Brad Parks - The Good Cop

But it was one more thing that didn’t quite fit.

“Okay, so you’re a detective,” I said. “Was this a suicide?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re investigating this, aren’t you?” I said.

Again, no answer. But he also didn’t contradict it.

“When Mimi gets out of the shower, tell her I had to run,” he said, standing up.

I took out a business card, held it out for him, and said, “Maybe I’m investigating this, too. Let’s keep in touch.”

He didn’t respond directly to my suggestion. But on his way out, he took my card.

In the state of Virginia, buying a gun is only slightly more complicated than buying a lawn mower. Buying a whole lot of guns is only marginally more difficult than that.

A state resident who is not banned by the federal government from gun ownership can purchase one weapon every thirty days. A state resident with a concealed carry permit-available from the county courthouse to anyone who has completed a gun safety class-can buy as many guns as he wants, no questions asked.

So, as a heretofore law-abiding citizen, John Bristow didn’t need to make any extraordinary preparations or seek any special permission. On the day of the exchange-which came less than a week after he first made Craigslist contact-he just followed the instructions that had been given to him by his new employer. He drove to a Hilton just off Interstate 64 and left his dented Dodge Stratus in the parking lot, unlocked. Then he walked away, as per his directive. He killed the next hour at a Chick-fil-A.

When he returned, an associate of Red Dot Enterprises had placed $8,000 in cash in his glove box. The deal was that he got to keep the difference between the cash and whatever he spent for twenty guns, new in box.

He had wondered, briefly, what would stop him from just disappearing with the money. These guys didn’t know him, after all. And what they wanted him to do was clearly illegal, so they wouldn’t be able to report the crime to the police. But he had barely formed the thought when he was told he would be watched. It was strongly suggested he not deviate from the plan. He didn’t ask for an explanation. He got the point.

Armed with the cash, he drove around the corner to Bass Pro Shop, a cavernous monument to outdoor play. He parked in the sprawling lot, wedging his Stratus in between a pair of large pickup trucks. He walked past a trio of glistening new boats, through a front entrance adorned with antlers, fishing nets, other rustic paraphernalia, and a sign that announced, WELCOME, FISHERMEN, HUNTERS, AND OTHER LIARS .

He was a liar, all right. Just a different kind than the store had in mind. He went to the gun section, bellied up to a glass-encased counter and said, “I need twenty guns.”

The clerk behind the counter-who was balding, bespectacled, and sweating-did not hesitate.

“You got your carry permit?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“Okay. What you want?”

Bristow hadn’t given it any thought and didn’t actually care. He started making selections based exclusively on price and availability, and within minutes he had cleaned out the Bass Pro Shop’s stock of several smaller models, mostly.22s by Beretta, Browning, and Ruger, with a few.38s thrown in. Whatever was cheapest.

“You need bullets, too?” the clerk asked at one point, and Bristow nearly said yes.

If they were his guns, he’d need bullets. But no one had said a thing about bullets. Just guns. So he said, “Nah.”

Then they began the approval process. Bristow presented his Virginia state driver’s license, with its sky blue background and official state seal; his concealed carry permit; and a recent utility bill, which confirmed his state residency.

Luckily, the state of Virginia didn’t particularly care the bill was past due.

Sliding over to a computer behind the counter, the clerk entered Bristow’s information-name, address, date of birth-onto a form that was sent electronically to state police headquarters, where trained personnel performed the necessary background check. Bristow had no felonies. He was clean.

And since there is no waiting period in Virginia, Bristow was soon at the register, paying for this small arsenal of weapons no differently than if it was a pile of personal flotation devices from the boating section. His total, which included sales tax, came to $6,228.95, which he paid in cash, under the watchful eye of the manager.

The entire transaction was perfectly legal, done in exacting accordance with all local, state, and federal laws. It took just twenty-eight minutes from start to finish.

Then he drove back to the Hilton, parked his car, and walked away. This time, flush with new money, he went across the street to a Wok’n Roll. When he returned, the guns were gone-heisted by Red Dot Enterprises.

That afternoon, Bristow walked into the Hampton City Sheriff’s Office and reported the guns stolen. The paperwork took a while-they had to fill out a separate form for each gun. But Bristow didn’t care. He didn’t have anything else to do, and besides, he could now get reimbursed by his insurance company, adding significantly to his score.

He didn’t know where the guns went. He didn’t particularly care. He had bills to pay.

It felt a little intrusive, sitting in Mimi Kipps’s kitchen while she was upstairs showering, and I was contemplating whether I should take my leave when I heard the water shut off. Then, from the living room, baby Jaquille began making a noise that may or may not have been crying. It mostly sounded like a wind-up toy on the fritz.

“Would someone mind holding the baby for a second?” Mimi hollered from upstairs. “He’s just hungry. I’ll be down in a second to feed him.”

In a house that had seemed so filled with relatives, I was sure someone more appropriate than the friendly local newspaper reporter would materialize and take care of this duty. My maternal instincts rank slightly ahead of wolf spiders-inasmuch as I know better than to eat my own young-though I’m not sure I had much to offer beyond that. So I sat still and waited for the noise coming from the Pack ’N Play to quiet. It was my version of the “not it” finger to the nose.

But I soon realized I was the only one in the house. And Jaquille’s frustration was mounting. I went into the living room and looked down at him as he squalled.

“Uh … what … what exactly do I do?” I hollered upstairs.

“Just pick him up,” I heard Mimi say.

And how do I do that? I wanted to say. Did the kid come with a handle on him or something? Among the many skills I had managed to pick up in the newsroom over the years, this was not one of them. We often talked about babysitting the interns, but our interns usually knew enough to keep their weeping more private.

Still, Jaquille’s distress was only increasing, so I did what any good reporter does in an uncertain situation: I summoned all the confidence I had and faked it. Like a seasoned wet nurse, I reached down and grabbed him with two hands, then cradled him to my body. He was small enough that I’m sure I could have one-handed him. But since I cared enough to catch a softball with two hands, it seemed the least I could do for this little guy.

“Okay, pal, it’s okay,” I said in what I hoped was a reassuring voice.

Jaquille was unconvinced. My faking hadn’t fooled him. He screamed even louder, and even though his eyes were closed, he was thrashing his head around, his mouth searching for … something. But what?