Brad Parks - The Good Cop

“Who says I’m looking into the Kipps thing?”

I made a palms-up, you-think-I’m-stupid-or-something gesture. “I think there’s a grieving widow upstairs who is convinced her husband didn’t kill himself, and I’m betting she’s asked you for help. And you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who would turn down a request like that.”

I thought for sure I had him now. That’s right, Mike Fusco. You’re a big hero. Now tell the friendly newspaper reporter all about it …

Most guys would grab that and run with it. But Fusco just sat there, looking at me with the same mile-off stare he had been giving the television.

“At risk of stating the obvious, your department is trying to throw a big old blanket over Darius Kipps’s death,” I said. “Unless I’m missing something, there’s no way anyone with half a brain could look at the marks on that body and say, ‘Oh, yeah, this man killed himself and was acting alone.’ Now, some people are saying Kipps was mixed up in something. Other people, like you, are telling me no way. All I know is, something is up. Someone killed Darius Kipps, for some reason I have yet to determine. Are you going to help me figure it out or not?”

“I don’t-” he started, then stopped himself. “Look, I can’t be talking to you. You know that, right? I shouldn’t have talked to you before. My department has policies about that, and even on leave-or whatever they’re calling it-I have to follow that. I’m only here as a favor to Mimi. I’ll show her these pictures, and if she has something to say, she’ll call you, okay?”

“So you’re just going to-”

“She’ll call you,” he said more firmly.

I could tell I was shoving him too close to the edge. And furthermore, I realized trying to move him any more was going to be futile. Mike Fusco didn’t get pushed around.

“Okay,” I said. “But, look, why don’t you just give me your number? That way, if I get anything else, I can call you and I don’t have to bother Mimi directly? I don’t want to upset her any more than she’s already upset, you know?”

It was, I thought, a reasonable request. And apparently Fusco thought so, too. I held out my pad and pen. He grabbed them, then wrote “Mike Fusco” with a phone number underneath.

For the time being, it seemed like the best I was going to get.

* * *

The rain had slackened but was still coming down hard enough to make the puddles dance as I went back outside. I grabbed my umbrella from where I had left it but didn’t bother opening it. If Fusco didn’t need one, neither did I.

Which just meant I was damp by the time I got back in my Malibu. What is it with these tough guys, anyway?

Feeling defeated, I considered consoling myself with an early lunch. A good, wholesome lunch. The kind that would be served on a real plate and, perhaps, even include vegetables and a side salad. Unfortunately, I was in a part of town where the food options were boundless-as long as you were looking for fried chicken. It’s hard to eat healthy in the hood.

I was still considering what to do about this dilemma three minutes later when my phone rang. It was a 609 number, which likely meant state government.

“Carter Ross,” I said.

“Hey, it’s Hilfiker.”

“That was fast. What’s going on?”

“Well, we’re about to have two conversations.”

“Okay.”

“The first is the one we’re having on the record, that you can go ahead and print in that silly newspaper of yours,” he said. “The second is the conversation I always wished people would have with me when I was a reporter, the one where I explain why the first conversation doesn’t make much sense.”

“Oh, this ought to be good,” I said, pulling over to the side of Central Avenue and fishing my notebook out of my pocket.

“Right, so here goes with the first one. You ready?”

“Yeah.”

“The attorney general’s office has determined that there is no need for an independent investigation into the death of Darius Kipps. The attorney general has every confidence that the Newark Police Department and the Essex County Prosecutor’s Office will conduct a thorough investigation and resolve this matter in a satisfactory fashion.”

I scribbled furiously, writing in the self-taught shorthand I had developed over the years. Hilfiker helped by saying it slowly enough-“talking at notebook speed,” is what we call it-so I could get it down verbatim. I waited until he was done and then said, “Really?”

“Really.”

“You got a feather by any chance?”

“No, why?”

“Because you could knock me over with one right now,” I said. “You guys are seriously taking a pass on this? You told your boss about the pictures, right?”

“I did. I even showed them to him.”

“And he knows we’re going to run with this?”

“Yeah, I guess so. I didn’t say that explicitly. But he’s not a dummy. I don’t need to explain to him what mud-mucking journalists like you do for a living.”

“So … okay, I guess let’s have the second conversation now. Because, you’re right, I’m totally perplexed.”

“Okay, well, basically-we’re off the record now-your pastor took the heat off.”

“My pastor ?”

“Yeah, whatshisname. The megachurch guy. LeRioux.”

“Why would he … that doesn’t make any sense.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he felt like he had gotten all the mileage he could out of this thing and decided he was done.”

“So he gets his face time and he goes home?”

“Something like that,” Hilfiker said.

“That’s cold.”

“Tell me about it. It’s also pretty stupid, frankly.”

“How so?”

“He’s screwing himself out of a payday.”

“I’m not following you.”

Hilfiker sighed. “Haven’t you learned to be a little more cynical by now? Think about it. I’m sure Detective Kipps has a life insurance policy-all cops do, especially Newark cops. Problem is, if his death is ruled a suicide, the policy is no good. That means the Widow Kipps is destitute. On the other hand, if she is suddenly flush with a half million bucks’ worth of insurance company money…”

“Maybe she expresses her piety by giving ten percent of it to the anointed man of God, in loving memory of her dead husband,” I completed.

“There you go.”

“So why would he call off the dogs?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t part of the phone call. And his honor the attorney general didn’t say. But I’m guessing once he heard LeRioux was dropping it, he thought there was no reason for him to pick it up. You can bet no one in Essex County is going to be clamoring for him to step in.”

“Okay, but let’s leave the politics out of this for a second-”

“This is New Jersey,” Hilfiker said. “You can never leave the politics out of it.”

“I know, I know, but…” I began, struggling to put words to my thoughts. I watched a woman in a hijab hurry down the street, carrying two plastic grocery bags, bowing her head to keep her face out of the rain.

“Well, call me naive, but I thought maybe your boss might just do the right thing here,” I said.

“Who says he’s not?”

“Come on, you saw those pictures.”

“Yeah, but you’re thinking like a reporter. This is a lawyer you’re dealing with. He might have just decided that, legally, it was right to let the locals deal with it. Just because the attorney general is the top law enforcement agent in the state doesn’t mean he has to get involved every time someone disputes a traffic ticket.”

“This is hardly a traffic ticket…”

“You know what I’m saying. Sometimes the AG has to pick and choose, and maybe he figures this one is best left where it is.”