Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission (6 page)

“Ok, Ms. Winkler, just one more question. Is John Merchant a smoker?”

“Yeah, probably a pack a day. Why?”

“Which brand does he smoke?”

“He’ll smoke any damn brand he can get his hands on—whatever he can find on the cheap or bum from somebody.”

I gave Winkler a business card and encouraged her to call if she thought of anything else.

***

We immediately headed back to meet Owens and Burnham, who were pulling surveillance duty at our suspect’s home. It was time to roust John Merchant and really lean on him. This was a guy with motive, opportunity, and means. We felt that Winkler had told us the truth about most things, but not about her relationship with John Merchant. On a ten-point defensiveness scale, Winkler scored an eleven the moment Kate brought John Merchant’s name into the discussion. She was still involved with him. We felt certain of that. As for us, we were about to find out just how bad Big Bad John really was.

Chapter Twelve

The Satin & Lace Club was located about ten minutes from John Merchant’s home. I radioed Burnham and Owens to find out if anything was happening at the house. Burnham reported that everything appeared quiet with no sign of our suspect or his car.

As McConnell and I got close to Merchant’s home, my radio cracked and Owens said, “The suspect has just arrived home and appears to be in a real hurry. He just jumped the curb and drove across the front lawn. What’s your ETA?”

“We’re just a couple of minutes away,” I replied. “I’ll bet somebody tipped him, and I’ve got a pretty good idea who. Let’s get on him quickly. There’s probably something in that house that he doesn’t want us to see.”

“Roger that,” replied Owens. “We’re gonna follow him right through the front door. There’s an alley running north and south behind the house. You guys come in that way and cover the back. That okay?”

“Sounds good. We’re about there. Be careful with this guy.”

We turned into the alley and spit loose gravel as we accelerated between homes. Before I could bring the car to a full stop, McConnell bailed out and broke into a full sprint crossing into Merchant’s back yard. I cursed, jumped out, and followed her. The only place of concealment was a large maple tree located about twenty-five yards from the back door. Doing what I thought was prudent, I sought cover behind the tree. I yelled at Kate to stop. She either didn’t hear or chose to ignore me. She never broke stride. When she was perhaps fifteen feet from the back door, it suddenly opened, and Merchant launched himself off the porch, gun in hand. Neither person had any time to react. Merchant hit McConnell head on, lifting her three feet off the ground, and dumping her unceremoniously on her backside. She managed to roll away, but lost her weapon in the process. He stopped suddenly and made a half turn back toward her. At that moment, I emerged from cover in a low, combat position yelling for him to drop the weapon. He turned in one motion and raised the handgun. I fired once, striking him in the upper right shoulder. He dropped like a stone.

The next couple of hours were pandemonium. Salt Lake City P.D. responded with a shooting team, Internal Affairs officers, a crime scene unit, and a Department media spokesperson. The Department of Corrections sent the head of Field Operations and a deputy director. TV and print journalists descended on the place like locusts in a corn field. As for Kate, other than having the wind knocked out of her, sore ribs, and a badly bruised ego, she was fine.

***

John Merchant was another story. He had lost a lot of blood by the time he was loaded aboard the life-flight helicopter and flown to the University of Utah Medical Center. I sent Terry with him in case he said anything about this incident or the murder of Levi Vogue. He didn’t.

For us, the bad news didn’t end there. The subsequent search of his home and car produced nothing that would connect him to the murder. Our best hope had been that the search would yield the murder weapon. What we did find was a refrigerator full of beer, more than a kilogram of marijuana, weighing scales, and plastic baggies—all the trappings of a small-time dope dealer. The weapon was a twenty-five caliber Beretta with the serial number filed off. Assuming he survived, Merchant was facing several new felony charges, including illegal possession of a firearm by a convicted felon, multiple drug counts, and assault on a police officer. He’d also made himself a great candidate for having his probation revoked. Jenny Owens was anxious to go to work on that.

As for me, I wasn’t doing so well. I’d been in this business for seventeen years, and I’d never shot anyone before. After the initial rush of adrenaline, reality was setting in. The incident unfolded in a flash. I’d shot someone. That person was fighting for his life and might die. How would I feel if that happened?

***

It had been less than twenty-four hours since Levi Vogue had been killed. We had hoped John Merchant was the investigative lead that would break the case. Without evidence from the search linking him to the murder, I was less convinced that we had the right guy. We needed to determine his whereabouts at the time of the murder, and we needed to do it quickly.

Chapter Thirteen

Kate and I spent the next two hours undergoing tape-recorded interviews with the Salt Lake City P.D. shooting team. In addition, I had the dubious distinction of being interviewed for a second time by a high-ranking representative from the Executive Director’s Office.

Sloan had dispatched his administrative law judge, Rachel Rivers-Blakely, to do the honors. Rivers-Blakely was a tough but fair-minded attorney who had carved out a reputation while working for the Utah State Attorney General’s Office. She would recommend to Sloan whether my actions in the apprehension of John Merchant were consistent with the department’s use-of-force policy.

Her primary responsibility in the Department of Corrections was to advise Sloan in matters relating to employee discipline and inmate grievances. In short, her job was to help keep Sloan’s ass out of a sling by limiting his exposure to civil suits from either disgruntled employees or unhappy prison inmates—and the department had plenty of both.

At the conclusion of the interview, Rivers-Blakely informed me that I was being temporarily placed on administrative leave with pay, pending reviews by the Salt Lake County Attorney’s Office and by Sloan.

Shooting incidents always result in two independent reviews: one by the department for policy violations, and another by the prosecuting attorney’s office, to determine whether State criminal laws had been violated. The potential consequences are serious. If criminal charges were filed against me, it would probably be career-ending, even if I wasn’t convicted.

As I left police headquarters, McConnell caught up with me. She wanted to talk. We agreed to meet at a bar located several blocks from the police station. I arrived a couple of minutes ahead of her. I ordered a cup of black coffee for Kate and a Bailey’s Irish Cream and coffee for me.

Kate arrived, and after a couple minutes of awkward conversation, finally got around to telling me what was bothering her. In a word, it was guilt.

“Sam, I want to thank you and offer an apology.”

“No apology necessary.”

“I’m afraid I disagree. I do owe you an apology,” she said. “You’re in this mess because of something I did. If I hadn’t taken off on you when we arrived at Merchant’s home, the shooting episode probably wouldn’t have happened. I should have taken cover, rather than putting myself in a place where you had to come to the rescue. And by the way, thanks for saving my tail. Once I hit the ground, I remember two things distinctly. The first was the sensation of feeling like I’d been hit by a train, and the second was seeing Merchant stop and point the gun at me. When you yelled and came out into the open, he turned to face you. That distraction may have saved my life.”

“Look, Kate. The shooting probably would have happened whether you stayed with me or not. Nobody is responsible for what happened to John Merchant except John Merchant. There’s no need to blame yourself. He had the gun. He had the dope. He decided to make a fight of it. And I think when the smoke finally clears, the shooting will be ruled lawful, and we’ll both be back to work. Besides, I love the notion of having a beautiful woman feeling indebted to me.”

I was talking with more confidence than I actually felt. I subscribe to the old saying that anything that can go wrong, probably will. Pessimism runs deep in my blood.

She smiled. “Yeah, well, don’t make a habit out of it. It can be downright dangerous.” Our conversation drifted away from work and into our personal lives. “Sorry to hear about your divorce. I’m sure the adjustment must be emotionally painful. How are you doing?”

“Where did you hear about my divorce?”

“Take a guess. The police rumor mill, where else?”

“I’m actually doing okay, all things considered. Mostly, I don’t have time to sit around feeling sorry for myself, which is a good thing. I’ve got an eight-year-old daughter to raise. She really misses her mom, and I know she doesn’t fully understand why it happened. Between this job and playing Mr. Mom, I don’t have much time to sort through my own issues.”

“I knew you had a child, but I had no idea you had custody. How did that happen?”

So I gave her the lowdown, trying carefully not to sound like a whining martyr or an angry, blameful ex-husband. I wondered, though, why it mattered. But somehow, I felt like it did.

The conversation had started to make me uncomfortable, so I attempted to change the subject. I discovered, however, that McConnell was not only attractive and engaging, but persistent as well. She wasn’t having any of it.

“Have you been dating since the divorce?”

“Not really,” I said. “Actually, friends have tried to set me up a couple of times, but it hasn’t felt right, so I just don’t do it. I figure when the time is right, I’ll know it. Until then, I’m staying on the sidelines. Besides, I don’t have a lot of leisure time. When I’m not working, I try to spend as much time with Sara as I can.”

“Sounds to me like you’ve got your priorities straight.”

“I hope so. Since you brought the subject up, I haven’t heard anything about you in the police rumor mill.”

“That’s simple,” she said. “I just refuse to date people in the police fraternity. Cops are the worst kind of gossips. You know that. Sleep with one and it’s apt to be all over the department.”

She was right about that. Somehow Kate had managed to keep her private life private—a nearly impossible feat.

“Since you refuse to date inside the police fraternity, how is it that I saw you at a Jazz game last spring with Tom Stoddard from the D.A.’s Office?”

She smiled and said, “You are the observant one. Tom has been my one and only exception to the rule. I’ve been seeing him on and off now for almost two years. We try to keep it very low-key. The truth is that I don’t date much at all. The career has always come first. But I must admit to having moments lately where I wonder whether putting career over my personal life is such a good decision.”

“Tom probably has some feelings about that.”

“Tom would like us to be a lot more serious, but that’s not going to happen, at least not now.”

***

Even with the dose of caffeine, sheer exhaustion finally took over. We left the bar just ahead of closing. As we parted, Kate turned and said, “Hey, Sam, don’t plan on an extended vacation sitting at home on your backside. It’s not going to happen.”

Chapter Fourteen

By the time I made it home, it was after two. I parked in the driveway so I didn’t have to raise the garage door and risk waking Sara and Aunt June. I entered quietly through the front door and tip-toed into the kitchen.

The light above the stove was on, and I found a note from Aunt June reminding me that Sara’s parent-teacher conference was scheduled for this morning at seven-thirty. She wanted to know if she needed to go in my place. Aside from the early morning hour, the time was actually good since I had just been placed on administrative leave.

Despite my attempt to be quiet, Aunt June appeared in the kitchen wondering if everything was okay. I briefly recounted the events of the past twenty-four hours, including the shooting of John Merchant and my subsequent suspension from duty. She had heard about the shooting on the ten o’clock news and hoped I wasn’t involved. The press hadn’t released any names.

“I’m real sorry you had to shoot that man. It must make you feel just awful,” she said. “But I know one thing. If there had been any other way of handling the situation, you would have taken it. You just be patient. In the end, you’ll be exonerated and back to work sooner than you think. I’ll say a little prayer for you and the fellow you had to shoot.”

At six a.m., I awoke with a start to find a pair of small, very cold feet pressed against my bare leg. Sara had slipped out of her room and into mine, something she does with some regularity.

“Wake up, Daddy, you’re snoring again,” she said, grinning.

“The only person who snores in this family is lying beside me right now,” I replied with as much indignation as I could muster. “In fact, you snore so loud sometimes, you sound just like the Lion King.”

“I do not,” she said with a giggle.

After a few minutes of light bantering and plenty of tickles, we agreed to get dressed and go out to breakfast before her parent-teacher conference. Sara is a very social and very bright little girl. If it’s true that much of who we are is a product of our genetic makeup, then Sara was lucky to get her mom’s propensity for good grades, because she certainly didn’t get it from me.

By the time we finished breakfast and made it to school, I was just in time for my appointment with her teacher. Her grades were among the best in the class. She had, however, received an unsatisfactory mark for citizenship, which reflected a growing tendency to be the class chatter-box. We would have to work on that.

***

I spent the remainder of the morning restlessly loafing around the house wondering how long it would be before my fate was decided. At twelve-thirty the phone rang. It was Burnham calling from the University of Utah Hospital. It seemed that John Merchant had come out of surgery and was much improved. After a few hours in intensive care, he was moved into a regular room with the added luxury of twenty-four-hour security at his door. And he was singing like Placido Domingo at the Boston Pops.

“Guess what, Sam? No sooner had this asswipe come out from under the anesthetic when he demanded to talk with Jenny Owens. She called me right away and I met her here. The tough guy is in there right now babbling like an idiot. You’d think Owens was his mother instead of his PO. He alternates between wanting to discuss the murder and demanding that we cut him a deal for his cooperation. I think he’s scared shitless that he’ll end up at the prison hooked up with some inmate, bigger and tougher than he is, shoving something up his candy ass every night.”

“I’m not surprised that he wants to cut a deal. He’s looking at several new felony charges and a certain probation revocation. That gives us some serious leverage. I hope she remembered to Mirandize him before she started asking questions,” I said.

“No problem. She took care of that first thing,” said Burnham.

“What did he have to say?”

“That’s the bad news. Merchant denied any involvement in or knowledge of the murder. He claimed not to have even known about Vogue’s relationship with Sue Ann. He maintained that Winkler makes just about as much money turning tricks for customers from the club as she does from dancing. And get this little tidbit. It seems that Sue Ann is in business with her mother. Most of the trick activity occurs at the motel with Mom getting a percentage of the action. The old broad even pulls a few tricks herself with selected clients,” said Burnham.

“Does he have an alibi?”

“We’re checking that out right now. He claims he spent the evening of the murder at the home of his brother in Midvale. He says they had dinner, drank a couple of beers, and shot pool all evening. We ran a check on the brother. He’s clean. No prior record, gainfully employed, married with a couple of kids. We passed the alibi information along to McConnell, and she’s got somebody from her team trying to contact the brother for verification.”

It was now clear to me that if Merchant’s alibi checked out, our investigation would be back at square one. A confirmed alibi would eliminate him as a suspect.

I hadn’t been off the phone long when it rang again. Caller ID provided me with a number I instantly recognized. It was Sloan calling from the private line in his executive office suite.

“Hi, Sam. I’ve got good news and bad. Which would you like first?”

“Let’s have the bad.”

Sloan actually seemed to be enjoying this moment of quiet torment. “Well, the bad news isn’t really all that bad,” he said after a lengthy pause. “You have an appointment tomorrow morning at nine with Dr. Marilyn Hastings from the Employee Assistance Program. And don’t waste your breath complaining, because it won’t do you any good. Any employee involved in a shooting incident goes straight to counseling, no exceptions. And Kincaid, I know your tendency to disparage department policy and procedure, but don’t trifle with me on this one. If the department shrink gives me any indication you’re not being cooperative, I will suspend you from duty immediately. Am I making myself clear?”

“Absolutely. I assume this means I’m back on the job.”

“That’s the good news. I received a call from the Salt Lake County Attorney’s Office late this morning advising me that they have concluded last night’s shooting was justified, and that no criminal charges will be filed against you. Somebody from Salt Lake City P.D. must want you back on the case pretty bad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a deadly force case reviewed so quickly.

“Also, my executive management team, after consulting with the department’s administrative law judge, has concluded that your actions did not violate department policy on the use of deadly force. I concurred with their conclusion.

“To answer your question, yes, you’re reinstated and may return to work at once. Understand, however, that I’m bending the rules here a little. Technically, I shouldn’t let you go back to work until the department shrink gives you clearance. I’ll assume this is just a formality so long as you do your part.”

We concluded our conversation with Sloan reminding me that while the apprehension of a probation violator was important, it brought us no closer to finding Levi Vogue’s killer.