Stephen Cannell - The Pallbearers

"I guess," she said, not putting too much energy into it. We both knew if I had a suspicion that something wasn't right and had anything solid confirming that suspicion, I should take it back to Kovacevich and Cole and let them investigate it. Working without portfolio was not professional, and if she got caught doing my unauthorized computer runs, she could end up in the bag with me.

"Tell you what. Use my computer password. I'll deal with the fallout. I don't want this to land on you."

"That's okay. I know how to finesse it." She smiled ruefully. "I've been your partner just long enough to become a devious cheat."

"You're the best, kid. Gotta go," I said, to get her to stop clocking me.

I led her around the corner and was heading toward the elevators when I saw a tall, imposing, six-foot woman in a polo shirt and slacks standing outside Homicide Special with a large purse over her shoulder, looking for a cubicle number on the listing board.

"Seriana?" I said.

She turned and spotted me.

"There you are," she said. No smile. Intense eyes. Just like yesterday.

"Wait here while I get my stuff. I was just leaving." I indicated Sally Quinn. "Corporal Cotton, this is my partner, Detective Quinn." When Seriana shook her hand, it was so large that Sally's slender one disappeared like a hard ball into a fielder's mitt.

"Be right back," I said to Seriana. "I gotta get my jacket." We left her by the elevators and walked back into the squad room.

"That's some imposing woman," Sally said. "What Amazon tribe did you get her from?"

"Third Cavalry, U. S. Army. She's a Ranger heading back to Iraq for her second tour in a week or two."

"Is she part of this thing too?"

"Yeah." I grabbed my coat and my briefcase with Walts autopsy report. Then I faced Sally. Concern for me was spread across her freckled face. Til be okay, Sally. I've quit rolling gutter balls." "Since when?" she said.

I left her and headed back to Seriana Cotton and the ghost of Walter Dix.

It was my second breakfast of the morning. I still wasn't hungry, so I just ordered coffee. Seriana had a bagel and orange juice. We were at a little coffee shop across from Parker Center called the Time Out. The place was full of day-watch officers on Code Seven and the background noise was somewhere between a din and a roar.

"Jack Straw said you didn't want to help us find out what happened to Pop," she said.

"Jack Straw may not be the most reliable person to listen to."

"Mr. Scully, I go back to Iraq in about two weeks. That means I've got to look into this right now, because I need to find out who did it. I know Pop didn't kill himself, but when I was a kid he did keep me from killing myself. I loved him. I owe him. Now I've got to do right by the man."

"You're sure he didn't kill himself?"

"Absolutely certain, sir. For one, it just wasn't something he'd do.

He was religious. A Catholic. He believed suicide was a sin. For another, he promised to be at my going-away party before I redeployed. It's at my foster parents' house in South Central next Wednesday. When he made me a promise, he never broke it. Not once since I was eight years old. He wouldn't miss my send-off. You know how-Walt was."

"Yes, I do."

"In my unit, we've got this rule. We always get everybody home. Dead bodies included. You don't leave a teammate or his remains in the field. I gotta be sure I get Pop home."

She was looking at me with those intense ink-black irises, her handsome ebony face showing almost no expression. I was beginning to realize this was her way. Her look. Her features rarely varied, but there was no lack of emotion. In her eyes, I could see pain and sorrow. T he eyes said it all.

"You're a cop," she said. "You knew him like the rest of us. He had to have made a huge impact on you. Look how you came from nothing and made something of yourself."

It was exactly what Jack Straw had told me yesterday. Seriana continued. "I know firsthand how hard that had to be. I know Pop helped you get there, just like he helped me. Jack said you agree he wouldn't kill himself. So why won't you help us find out what really happened?"

I reached into my small briefcase and pulled out the ME's report but left the copies of the gruesome autopsy photos behind. I shoved the file across the table to her.

"What's this?" she asked, opening it up.

"Pop's autopsy findings. I went to the coroner's office this morning and got a copy."

"Then you are working on it."

I shrugged, but didn't answer. Then I sat back and watched her as she scanned the lead paragraph, which, once you got through the medical babble, said it was death by his own hand. She finished and looked up at me.

"This is a lie."

"No, that's a legal finding. Done by a competent medical examiner. No evidence of a beating. He had no drugs or unusual substances in his blood, and he left a suicide note."

She studied me for a long moment. Her strong gaze was frank, unrelenting, and unsettling. I could see exactly what Alexa had been talking about. Seriana Cotton was definitely somebody who made up her own mind about things.

"Are you saying you agree with this, sir? You agree with this medical examiner that Pop killed himself."

"I didn't say that. I said the ME report said that."

She looked at me, trying to figure me out. "I guess I don't understand," she finally said.

"I'm going to devote a little time to it and shake this tree. See what falls out."

"Good." Her mouth shifted slightly. It was probably as close as she usually got to a smile. "We're having a pallbearers' meeting at six tonight," she said. "We've also all decided we're going to work on this. I want you to attend it with the rest of us, sir."

"The Pallbearers' Murder Club. Slick. Who's got the movie rights?"

"Don't make fun," she admonished.

"You're all amateurs, Seriana. You're just going to slow me down."

"You weren't the only one who loved him, sir," she said without expression.

"Who said I loved him?" I shot back. "When I was at Huntington House, I wasn't capable of love. Back then, and for most of the last twenty-five years, I was running from my past. I barely ever went over there to see what he was up to. I never helped him. I have no idea why he wanted me to carry his coffin. But I'll grant you one thing, Corporal. I sure do owe the man. So I'm going to take some time and see if I can put a case on somebody. If not, then it's like that report says. Suicide. We suck it up and all go on with our lives."

"Bullshit," she said softly.

"What about that sounds like BS?"

"You loved him, sir. I can see the truth in your eyes. I see the pain and loss."

Of course, she was right. But admitting to her that I loved Walt made my betrayal seem even more devastating.

Til tell you why he picked you to be a pallbearer," she continued. "It was because he also loved you. He saw past the cruel stuff we all did. He understood our selfishness. That's what made him so special."

I felt about six inches tall. I knew all this. Its why I had already decided to look into his suicide. But I didn't need their help. Didn't want it. The idea of doing this with my fellow pallbearers was way too Agatha Christie for me.

"Come to the meeting at six tonight," Seriana said. "It's at Sabas Vargas's office in East L. A. Here's the address." She slid a piece of paper across the table. I glanced down at it.

She had neat, careful handwriting. Sabas's office was on Whittier Boulevard in the twelve hundred block in Boyle Heights. The Hispanic hood.

"I'm not sure. I've got a lot to do," I said.

Seriana leaned forward and studied me. "Please come, sir," she said. "I promised the others I would convince you because you're a homicide detective. You're the only one who knows how we should go about this."