Stephen Cannell - The Viking Funeral

"D o you have the names of the other sheriffs who were in on that bust?" Filosiani asked.

"No, sir. You have to get that from Sheriff Messenger's office."

"Call over there and tell Bill Messenger I need a meeting. Tell him it can't wait. I'll be there in ten minutes."

At five-foot-seven and 135 pounds, Bill Messenger barely made the Sheriffs Department height and weight regs. He was a dark-complexioned, second-generation Egyptian American with close-cropped, silver-gray hair and a penchant for perfectly tailored, double-breasted suits. The jacket he was wearing had brass buttons on it, giving him a distinct Napoleonic tilt. Titanium-framed glasses, as spartan as his waistline, rested atop a Roman nose.

"What's the emergency, Tony?" Messenger said, negotiating his way across his cream and tan office, threading past two form-over-function Danish modern chairs that squatted on delicate tapered legs like futuristic spiders. He shook hands with Tony, Shane, and Alexa. The two L. A. law-enforcement heads were exactly the same height, but that's where the similarities ended. Standing nose to nose, they were the yin and yang of law enforcement. The Day-Glo Dago radiated warmth of personality, while William "Bill" Messenger had the emotional temperature of a garden snake.

"We got a problem," Tony said, looking at the door. "Mind if I close that?"

"My secretary doesn't leak," Messenger said testily.

"Yeah, but her husband might." Tony kicked the door shut, and by mistake it closed too hard, slamming loudly.

Bill Messenger winced.

"Who are these people?" the sheriff asked, looking at Shane and Alexa.

"This is Lieutenant Alexa Hamilton," Tony began.

"The Medal of Valor winner who died a week ago?" Messenger said, and cocked a bushy eyebrow.

"I'll get to that. And this is Sergeant Shane Scully," Tony added.

"The man who killed her. You run a strange shop, Tony." Messenger was glaring at both of them.

"The staged killing of Lieutenant Hamilton was part of an undercover op," Filosiani said. "This pertains to the problem you had a few years back with that rogue group of sheriffs who called themselves Vikings."

"Not to quibble, but that didn't happen on my watch. Sheriff Bloch hosted that disaster. However, I ended up with the mop and pail after he died."

"The culture has spread to us," Tony said bluntly.

"Too bad. The Vikings were racists… minority-hating sheriffs who took their suspects down into county aqueducts and beat them. I had my hands full, and was never sure I rooted them all out. I fielded three civil-liberties lawsuits when I tried to arrange a lineup to check my men for that silly tattoo they all had on their ankles. 'Illegal body search.' The courts called it. 'Unconstitutional'… 'Lack of probable cause.'" He shook his head sadly. "They want a perfect department, but they won't let me do what it takes to weed out the bad apples."

"The LAPD Vikings aren't racists," Shane said. "But they are killers."

"What makes you say they're not racists?" Messenger challenged. "'Cause my Vikings did everything but burn crosses and hang people from trees."

"I know they aren't, because I've been undercover with them for the past week."

"That's why you staged the phony shooting?" Messenger said, looking at Tony. "To set his cover?"

"Yeah, but it's a long story, and I don't really have time for it now," Filosiani said. "The reason we're here is that we found out one of your deputies, Sergeant Tremaine Lane, was working inside that LAPD deep-cover unit without my knowledge. We now believe he was a Sheriffs Department plant reporting back to you, Bill."

"I think not" Messenger said, but his bearing had suddenly turned rigid.

"Your undercover is dead," Shane said. "Cut to pieces. Skinned alive by a death-squad maniac, then left to die hanging on a fence in Colombia. I was there when it happened."

"I see." Messenger didn't move.

"I understand you have a responsibility to protect the identity of your UCs," Tony said. "'Specially since you've been infiltrating a sister law-enforcement agency without notifying its chief in advance," he added sharply. "But the fact is, we're running short on time and I'd really appreciate it if I could cut through the fuckin' cow shit and get a straight answer here before more people die."

Sheriff Messenger finally moved. He crossed the room and actually threw the lock on the door, which moments before he had insisted they leave open. Then he turned and walked back to the center of the room, using the little journey around his spacious office to compose his thoughts.

"Okay," he finally said. "Let's say, for the sake of argument, that Sergeant Lane was working a special assignment for me… And now you say he's dead?"

"Yes, sir," Shane said. "He had joined an off-the-books LAPD squad who also called themselves Vikings, complete with the same ankle tattoos as your sheriffs. I think Tremaine got duked into the unit by one of our SWAT sergeants, Hector Rodriquez, who worked a joint-ops with him in the Valley two years ago."

"How do I know my guy's really dead?" Messenger said.

"'Cause I'm telling you. I was there! I saw him die!"

"Excuse me for doubting your word, Sergeant, but I watch the news. I understand your own department ran a psychological profile on you just last year. You could be delusional, a disenfranchised troublemaker. Owing to the sensitivity of all this, you're going to have to tell me something more to convince me."

"Tremaine and I got captured in Colombia, in a town just across the Venezuelan border, called Maicao. His skin was peeled off in strips. Jesus… What the hell else you want from me?" Shane was starting to get hot, glowering at the emotionless little man.

"Calm down, Sergeant," Tony said softly. "Bill's gonna help out…'cause if he don't, I'm gonna run a stick through his nuts and roast 'em over a slow fire in the governor's office."

"Yeah, and just how you think you're gonna do that, Tony?"

"You put a guy in my department without clearing it with me first. I'll get the district attorney to subpoena your Command Directive, then I'll roll it up and jam it so far up your ass, you'll be able to start breathing through it."

The county sheriff took off his titanium glasses, pulled a silk handkerchief out of his pocket, and went to work giving the lenses a thorough cleaning… Then he slipped them carefully back onto his nose.

"Okay, let's also say, just for the hell of it, that I might acknowledge that Sergeant Lane was working in an undercover capacity inside your department." Messenger was speaking slower now, as if his words had solemn weight. "And let's say he stumbled into your rogue Viking unit. Since your man here says he's dead and can't report in, that would seem to end it. How am I supposed to help you?"

"He'd been undercover for two months… I don't know how you guys supervise UCs, Bill, but over in my 'strange' shop, we set up phone drops, get interim reports. So unless you're running this place like a Carnival Cruise, you got his re-back file. We need those reports. We need to know everything Sergeant Lane found out, 'cause this thing is coming unglued. Most of that unit is already dead, and the ones who ain't are running for the airport. Like I said, we don't have a lotta time."

Bill Messenger pushed his titanium rims higher up on his nose. He went to his desk, opened a bottom drawer, then took out a metal lockbox. He opened it, pulled out a file, and threw it on the desk between them.

"You keep the ops reports in your desk drawer?" Tony said, smiling.

"For obvious reasons, I was supervising the Viking mop-up myself," Messenger said in a hard, clipped voice. "What do you need to know?"

"We're trying to get a line on an Argentine national named Jose Mondragon," Tony said. "We need to know where he lives when he's in L. A. We think one of our Viking cops is about to kill him. We need Jose alive, to make a money-laundering case we're settin' up."