The Archangel Drones (33 page)

“So whoever was operating the drone saved that child’s life?” Karen asked the police technician.

“Yes, ma’am. It looks like the remote operator deliberately ordered the machine to hit Officer Kirkpatrick’s weapon. From what we recovered from the unit’s video memory card, it was clear from the infrared that the boy had a toy weapon.”

“Are you sure this wasn’t a deliberate attack against a police officer?” the chief asked from the other side of the table. “Why would someone who’s been trying to destroy my department want to help a cop? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Karen looked at the chief and frowned. “Obviously, they’re not trying to destroy your force. At least it doesn’t seem like it to me. The video of the SWAT team’s breach has probably saved the city a significant lawsuit, and bought your department a ton of positive public relations. If we were dealing with pure cop-haters, they would have kept that recording to themselves.”

The top-cop waved a dismissing hand through the air, “That was just a head fake… a false gesture to establish credibility on their part. Believe me, if they wanted to help us, they wouldn’t be broadcasting every little mistake we make.”

After waiting to make sure the discussion was over, the mayor continued. “Has the recovered drone provided any clues regarding who we are dealing with?”

The chief nodded at his technical expert, granting permission for the man to answer. “Very little,” came the shy response. “We found three different partial prints, none of which drew a hit from any agency database. The serial numbers from most of the parts have been ground off. We did discover two SKU codes, but both components were manufactured in Asia. We’ve asked the FBI to follow up, but our experience has shown cooperation from foreign manufacturers in such matters is unlikely.”

“You mean you’ve recovered one of their units, basically intact, and we’re still no closer to finding out who’s behind this?” asked one of the city councilmen.

“That’s not entirely correct, sir,” the chief interrupted. “We’ve filled in several blanks. For example, we know the range of the device, how it receives its commands, and we can now confirm it is a custom-built unit. Those facts, while appearing scanty, help us in building a profile of the owner-operator.”

“Go on,” the mayor stated, clearly intrigued.

“One thing we know is that the launch and apparent recovery isn’t from a fixed position. The memory core we recovered indicated the drone had been programmed to land at a car wash less than two miles from the incident. We believe someone would have been there with a car or truck, ready to load the unit after it landed. We know our suspects are well funded, technically capable, and extremely cautious.”

“So what’s the next step, Chief?” Karen asked, finally rejoining the conversation.

“We are running down a list of people who have filed grievances or complaints against the department, trying to narrow down the list of those who match the criteria I just stated.”

Karen grunted, “That’s got to be a long list, Chief. What? A couple of thousand names?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” the old cop snapped, his fiery stare burning in Karen’s direction.

DA Sanders just smiled, apparently unaffected by the gruff challenge. “Nothing, Chief, nothing at all. I was just stating that a department the size of HPD would naturally have hundreds of such incidents per year, and that would equate to quite an extensive list of potential suspects.”

Dole hadn’t been able to eat since the night he’d almost slaughtered the kid. Despite his commander insisting on his taking a couple of days off, Kirkpatrick just couldn’t clear the images out of his head.

He didn’t have any problem with using extreme tactics on hardcore criminals or the terminally stupid. Those examples of humanity often received exactly what they were asking for.

But kids? Young people? That was an entirely different ballgame. One he’d never anticipated when he’d pinned on a badge.

And the young man a few nights ago wasn’t his first aberration.

Jacob Chase. He now knew the name by heart, could recite the case number from memory. He’d read the file no less than ten times – and knew without a doubt Sergeant James Marwick was a liar.

After that night in the restaurant, Dole had begun to wonder just how far into the pits of treachery Big Jim was willing to go.

Dole had the uploaded video file from Marwick’s cruiser that night. Big Jim had been crafty enough to erase the memory card before returning the vehicle the next day, but the older cop wasn’t technically up to speed with how the newer video systems operated. That recording, salvaged from the department’s cloud storage cache, clearly showed there hadn’t been any evasion or resistance on the part of the teenage driver. Big Jim was not only a liar, but a self-promoting, malicious individual who was damaging the entire force with his antics.

For a while, Dole had pondered calling his father and seeking the more experienced cop’s advice. But he didn’t, well aware of exactly what his conservative parent would spout. “You never, never, ever turn on another cop. Doing so will ostracize you from the family, and the next time a bad man has a gun to your head, those ex-family members might just be a little slow to react.”

Kirkpatrick was sure his grandfather would share the same point of view. He could just hear the patriarch’s gravelly voice instructing, “Always go through the chain of command if you’ve got a problem. Never go public. Never go to the press, or take matters into your own hands. Use the established channels in your department.”

But that option was suicide, if only via a different poison. Dole knew what happened to those officers who reported on other cops. Overtime disappeared, promotions were bypassed, and the brotherhood became hostile. Besides, he was almost as guilty as Marwick. While the big sergeant had given him the visual command to implement the hotfoot, it had been Dole’s own hands that had used excessive force.

Was it really his fault? Was he really to blame?

The radio call that night had indicated a suspect was fleeing. Dole and the other officers had responded in kind, adrenaline-charged and determined to make sure the chase ended before anyone got hurt. If they had all known the truth, had been aware that there really wasn’t any pursuit or indication of guilt, then the entire encounter would have turned out differently. Another child might still be alive. The sergeant had misled his brothers. He was a dishonest piece of shit, hardly better than half the scum they sent to prison every day.

Thoughts of resignation circulated through the young cop’s troubled mind. Maybe his dad had been right… maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a police officer.

For a while, the option of turning in his badge and gun provided a relief of sorts. Dole’s thoughts wandered to other occupations, speculating on which ones couldn’t involve shooting children and ruining lives.

But then he rebelled at the concept. Police work was supposed to be honorable, driven to better the community and improve lives. “To protect and serve,” he whispered. “If all the guys who think like me leave the force, who is going to protect and serve?”

He had a vision of sorts, a mental image that actually made him laugh aloud. A muster had been called, all the officers at the local substation ordered to gather in one room. Dole could see Big Jim’s face atop every uniform, the entire force populated with Marwick clones. It was funny, then sad, and finally frightening.

There was another way out. A move that carried much risk, but the potential of a huge reward. He could release the videotape from Marwick’s dash cam.

“Why not?” he asked his empty apartment. “It seems to be all the rage these days. Everybody’s doing it.”

Again, he chuckled, wishing he could see the huge sergeant’s face when the recording was aired on the local news.

But what if his fellow officers found out? What if Marwick put two and two together?

“You’ll be assassinated,” he said. “There will be a call… a prowler or open door or alarm. Someone with a gun and knowledge will be waiting. The shot will be to the head, well away from the protection of your body armor. Is it worth it?”

Dole took another sip of his beer, pondering the fork in the road that life had presented. Finally, he reached a conclusion, deciding to release the video. “You’re just a walking dead man if you don’t. The guilt of inaction will eventually eat out your core, and you’ll be no more than a zombie behind a badge - uncaring, numb, and lifeless. It doesn’t make any difference if it’s the assassin’s bullet that ends it all or withholding the truth that does you in. The story has the same ending.”

Big Jim was preparing for his shift, running down the nightly roster and scanning the day shift’s blotter. “Nothing special here,” he noted. “Just another evening fighting crime for little fame, no glory, and less pay.”

The sound of someone clearing his voice caused him to glance up, a lieutenant he didn’t know and his captain standing nearby, each wearing their best, “You’d better believe this is serious shit,” expression all over their faces.

“Marwick, this is Lieutenant Cranfield from Internal Affairs. He’d like to have a word with you,” the captain announced, pivoting to exit the room without another word.

“I assume you’ve seen the video released this morning, Sergeant Marwick. I was ordered to come here and take your statement regarding this new evidence.”

“Huh? I’ve seen all of the Archangel videos, but I didn’t know about any new ones this morning,” Jim replied honestly.

The senior officer shook his head, “This wasn’t an Archangel piece. Channel 14 news is playing what appears to be a recording made from your dash cam the night of Jacob Chase’s arrest. Normally, my boss wouldn’t be so concerned about such a release, but with a potential prosecution in the works, he sent me over here to listen to your side of the story.”

Marwick experienced genuine fear, the pit of his gut suddenly knotted, the back of his knees cold and damp. “I can’t comment, LT…. I haven’t seen it.”

Pulling a laptop from under his arm, Cranfield said, “I can fix that, Sergeant. Let’s go into one of the interrogation rooms and enjoy the show.”

Big Jim didn’t like the idea, but he couldn’t think of any excuse not to. Weapons weren’t allowed in the interrogation rooms, and he knew that every word would be videotaped.

For a moment, Marwick thought he should ask for his lawyer, but decided against it. He hadn’t seen the recording, and it might not be that big of deal. This young IA guy might just be playing head games to see if the accused would make a mistake. More than once he’d used a similar technique, approaching a person of interest while pretending to have uncovered some blockbuster piece of evidence. More often than not, the suspect had started singing like a bird. 

After checking their weapons, the two cops entered the closet-like, stark room. Inside there was only a small table and three plastic chairs. The drywall was bruised, dented, dinged, and scraped, evidence of previous occupants’ violent outbursts.

The door closed with an electric hum and pop, the heavy lock engaging to secure the room. Marwick knew there would be at least two cops witnessing the encounter. He also was fully aware that the only way out of that room was to be “buzzed” out by one of the observing cops.

Without any prelude, Cranfield opened his department-issued computer, punched a couple of buttons, and flipped the screen around to allow Marwick an unobstructed view.

Big Jim sat and watched the nine minutes of black and white images, a wave of relief flushing through his core when he realized the recording didn’t show anything new. In fact, it wasn’t as revealing as the private cell phone video shown at the civil trial.