Stephen Cannell - Vigilante

“Okay,” she said, and went back to the CSI truck, returning a few seconds later with a clear plastic evidence bag and forceps.

She picked up the cup carefully and deposited it into the bag, then walked down to show it to the sergeant in charge of the Hollenbeck Division, who had delivered the search warrant. He was now helping Detective Becker supervise the neighborhood canvass by his patrol officers.

My phone rang and I looked down at the caller ID but didn’t recognize the number. It was a 626 area code. That’s somewhere in the East Valley, I think. I picked it up.

“Is this Detective Scully?” a man’s voice asked.

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Nixon Nash. I’m about a block away in your media control area. I understand you’re the lead detective. I thought we should have a chat.”

“How did you get my name and this number?”

“I have contacts,” he said noncommittally.

“You mean you have a spy inside the police department?”

“Let’s not bicker. I’ve got some information that might advance your case.”

Then we were both silent, listening to each other breathe.

“I’m only a few blocks away. I can help you,” he prodded.

“I’ve seen your show, Mr. Nash. My guess is nothing involving you is going to help me.”

“Geez, that’s kinda rough,” he said as if he hadn’t been trashing cops on TV for the last two years. “If you’re talking about those detectives in Georgia last season, they completely botched it. I’m trying to help the police, not hurt them. How does a bad murder investigation help law enforcement?”

“I’m pretty busy right now,” I hedged, not wanting to get sucked in by this guy like those cops in Atlanta.

“I discovered a witness who can help determine motive. I already know Lolita Mendez is the victim. That’s gotta be a hot grounder for you guys. How ’bout you and me put our heads together and solve this thing?” I could hear a smile in his voice.

“Just a minute.” I put him on hold and looked at Hitch. “It’s Nash. He knows the vic is Lita Mendez. He says he has a witness who can supply motive.”

“Don’t swallow that hook,” Hitch said.

“You stay here. There should be a patrolman on the curb with a crime scene attendance log. Get somebody out there and keep this going. I’ll go see what he’s got.”

“What he’s got is your pension and a box of matches,” Hitch warned.

I gave him one of my goofy funny smiles and punched up the call again. “I’m on my way over,” I said.

“Of course you are,” Nash replied arrogantly.

The media control area was located a block to the west of the crime scene across from the Evergreen Cemetery on Sloan Street. I found Nix Nash standing at the back of his van in the middle of a circle of ten production people. He was a slightly plump, relatively short thirty-five-year-old man about five feet, seven inches tall. He had blue eyes and a cherubic face framed by teased blond salon-highlighted hair. His clipped moustache was the standard Errol Flynn, darkened a few shades to give it presence.

When he saw me approaching, his circle of peeps and sycophants parted and he walked out majestically to greet me like a star emerging from behind a curtain. He was smiling warmly as he extended his hand.

“Gee, Detective Scully, this is really great,” he gushed. “I’m Nix Nash. What a total pleasure to meet you.” Napoleonic insincerity.

We shook hands and before I could reply he went on: “I can imagine what you probably already think about me, but please be assured that all I want here is to help catch this killer.”

There was a warm likability about him. A charisma that I didn’t trust for a minute, because most accomplished performers can affect it. He took a step back and bowed his head in a gesture of theatrical humility. When he looked up, his expression had become contrite.

“Please give me a chance to be your colleague on this,” he said earnestly. “Let me show you what I can do before you judge me.”

“You said you have a witness who will advance my murder investigation?” I said, sticking to my mission.

“I do. I surely do.” Then he shook his head in mock amusement. “Damnedest thing, how this keeps happening to me of late. How my fans recognize me from the show or because they’ve read my book. They’re interested in the good work I’m doing and simply want to help out. This particular fan saw me setting up, walked right over, and volunteered some amazing stuff.”

There must have been more than half a dozen personal pronouns in that statement.

“People feel helpless today,” he went on. “Government is too big, justice too scary; people just want a chance to get back in the game.” Then his smile widened. “I’m certainly not kidding myself that you’re glad I showed up here, but here’s something you need to know, Shane.” He paused. “Can I call you Shane?”

I shrugged.

“You need to understand that I’m a man of integrity. If you’re cool, then I’m gonna be cool. I like to say any cop who does his job right has not one thing to fear from Nix Nash.”

He was still overdosing on personal pronouns and had just added one third-person reference. This guy was really high on himself.

“Where’s the witness?” I asked.

“In the van.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“Backgrounding with my producer, Laura.”

“Backgrounding? What’s backgrounding?”

“Fact-checking, getting corroboration on some of the things he just told us during our taped interview.”

“You’ve already interviewed my witness?”

I was starting to get pissed, and obviously that annoyance had leaked into my tone, because he said, “There’s no reason to be alarmed. For the love of Mike, I’m only trying to help move this along.”

“Well, you’re not helping. If he’s a witness in a murder, and if you’ve interviewed him before the police, then you’ve contaminated him. You’ve put a statement on film that could contain falsehoods. That’s going to make it much harder for me to get to the real truth, because he’s already locked in by what he just told you on camera. The fact that you went ahead without checking with us constitutes obstruction of justice.”

I was trying to back him off with that, but it didn’t work, because he quickly turned to the group of people standing behind his van and called out, “Marcia, could you help us out over here for a moment, please?”

An extremely attractive middle-aged blonde wearing a tailored pinstripe pantsuit broke away from the others and walked toward us. I immediately recognized her from her time as a prosecutor here in L.A. Her name was Marcia Breen and I’d worked one case with her in the nineties. It was before I’d met Alexa. Marcia and I had actually gone out a few times when she was in the DA’s office. A few years after our short romance, Marcia had blown a high-profile murder prosecution. That loss had caused a media feeding frenzy and our politically astute DA had scapegoated Marcia, dumping her from the division to save his own ass.

After that she left town and I’d lost track but wasn’t surprised to see her here, because Nix Nash liked to hire ex-cops and prosecutors like Marcia Breen who’d once been locals to give him additional tentacles into the local power structure. He liked to put these experts on the air as well, and Marcia certainly wouldn’t hurt his ratings, because she was beautiful.

“Hi, Shane,” Marcia said as she approached, a small bemused smile on her chiseled features.

“Is this really your new job, Marcia?” Not bothering to hide my disdain.

“The good news is I’m down to eating my pride one show at a time.” She said this without a trace of rancor.