Stephen Cannell - The Pallbearers

"Thanks for the ride, but I've got stuff to do."

"Pop didn't gonk himself. You know it. I know it. Anybody who knew him knows it. This is bullshit."

"Okay," I said. "You through?" "No."

He pocketed his keys and walked around his bike. "Gimme ten minutes to make my case, then Til book."

"Shit," I said softly, but after taking a moment to think it over, I relented and led him to the front door.

We went inside and I left him in the entry but kept an eye on him while I got two beers from the fridge in the kitchen. Then we walked through the house and out into the backyard. He followed me, his neck on a swivel, looking around, checking the place out.

"You're right. Lotta pricey shit here. I love the papier-mache Mexican dolls in the living room. Where'd you buy those, Sotheby's?"

I handed him a beer. "You're on the clock, Jack." I pointedly looked at my watch.

"Jesus, Scully. Ease up. I haven't even removed this twist-off cap."

"What joint?" I asked. "Where'd you cell up?"

"Soledad. Got six years, gavel to gravel. Only did four. Two years were knocked off for good time. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Pop helped me get out. He was on my parole sheet. He's the one who got me the job at the cycle shop in Long Beach so I'd qualify for early release.

"I have a one-month hearing coming up with my P. O. next week. Guy's a real Barney. Walt was gonna go to my parole evaluation hearing and do my character stuff. We talked the day before he supposedly blew his head off. The man was not suicidal, okay? No way he went out in his backyard and did the Dutch. He was upbeat. He told me things were getting better at Huntington House. He sounded real pleased about something. Wouldn't tell me what, but he was flying, man."

"Ever heard of extreme mood swings?"

Straw put down the beer and looked out at the canal.

"This is kinda restful back here. How does a guy who lives in such a peaceful setting get such a puckered asshole?"

"Okay, I guess that's it then." I started for the sliding-glass porch door to show him out, but Jack held his ground.

"Hey, Scully. Answer me one thing. If you won't do it for me, then do it in Pop's memory." "What?"

"You're a cop. You know how this is gonna come out. The burn squad will say he torched the office or whatever, then killed himself cause that closes the case so they can get it off their desk and move on. You can't really think that's what happened."

"Apparently there was a state audit coming. Money was missing. That's what Diamond thinks."

"I don't care what Diamond thinks. I want to know what you think."

"I don't know what I think."

"You're kinda close to the vest, ain't ya?" He smiled. "Or maybe you're just a pussy."

"Yeah, maybe that's it." I took a step closer.

He backed up and put his hands out saying, "Come on, let's try to be adults here."

He picked up his beer, almost draining it in one shot. Then he looked at me.

"So now we got Pop, the embezzler who sets fire to the office bungalow to burn the evidence of his crimes, then kills himself with a shotgun. What's next, child rape?"

"Okay," I admitted reluctantly. "I agree it feels wrong."

He nodded. "So we just say, too bad. Let the fucking cops pin this fire on him. Blow the home's insurance policy away. Whatever Arson says, that's it?"

I couldn't answer him. I just stood there feeling impotent.

"You're a cop, man. You could… y'know, raise some questions, make some trouble. I asked around at the church. Talked to some scary-looking chick. Theresa Gonzales."

"Rodriguez."

He nodded. "She said back then, you were a scowling, ugly presence with five or six throw backs. No chance you'd ever make it in life. Look at what you got now. I don't have to ask if Pop had anything to do with it, 'cause I knew the man. You owe him, dude. Why don't you fucking pay up?"

He pinned me with hard gray eyes.

"Okay," I said. "Here's why I can't do anything. The police already investigated. They didn't find evidence pointing to anything but suicide. The city medical examiner did an autopsy of the body. Same result. Coroner listed it as a probable suicide. There was a suicide note sealing the deal.

"The body was released for burial with the classification self-inflicted gunshot-'death by his own hand.' No homicide number was assigned by the department, so there is no crime. Unless Arson finds a crime and puts a burn number on it, there's nothing to investigate.

"I'm a homicide detective, but I can't work a case unless the department assigns it a number. What about this don't you get? No homicide number-no case. Got it? I start messing with this I'll get gigged."

"Bunch a words," Jack said.

"You wanta get outta here, now?"

"Sure."

He picked up his leather jacket, slung it over his tattooed shoulder, and then walked back through the house. I heard the front door slam. The Harley growled and roared away.

I stayed in the backyard for a long time after he left, just sitting there while I waited for Alexa to get home. She made it just before dinner and came outside to find me in my chair, looking in the direction of the ocean two city blocks away. In my mind I'd been picturing Walt out there waiting for that perfect set, searching for just the right steep. In my memory I saw him in the curl, shuffling up to the nose of his old cigar-box board in that weird Quasimodo stance of his, hair flying, riding the down rail. Why the hell had I deserted him?

"You okay?" Alexa asked.

"Can't go to Hawaii," I said sadly. "I've gotta stay here and work on this."

Alexa must have seen it coming. She didn't argue or try to change my mind. Instead, she put her arms around me and pulled me close. I was choked up with emotion, not handling it well. She could feel my heavy breathing and maybe sensed I was closc to tears.

So much of this was complicated in a way that I couldn't even describe. You can cut yourself some slack as a child because all children start out being selfish. But you want to believe something better of yourself as a man.

I understood why I was so angry when I was at Huntington House. I even understood why I'd had the feelings I'd had about not wanting to go back there. But that didn't excuse the fact that I hadn't gone. Sometimes in life you have to make hard choices. There's going to be some pain along the way.

Alexa held me for a while, then she brought us each a beer.

"You've had two already. Might as well go all the way," she said, handing me a fresh bottle.

"I only had one." Then I saw Jack's empty sitting on the glass-topped table. "Oh, that. That was that biker guy, Jack Straw. He ended up bringing me home on his chopper. What a fuckhead."

"You gonna run him?" she asked me, knowing as surely as I did that he was dirty.

"He already told me he got sentenced to a long nickel for burglary. Went to Soledad. Got out in four."

"Figures." She sat beside me and held my hand. We sipped the beers.

"What'd you think of Huntington House?" I finally asked.

"Truthfully?"

"No, I want you to lie to me."

"I thought it looked pretty shabby."

"They were having money problems."

I told her what Diamond said, including the suspicion that Pop had set the office on fire to cover up records of missing funds. When I got through, she sat there thinking.

"It sounds to me like he could have burned down that bungalow," she finally said. "I know you don't want to hear that, but it's certainly a possibility."

"Yeah, it's gotta be looked at," I agreed, trying not to let her see my eyes, keeping my head turned away, not trusting what I might do or say.

Then, because I wanted to change the subject and because Alexa is one of the best I ever met on cold reads, I asked, "Give me your take on the other five pallbearers."