Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

“Those reports aren’t going to read themselves.”

“I wish they would. Why can’t we just feed them into a computer and let it spit out an answer for us?”

Renee gave her a chastising look. “Seriously?”

Katie shrugged. “No, not really.” Then she added, “But why couldn’t we?”

“No computer will ever replace a human analyst,” Renee said tersely. “Computers may be able to compile data more quickly, but analysis will always be a human endeavor.”

Katie raised her hands. “Whoa. I didn’t mean to say-”

“That I could be replaced by a computer?”

“Uh…”

“That’s about as likely as RoboCop replacing you.”

Katie stared at her for a moment, trying to gauge whether or not she was wholly serious.

Renee broke out in a grin. “Got ya.”

Katie grinned back, relieved. “You had me going for a second, but I wouldn’t say you got me.”

“If you’d have seen your face, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

“Maybe,” Katie conceded.

“Definitely,” Renee said. Then she motioned toward the stacks of paper in front of them both. “You’re right, though. Someday, a computer will help us weed through this. It will give us more information, more quickly. I’ll still be around, though. Someone has to interpret the raw data.”

“What is there to interpret? I haven’t seen any reports that help make heads or tails out of the drive-by shooting. No witnesses. No informants coming forward with anything. Detective Browning’s investigation is at a standstill.” She shrugged. “What’s to analyze? There’s no data.”

“There’s always data. You just have to listen to what it says.”

“All I hear is silence.”

Renee shrugged. “Even silence tells you something. Look,” she said. “It’s clear that the drive-by shooting on DeShawn Brown’s home was committed by Russian gang members. Later that same day, Esteban Ruiz, leader of the Dean Avenue Diablos, is stabbed to death in front of Broadway Foods. Both very public, orchestrated events.”

“So?”

“So, couple that with the fact that neither the Crips nor the Diablos are even talking to investigators and what do you get?”

“Typical gangster behavior?” Katie guessed sarcastically. “It’s not like these guys ever talk to us when it’s gang-on-gang.”

“Fair enough. So when they don’t talk to you, what are they telling you? That it’s a gang-on-gang crime. That’s something.”

“It doesn’t get us any closer to solving the crime, though.”

“Sure it does. It narrows the field. Plus, I got an interesting FI from Battaglia a few days ago.” She pushed her chair away from her desk and slid to a table a few feet away, where she shuffled through some papers for a few moments. “Take a look at this,” she said, handing the field interview to Katie.

Katie read through the FI. “So the Russians are pushing the envelope on traffic stops, too. They refuse to cooperate, call for other cars, whatever.” She shrugged. “I mean, I see the officer safety issues here, but-”

Renee held up a finger. “There’s more. The FBI has an informant from inside the Russian Mafia here in River City. He confirms what I’m saying.”

“What are you saying, Renee?” Katie asked, exasperated.

“The Russians are making a major play to control organized crime here in River City,” Renee pronounced solemnly.

Katie stared at her for a long moment. “Can you prove that?”

“Nope. In fact, I don’t even know who the major players are for sure.”

The two women sat in silence. Finally, Katie sighed and motioned toward the piles of police reports in front of them. “Back to the stacks?”

“Yep,” Renee answered. “There’s an answer in there somewhere.”

1843 hours

Valeriy Romanov sat at his coffee shop, reading through the River CityHerald . Coverage on the recent gang shootings was prolific. In addition to the straight news piece below the fold on page one, there was a feature on the migration of gangs into River City in the regional section. He was pleased to see that his people received little mention. Most of the concern was still over black gangs from California and white supremacists from Northern Idaho.

He also read a letter to the editor decrying the inability of the police to handle the situation, putting most of the blame squarely on the shoulders of the relatively new police chief.

The newspaper was off base on the true nature of the situation, of course. But he suspected that the police had at least a general idea that he and Sergey-especially Sergey; they must have known he was the leader-were making a concerted move at consolidating the local gang structure under their control. He didn’t think it would hold. Criminals resented authority by nature, even when it came from the brute criminal force that they knew and respected. Someone would buck the system. Possibly the young black who called himself Murder. Or maybe the Mexican, looking for some kind of revenge.

It didn’t matter. If history had shown anything, it was that you can always repress people but repression will never last forever. His country had lorded over most of Asia and all of Eastern Europe for almost fifty years, but it had come to an end. This was no different.

The only difference is that Val wanted it to fail. And Sergey with it.

They would go from controlling a minority of the criminal action to a majority, only to be “beaten” back down by the police and rival gangs to something twice as large as what they started out with. Let the other gangs have their small, spoon-fed victory. Let the police capture their kingpin in Sergey. Val and the rest of the operation would shrink back into relative anonymity but still be greater than before. There was plenty of grain to harvest; there was no need to own every farm.

It was not the way Val would have done things if he had been in control from the very beginning. But he was not. Sergey was, and he had to contend with the man’s ego and desire for power. So he had devised this strategy to take advantage of Sergey’s reach exceeding his grasp.

Plans within plans within plans.

The door dinged. Val glanced up out of habit. Instead of going to Pyotr at the counter, the man who entered looked directly at Val. He held the stare long enough to convey that he was asking for permission to approach.

Val lowered his paper and nodded.

The man’s expression broke into a deferential smile. He hurried to Val’s corner table and stopped next to the chair opposite Val.

Val motioned to the chair. “Sit, brother.”

The man shook his head. “Thank you, but no. My business will take but a moment of your time, Valeriy Aleksandrovich.”

Val shrugged and waited, his expression impassive.

The man shifted his feet, then smiled again. “My name is Vladimir Petrovich Malkinov,” he said.

“I know you,” Val said quietly. “You are the custodian at the grade school in West Central, near the river.”

The man’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he nodded. “Yes, yes. Fillmore Elementary.”

“What is your business that is so brief you do not even wish to sit down?”

Malkinov’s expression grew concerned. Val was glad to see it. It was better to be feared than respected, though he believed he had achieved both in the Russian community.

After a moment Malkinov leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “My wife works at the Quality Inn on Division,” he said. “She told me something last night that I think you will want to know.”

“What is it?” Val asked. For Malkinov’s sake, it had better be good. He was already tiring of this conversation.

Malkinov smiled. “She tells me that there are two policemen staying in room 420. They have a guest.”