for several moments, holding back what I wanted to say in deference to what I should say.

“Let's go.” I shot to my feet and retrieved my purse from the drawer where it rests while I'm in my office.

His angry countenance morphed into confusion. He stood. “Go where?”

“You're going with me. Do you want to drive, or shall I?”

“Are you daft? I just resigned.”

“I'm tired, I'm confused, I'm worried sick about one of my relatives, I'm stressed from a campaign I haven't been able to participate in for over a week, I'm sleep deprived and many other things, but I am not now, nor have I ever been, daft.” I rounded the desk and opened the door.

“But—” he began.

“Two things, Chief. One, your letter says your resignation is effective at close of business today. My watch says that it's only eight thirty in the morning, so you're still mine. Second, I haven't accepted that letter yet. Let's go.”

I marched from my office, glancing at a very pale, stunned-looking Floyd. He had heard it all. Behind me I could hear angry grumbling. At least he was following me.

Webb consented to drive, more to express control than anything chivalrous. We made the drive in arctic silence but we arrived at our destination. I led the way, Webb saying nothing but giving off vibes that threatened to wilt flowers. I kept my head up and my expression neutral. That was proving to be a more difficult job than I anticipated.

As we walked through the automatic glass doors and the lobby, Webb struggled to keep his tongue. I could see it on his face and his ever-deepening scowl. As we strolled through the lobby, we were greeted by the same elderly ladies I had met last time I entered the hospital.

“Excuse me,” one said. “You need name tags—”

Webb pulled back his dark suit coat, showing his badge. We walked down the hall, leaving the two volunteers to their bewilderment. Outside the ICU doors, I pressed the call button on the intercom and announced my presence.

“I'm sorry,” the unseen nurse said. “These are not visiting hours. The hours are posted on the placard below the intercom.” The wall speaker went silent.

“Excuse me,” Webb said. He pushed the button. The same voice answered. “This is Chief of Police Bill Webb. Send your supervisor out or let us in. I don't care which you do.”

There was silence for a moment, then the double doors swung open. We entered but stopped the moment we saw a wide and determined nurse. Her hands were planted on her hips.

“I had better see a badge pretty quick or there's going to be trouble.”

She was frightening. Webb removed his badge from his belt and held it out. “Will this do?”

“I suppose,” she said. “How can I help you?”

I thought it wise if I took over. “I'm Mayor Madison Glenn, and you've just met Chief Webb. Two of your patients were involved in accidents being investigated by the police.”

“You're talking about Mr. Turner and little Byron Slater.”

Byron Slater.
I was awash in shame. I had never asked the boy's name. He was just Jerry's patient or “that six-year-old boy.”

“That's right,” I said.

“Neither is in a position to talk to you. I'm afraid you've wasted your time.”

“We're not here to talk to them,” I said. “We won't bother them; we just need a few minutes.”

She gave us the once-over. Webb could intimidate paint off walls, but he seemed to have no sway with this woman. “Be certain you don't disturb them.” She turned and returned to her place behind the nurse's counter.

I led Webb to the cubicle that held Doug Turner. Doug looked the same as when I last saw him: frail, swollen, bruised, bandaged, and almost unrecognizable. “He's a pain at times,” I said, “but he always dealt squarely with me.”

Webb said nothing. He studied Doug for a few minutes but seemed unmoved. Over twenty-five years of police work, I knew he had seen more than I could imagine.

“Last word I had was that he was still in rough shape,” I added. I couldn't say anything more. “Come with me.” I led Webb to little Byron Slater's cubicle. Like Doug, he was attached to tubes, heavily bandaged, and his face was swollen. Both eyes carried black bruises beneath them. It seemed wrong for someone so young to be so battered and broken.

This time, Webb wasn't so stoic. He stared at the lad and the harsh, granitelike scowl softened. “I hate seeing kids busted up. I can't get used to it.”

“I don't think we're supposed to get used to it.” I felt flush.

“You probably don't know this,” Webb said, “but I almost ruined my career when I was a patrol officer.”

“I didn't know that.”

“I was called to a disturbance at a grocery store. It must have been twenty, no, twenty-three years ago. Some man was yelling at his wife and son. Right there in the canned vegetable aisle. I had just rounded the corner when I saw him backhand the kid. The boy couldn't have been more than four or five.”

“That's horrible.”

“I approached, and as I did, I felt something snap in my brain. I pride myself on my control but I lost it that day.”

“You pride yourself on your
control
?”

“Have you ever known me to do more than bluster?”

“No, I guess not, but you've got that blustering thing down pretty good.”

His eyes didn't move from Byron. “Anyway, I told him to back away from his family. He refused. I continued forward. He took a swing. Caught me on the right jaw.”

“Couldn't get out of the way?” I guessed.

“Didn't want to. I wanted the blow to land.”

What?
“Why would you want to do that?”

“Assault on a police officer is a serious offense. The punch hurt in the most wonderful way. I had my excuse.”

“What did you do?”

“I arrested him. I arrested him real hard.” He shrugged. “Some thought I might have been a little rough. No charges were brought. I got a nonpunitive reprimand in my employment file. It didn't affect my career, but I still can't look at a boy his age without hearing that backhand.”

There was a pause. “I have a grandson his age.” He nodded at the comatose Byron. “That boy is nothing but a sack of energy. He's wearing his parents ragged, but he lights up a room when he enters.”

“This is why I have to do the press conference, Chief. I don't think I could live with myself if another little boy ends up in this place. I know it might interfere with the investigation. I know that it might drive the criminal into hiding so we never find him, but it might also help. Even if it doesn't, and another Doug Turner or little Byron Slater ends up in a hospital bed, I'll be able to say, I tried everything I knew to try.”

I paused and stared at the child. “I'm not trying to meddle, Chief. From time to time our authorities cross paths. I must do what I think is best, just as you must, but it is never personal. I don't think you know how much I admire you.”

“Admire? Me? I've given you more grief than you deserve.”

I grinned. “I think I probably deserved more than I got.”

Webb's eyes moistened. “You never get used to this, Mayor. I've seen children killed in auto accidents, suicides, even murdered. It never gets any easier.”

“Let's pray that it never does.”

“Come on, I'll take you back to the office,” Webb said. “I seemed to have left some trash on your desk.”

I reached out and gave his arm a squeeze. It was the closest thing to a hug that Webb would allow.

We thanked the nurse who seemed to have softened in the few minutes we were in her domain, but also seemed relieved to have us go. We passed through the double doors and into the hall. Just across the corridor was the waiting room. Something familiar caught my eye. A second later, I realized the something was a someone. Jerry was in the waiting room. I poked my head in to say hi, then realized that he wasn't alone.

“Maddy? What are you doing here?”

“I was visiting in the ICU.”

“But it's not visiting . . . never mind.” Jerry stood. “This is Ron and Kay Slater. Their son is—”

“Byron Slater. Chief Webb and I were just looking in on him.”

“Really?” Mr. Slater seemed suspicious. “Are you a doctor?”

“No.” I entered the room. “I'm the mayor of Santa Rita.”

Jerry made introductions. He seemed uneasy. I had walked into a sensitive moment and was trying to think of a gracious exit. “I didn't realize Dr. Thomas was with someone. I saw him through the door. I'll leave you alone.”

“Figures,” Ron Slater said. He was bristling.

“Ron, don't,” Kay said. His wife took his arm.

I looked at the father and then at Jerry. “I'm sorry. I truly didn't mean to intrude.”

“It's not the intrusion, it's the apathy.”

I could almost feel the heat. A movement at the door reminded me that Webb was still in earshot. He moved closer. I raised a hand and stopped him in his tracks. I stepped into the waiting room and took a seat facing the couple. “I'm afraid I don't understand.” I had an uneasy feeling I was about to find out.

“This may not be the best time.” Jerry had the look of a nervous bomb disposal officer.

“I see.” I started to rise.

“Will there ever be a good time?” Ron asked. “I don't think so. The doc here tells me that my son isn't gonna make it. He says the head trauma may be too great and the brain continues to swell.”

“Is there no hope?” I asked Jerry.

“There's always hope, but things look pretty grim.”

“And it's the city's fault,” Ron said.

“Please, Ron, don't,” Kay said. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

“Why not, Kay? Why not? What should I do, just sit here until Byron is dead and cold?” That started a flood of tears. “I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry.” He took her in his arms. “I shouldn't have said that. It's just that . . . it's just that . . .”

“Jerry?” I said.

“The Slater's have no health insurance. They may lose their son and everything else. I'm doing what I can to get social help, but—”

“We'll never dig out from under. Not that that matters. Very little matters without Byron. And all because the city can't keep the streets safe for our children. A missing stop sign. I can't believe it. We should sue.”

“Yes, you should,” I said.

“What?” Kay said.

“I don't know how much you know,” I said, leaning forward, “but the city didn't take down that sign. There's been a rash of vandalism. Someone is stealing traffic signs and other things. The police are investigating.”

“Vigorously,” Webb said behind me. He moved into the doorway.

“A detective has been assigned to the case, all field officers have been alerted, and this afternoon I will be holding a press conference to ask the help of Santa Rita residents. The Chief's office and my office are doing everything we can. If you feel you should sue the city, then I encourage you to do so. It's your right.”

“I can't believe the mayor of the city is saying this,” Ron said.

“Well, I'm having a little trouble believing it myself. There are legal reasons why I shouldn't even be talking to you, but I believe that people matter more than law.”

Ron buried his face in his hands and began to sob. I tried to fight back my own tears but I was too tired, too frustrated to try for very long. I let them flow.

“I feel so guilty about not being there when he needed me, about not having insurance. I'm self-employed. I drive a truck. I can barely pay the bills and buy gas for my rig. Kay, she ain't been all that healthy herself. She won't go to the doctor because we can't afford it.”

“You're not alone, Mr. Slater,” I said. “As Dr. Thomas can tell you, there's a health care crisis in the country. Forty-four million people in our country have no health insurance; another thirty-eight million Americans have inadequate insurance. That means that one in three people are in a similar situation.”