Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

The new chief sat behind his large mahogany desk, the only remnant of the office’s former tenant. His features were swarthy, reminding Renee once again of the first thought she’d had when she saw his photograph during the selection process. She’d grown up a Tolkien fan, reading The Lord of the Rings at least once a year from the time she was twelve until… well, she still read the trilogy every few years.

The new chief’s appearance was, unquestionably, an orc.

For a moment Renee didn’t know whether that revelation should make her laugh or frighten her. After all, if he was as mean as he looked-

“Are you my crime analyst?” the chief asked, his voice not quite as gruff as she had expected, but not exactly silky, either.

“One of them,” she answered. She crossed to his desk and held out her hand. “I’m Renee. Right now, I’m assigned to emerging trends.”

“Emerging trends?” the chief repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, sir,” Renee answered. “I collect data citywide and collate it, looking for-”

“Emerging trends,” the chief finished for her. “I get it.” He pointed to the other men in the room. “I’m sure you know Captain Reott, commander of the Patrol Division?”

“Of course,” Renee answered, giving Reott a nod.

“And Lieutenant Crawford, who is the unit commander for-”

“Major Crimes,” Renee finished.

The chief’s eyes narrowed slightly in irritation. Renee pretended not to notice. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve invited them to be part of this briefing so that you don’t have to give it more than once.”

“Thank you, sir,” Renee said. She handed the chief a small packet of papers, then gave one to Crawford and Reott. “This is my report, in case you need to refer to it again at a later date.”

The chief scanned the sheet before him. He gestured to the empty chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit.”

Renee lowered herself into the chair, sitting stiffly upright. She waited while the three men read. After several moments, the chief looked up at her, his expression tinged with impatience. “You had a presentation of some sort?”

Renee cleared her throat. “Of course. Well, I know you’re busy, so I’ll cut to the heart of the matter. I believe we have some significant organized crime activity here in River City.”

“Significant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And is that an emerging trend?”

“No,” Renee said, wondering if he was being sarcastic. “We’ve had an influx of black gangs since the late 1980s. Those gangs tended to fuel their income by selling crack, which has never really developed a substantial foothold here as it did in Los Angeles. They seem to sell enough to keep themselves in business, but that and some prostitution seem to be their only real criminal enterprises.

“Beyond that, we have some organized methamphetamine sellers, based mostly in the motorcycle gangs. Locally, the Brotherhood of the Southern Cross runs the show, though it has proven nearly impossible to break into that inner circle. They deal mostly in large quantities, selling to smaller independents who break up the bricks and distribute it further.”

“Thanks for the history lesson,” the chief said crisply, “but the detective sergeant in Narcotics already gave me this information. I was told you had something new to add?”

“I do,” Renee said, keeping her tone even. “It involves the Russians.”

A sarcastic smile spread over the chief’s face. “I’m pretty sure the Cold War is over,” he said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure we won.” He gave Renee an appraising look. “Are you sure you’re a crime analyst and not a CIA analyst?”

Are you sure you’re a police chief and not a donkey?

“Yes, sir,” Renee answered. “This is a serious crime problem.”

The chief paused a moment. Then he nodded and motioned for her to continue.

“Since the fall of the Soviet Union in December of 1991, there has been a steady flow of immigrants from those republics,” Renee began. “Russia and the Ukraine have been the primary source of new immigrants into River City. Most of them immigrated to the United States via Seattle and then found their way over here. Once there was a small community of Russians established, it seemed to attract more immigrants every year.”

“How many Russians live in River City now?”

“Well, the last official census was in 1990, so those numbers are way off. But based on other databases, I’d estimate between twelve and fifteen thousand.”

The chief’s eyebrows shot up. “Out of two hundred thousand? That’s a significant minority.”

Renee nodded. “Yes, sir, I know. That’s my point.”

“Is there someplace they all live?” the chief asked.

“Sir?”

“Is there someplace here in River City like Russia Town or Little Moscow or something?”

Renee scowled slightly. “No, not exactly. There are a number of neighborhoods with a significant Russian population, but-”

“I figured as much,” the chief grumbled. “They all huddle together.”

Renee shrugged. “It’s the same way when every new ethnic group immigrates in large numbers. That’s simply our history. The Irish did it in the 1850s, the Italians in the early twentieth century, Southeast Asians in the 1970s. The Russians are no different.”

“The hell they’re not,” the chief said, his voice rising. “Listen, I spent twenty years in Uncle Sam’s Green Machine from 1971 to 1991. I retired once it was clear Communism was beaten. And you can thank Ronald Reagan for that accomplishment, by the way.”

Renee was unsure where he was going with this. She’d voted for Reagan, but didn’t see how that-

“I trained to fight those Commie bastards every day for twenty years,” the chief said, “so don’t try to tell me that they’re no different.”

“Well, sir,” Renee said, “you may be right. But I believe they are very different in one respect.”

“And what’s that?”

“They’re organized. And because the bulk of the Russians here are still first generation, they enjoy considerable capitulation amongst community members.”

The chief eyed her doubtfully. “Organized, you say?”

Renee nodded. “I believe that a splinter group of Russian organized crime is operating here in River City.”

The chief stared at her for a few moments. Then a smile spread over his face. “The Russian Mafia? You’re kidding.”

“No,” Renee said, shaking her head. “Though I wouldn’t say Mafia, necessarily. But yes, organized crime from Russia. If you analyze the data-”

“Who are these gangsters?”

Renee pressed her lips together. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “It’s hard to pin down, because all of them are new to the country. Interpol is slow to process requests, and as I mentioned, the people in the community won’t supply information to the police.”

“So how do you know they exist?”

“It’s a conclusion I’ve drawn,” Renee explained, “based on all the data.”

“What is some of that data?”

“There’s been a spike in the number of auto thefts over the past year. The percentage of those vehicles that are never recovered has more than tripled. That indicates someone is either shipping them for resale elsewhere or running a chop shop and parting them out.”

The chief shrugged, unimpressed. “Auto theft doesn’t equal Russians,” he said.

“No,” Renee conceded, “but it is one of their favorite criminal enterprises. Besides that, we’ve had a 550 % increase in drug delivery arrests involving males with a Russian surname since 1996. And two of the five massage parlors in the city have changed their names from an Asian theme to an Eastern European theme. The employee lists contains almost exclusively Russian surnames.”