Stephen Cannell - Vigilante

At eight o’clock, as we were getting ready to leave, our phone rang.

“If that’s my pizza order, tell the guy it’s too late,” Hitch said irritably as I nodded and picked up the joint line.

“Scully and Hitchens,” I said.

“You guys are putting in long hours,” a familiar voice said. It was Nix Nash, but he sounded different, like he was talking through a wired jaw, which he was. Nix was calling from the phone in the MDC.

“Whatta you want?”

“I want to make a deal.”

“If you want to plead your case, take it up with the District Attorney.”

“I don’t want to plead it; I want to trade it.”

“Just a minute.” I put him on hold and looked over at Hitch. “This dirtbag is trying to give us somebody.”

“Fuck him,” Hitch said.

“’Kay.” I punched the phone up again. “Sorry, Nix. Take it up with the DA.”

“I don’t like the DA. Besides, you and I have simpatico and it’s the Trumbull case I want to trade for. I understand you’re working that now.”

I sat there trying to deal with this.

“I know who killed Hannah Trumbull,” he went on. “I had that case solved before I even picked it. It was going to be part of the show’s finale. Got an eyewitness to the crime. It’s direct testimony and will bring the killer to justice. I give that to you and in return you broker my deal with the DA for me.”

“On my way,” I said, and hung up.

“You’re not actually thinking about dealing with that shit stick?” Hitch said, appalled.

“He says he can give us Hannah’s murderer.”

Hitch stood and followed me to the elevator.

After sitting vacant for over two years due to a city budget crisis, the gleeming new MDC where Nix Nash now resided had finally opened. This state-of-the-art facility was a much needed replacement to the decaying, over-crowded jail at Parker Center. Hitch and I left our weapons in the gun locker and were buzzed back. We passed through automatic security doors and walked down a corridor wired with video cameras to an I-room where Nash was waiting. I told the jailor to activate the video equipment; then Hitch and I walked inside.

Gone were Nash’s troublesome choices over wardrobe. He now only had one shade on his color wheel-jailhouse orange. His mouth was wired shut and he was chained to the wall, sitting at a low table on an attached metal stool.

Despite this huge change in his life circumstances, he seemed strangely happy and at ease. As if none of this really affected him. A total lack of emotion. Like Scott Peterson, he didn’t seem to care. It was classic psychopathic behavior. I guess if you don’t experience human emotion, everything is just in the moment.

“Make this good, Nix, ’cause if it starts coming off like bullshit, we’re outta here.”

“I know who killed Hannah Trumbull,” he said again. “I have a witness. He never talked because he knew the killer and the man scared him. He didn’t want to get involved.”

“Keep going.”

“If I give you this, what I’m going to need is a big reduction in charges.”

“I can’t make any deals.”

“No, but you can take it to the DA and argue to support it.”

“Who was the shooter, Nix?”

“Bring the DA over. Help me cut my deal. What I’ve got is provable. It’s a slam-dunk murder one with a wit and a motive. When you hear what I have, you’ll know it’s too good to walk away from.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

We left the jail. Hitch and I walked across the quad toward the PAB.

“You believe him?” Hitch asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t think this guy bluffs.”

We called Chase Beal, the county DA, and ran it past him. Chase set up a meeting for nine o’clock the next morning.

I went home. Alexa was cooking dinner. I told her what happened. She could see how bummed I was and gave me a long, tender embrace.

Later that evening we made love.

Afterwards we lay in each other’s arms.

I didn’t sleep worth a damn all night. I already knew who Nix was going to give us.

A friend of mine in retail once told me that a job is 90 percent things you don’t want to do, for 10 percent that you do. I remember thinking at the time those were pretty lousy percentages.

Police work can be ugly, emotionally draining, and yes, you do see the worst in the human condition. You meet and have to deal with serious predators like Nix Nash and Lee Bob Batiste. You see drive-by killers whose hate burns with the strong smell of sulfur. In amongst this human wreckage, you encounter tragic cases like the Persian rug and Fuzzy-so lost and passed over, their world is defined by their delusions.

Even with all this witnessed devastation, I’ve always felt the job was about much more. I hope this doesn’t sound corny, but I believe it’s about getting answers for the lost and dispossessed, about finding justice for victims and solutions for problems so ugly that you know in the end you have to make a difference. It’s what keeps most cops going. But occasionally, you get a solution where you’re the one feeling lost.

We arrived at the MDC at nine the next morning. Chase Beal didn’t make it, but he assigned the duty to ADA Ferguson St. Claire, a big ex-linebacker who once played for UCLA and only missed the pros by three-tenths of a second in the forty. St. Claire had graduated law school and was one of the DA’s brightest minds. Still huge and the color of polished mahogany, he was one of those guys who never smiled but always seemed to be slightly bemused. It was in his attitude, not his expression.

We filed into I-room four and met Nixon Nash. He was strangely subdued this morning. He had an attorney named Timothy Rutland with him, but it was soon obvious that Rutland was just an ornament and that Nash wanted to handle the negotiation himself. Rutland settled into a seat beside his client, who sat on a stool chained to the wall. It seemed an unnecessary precaution, because I had already broken Nash’s jaw and Fergie could have drop-kicked him over the dome in City Hall.

After the introductions, Fergie said, “Let’s hear what you’re trading.”

“I can give you Hannah Trumbull’s murderer,” Nash said.

I had already prepped Fergie and he had Hannah’s case file in his briefcase.

“Then do it,” he said.

“I want a few reductions in charges.”

“Show us your wares,” Ferguson said.

“Here’s what I’m looking for,” Nash continued. “The double kidnapping needs to get kicked down to illegal restraint, the conspiracy to commit murder to involuntary manslaughter.”

Ferguson had been writing in a notebook, but he stopped in the middle of this and looked up.

“You must be getting some pretty good drugs in here,” he said.

“I’ll give you the shooter now, just as a preamble, so you’ll know how tasty this is. You will never be able to charge him without my witness. I think once you hear who the doer is you’re going to change your mind on the disposition of charges.”

Ferguson began tapping his pen on his notebook but finally nodded.

“Hannah Trumbull was shot and killed at her apartment in December of ’06 by Lester Madrid, who was then a current member of SIS.”

It was exactly what I thought Nash was going to say. This was complicated for me, because only two days ago Lester Madrid had saved Marcia Breen’s life and mine.

“What was the motive?” Ferguson asked.

“Adulterous, love triangle,” Nash replied. If his jaw hadn’t been wired shut, he would have been smiling. “Lester was having an affair with Hannah Trumbull,” he continued. “His wife suspected it, but couldn’t prove it. She confronted Hannah at the hospital. They had words. After that, Hannah tried to convince Sergeant Madrid that since his wife already suspected the affair, he should just leave her. If he didn’t, Hannah threatened to go to Stephanie herself. It’s not healthy to threaten guys like Sergeant Madrid, so it didn’t end well for poor Hannah.”