Brad Parks - The Good Cop

It was all still out there for me to discover, but in the meantime, I had a story to write. Regardless of whether I fully believed what the Newark Police were saying, I still had a duty to report it. And, at the very least, I could lend some understanding to the dispute between the officers. How I would word it might be a bit thorny. The truth-“A reporter spied Detective Fusco and Mrs. Kipps in the smoldering beginnings of what was undoubtedly going to become scorching, unbridled, hot-hearted passion”-would probably make it past the editors on the All-Slop, who didn’t bother to read stuff before posting it online, judging from the typos they let through. It might even get me a contract to write romance novels. But I would still probably need to find a better way to word it.

After making the short drive back to the office, I had barely settled into my desk when I was accosted by Ruthie Ginsburg, the twenty-two-going-on-thirteen intern. He was looking typically chipper and fresh-faced, and for a moment I wanted to turn him over to some of the more curmudgeonly members of the copy desk for a wedgie and a chocolate swirly, just to put him in his place a little. I’m not exactly sure when, during the decade or so I had been hanging around this place, I had switched over to the side of the grizzled veterans. But with my unshaven jaw and bloodshot eyes, I certainly fit the part.

“Hey, I’ve been looking for you! I got some great stuff, it’s really going to blow your mind,” he chirped.

“Sounds swell, Jimmy. We’ll be sure to get it in tomorrow’s Daily Planet .”

“Huh?” he said, adding a head tilt. The Superman reference was lost on him. I was beginning to realize why these interns made me feel so old.

“Never mind. Why don’t you step into my office?”

He looked around, confused.

“It’s an expression,” I said and pointed to an empty chair across from my desk. “Take a seat.”

Jimmy-uh, sorry, Ruthie … uh, I mean, Geoff-gleefully took his place and opened up his notebook.

“Okay, first, let’s just get something out of the way,” he said. “Pregnancy tests don’t come back positive in toilet water. I spent two hours last night on Google researching it. I even tested my own toilet. It came back negative.”

He looked at me earnestly and I thought about trying to convince him it was just Newark toilet water-you know, something in the aquifer that supplied the city’s drinking water. But it was time to let him off the hook.

“Yeah, you got me,” I said.

“Why would you do that to me?”

“Look, Ruthie … first of all, you know everyone is calling you Ruthie, right?” I asked.

He gave me a dejected look and said, “Yeah.”

“Don’t worry about it. Around here, nicknaming is a form of flattery. Anyhow, I know I might have misled you a little bit, and I’m sorry. But I’m also not sorry. You were obviously spying for Tina, and I didn’t want her to know what I was up to.”

“It was kind of a douche move.”

“You’re right. And, okay, really I am sorry. But … look, I don’t want to sound like I’m lecturing, especially when I’m the one in the wrong, but you’ve got to understand that editors are … well, they have their usefulness at times. Then there are times when it’s best they not know everything. So I might have just needed you to spin your wheels for a little while.”

“And the Good Neighbors piece? Was that more wheel-spinning?”

“No, that was actually a big favor. And I appreciate it.”

“Okay, so maybe now you owe me a favor?” he asked.

He said it tentatively, like a good little intern should. But he had played me rather nicely. I was beginning to appreciate that Ruthie Ginsburg just might have the chops to make it in this business.

“Maybe I do,” I said. “What did you have in mind?”

“It’s what I was trying to tell you about before. It came from an interview I did with these kids who were hanging out on the corner by the town houses. Have you ever heard of red dot guns?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, from what these corner boys were telling me, they’re all the rage in the hood. All the skels are using them.”

I laughed-albeit internally-at Ruthie using the word “skels.” He had been watching too many cop shows.

“So, what, Red Dot Guns is the hot new gun manufacturer? Like Magnum or Colt or something?” I asked.

“No, it’s an actual red dot that’s been branded into the butt of the gun handle. One of the kids showed it to me and that’s all it is, just a red dot. But they say everyone wants their gun to have one.”

“I still don’t get it. What’s so special about this red dot?”

“I don’t know,” Ruthie admitted. “Maybe it’s just one of those weird ghetto fashion things? I’ll ask the next time I see them. We’ll obviously have to do some more reporting…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” making a “T” with my hands, the internationally accepted gesture to call for a timeout. “What do you mean ‘we’?”

“That’s the favor. I want you to work with me. I think this could be a really cool story and a great clip for me to have. But you know how things go around here. I’m the intern. They want me to do Good Neighbors, write about car accidents, and leave the heavy lifting to guys like you. But if you and I were to do it together…”

I grinned.

“Well played, young Ginsburg, well played,” I said. “I got a few other things on my plate right now. But as soon as I come up for air, we can work on it. It sounds like a fascinating glimpse into thug culture.”

“Okay. Great.”

Thinking our conversation was over, I began moving my mouse to knock the screen saver off my computer. But Ruthie was still sitting there, looking at me expectantly.

“One more thing,” he said.

“Yeeeessss?”

“I still have, like, half a dozen pregnancy tests in my car. I got them on sale and they can’t be returned. Do you know what I should do with them?”

I couldn’t help myself. “Yeah,” I said. “Give them to Tina.”

* * *

It took an hour to transcribe the tripe I got from the press conference and then mold it into something that would clear the very low hurdle of the All-Slop’s quality standards.

By the time I was done, I had concluded that my first order of business needed to be a visit to Dr. Raul Ibanez, the one man who might be able to enlighten me about my unanswered press conference question. I hoped he would be more talkative than he was the last time I had seen him. Alas, I was out of clever ideas as to how to make that happen.

So, lacking a better plan, I decided to go with a direct assault. I fortified myself with a stop at a local convenience store on my way-and, really, what’s wrong with having two MoonPies for lunch? — and was soon parked on the street outside the Essex County Medical Examiner’s Office. I was going in the front door this time.

I’m often astounded by what you can get away with when you’re a well-dressed white man who moves fast and acts like he knows what he’s doing. As I got out of my car, I reminded myself I had faked my way into tougher places than this. So my plan, quite simply, was to keep walking toward Ibanez’s office until someone stopped me.

Hence, I didn’t pay attention to the security guard at the front desk, and he returned the favor. Then I passed a pair of people in lab coats who didn’t give me a second glance, either. I took a guess that Ibanez’s office would be on the top floor, but I eschewed the elevator-the passengers would have too long to study me-and instead took the emergency stairs, charging up them without hesitation.

And that, conveniently enough, is where I bumped into Dr. Ibanez, standing on the third-floor landing, talking on his cell phone. He wasn’t looking at me any more carefully than anyone else, and I practically had to plow into him to get him to stop.