J. Jance - Without Due Process

Big Al Lindstrom seemed to shake himself out of some kind of trance. “You go on ahead,” he said, waving me away. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

He turned his back and lumbered off in the opposite direction. “Hey, wait a minute. Where are you going?”

“If he’s going to pull me, I want to go back for one more look. I might’ve missed something important.”

I let him go. For one thing, Big Al is bigger than I am, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. For another, I figured it was probably wise for him to give himself a few cool-down moments before facing either Detective Kramer or Captain Powell.

“Don’t take too long,” I cautioned.

I headed for the Mobile Command Post in the alley. It’s nothing more than a glorified RV that once belonged to a snowbird drug dealer whose delivery route consisted of driving up and down the I-5 corridor. He had a well-heeled clientele that stretched all the way from Canada to Mexico, and he sold drugs in RV parks from the back of a very upscale Winnebago. When a Seattle narcotics unit got lucky and busted him in a parking lot near Northgate, the dealer went off for a stretch in Monroe. The Winnebago, already equipped with a tantalizing array of electronics gear, switched sides and came to work for the Seattle Police Department.

Janice Morraine, a criminalist who’s worked her way up to second in command in George Yamamoto’s crime lab, was standing outside, smoking a cigarette. Despite insistent warnings from the Surgeon General and despite state laws outlawing smoking on the job, Janice continues to chain-smoke. “Don’t go inside any sooner than you have to,” she warned. “It’s a sardine can.”

“How many people are in there?”

“More than should be. It’s like Noah’s ark except only the Homicide dicks come two by two. One each from everywhere else.”

“Sounds great.”

Janice Morraine nodded. “That’s what I thought. There’s nothing like a middle-of-the-night meeting to keep everybody from getting the job done,” she grumbled. “I should be back in the house working, not out here cooling my heels.”

She stood up on tiptoe and peered over my shoulder. “By the way, where’s Detective Lindstrom? As I understand it, we’re all waiting for you two to show up.”

“He’ll be here in a minute. I’d better go tell the captain.”

Leaving her alone with only her glowing cigarette for company, I forced my way into the press of people crammed into the RV. Winnebagos may be spacious enough for some little old retired couple traveling the highways and byways to visit their grandkids, but this one was far too small for the group Captain Powell had assembled. People stood shoulder to shoulder.

Powell glanced up at me briefly as I opened the door and worked my way inside. “Where’s Detective Lindstrom?” he asked.

“Making a pit stop.” That sounded plausible enough. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

Kramer cleared his throat, but I ignored him and so did Powell. “We’ll start as soon as he gets here,” the captain said.

I glanced around the room and discovered quite a gathering. Captain Powell edged his way back into the crowd, where he huddled in a hushed consultation with Captain Norman Nichols, the young, newly appointed head of CCI. With them was Lieutenant Lea Dunkirk, a special projects liaison officer who works directly out of the chief’s office. Nearby but not part of the quiet conversation were several others, among them Dr. Mike Wilson, one of Doc Baker’s special assistants, and Lieutenant Gilbert McNamara, the ranking officer in Media Relations.

In the background I saw a collection of several somber Homicide detectives-Manny Davis; his partner, Ray Chong; Sue Danielson, whose great misfortune it was to be Paul Kramer’s newest partner; and, of course, Kramer himself, who stood with his arms folded smugly across his chest. He glowered in my direction as if to say it was all my fault that Big Al Lindstrom still hadn’t answered his summons.

I had started to work my way over to the detectives when the door opened. Ducking to keep from hitting his head on the metal doorframe, Big Al inched his way inside while Janice Morraine squeezed in behind him. Al seemed to have regrouped, to have gotten himself back under control.

“Sorry I’m late, Captain,” he mumbled to Powell, who nodded.

“That’s okay. We’ll go ahead and get started now. Does everybody here know each other?”

We all looked around, checking faces. Detective Danielson, a recent transfer to Homicide from Sexual Assault, was new to the unit, but not to the department. Everyone else was pretty much a known quantity.

“Good,” Powell continued, “I’ll make this quick. As of now, you are all, with the exception of Detective Lindstrom, part of what will be known as the Weston Family Task Force. For the time being and until further notice, each of you is assigned to this case on a full-time basis. All direct contact with the media is strictly prohibited. Information on this case is to be filtered through Lieutenant McNamara here or one of the other Media Relations officers. All of it. Do I make myself clear?”

We all nodded. It was business as usual only more so.

“What about me?” Big Al interjected.

“I’m coming to that, Al. Detectives Beaumont and Lindstrom were the ones originally assigned to this case, but due to the identity of the victims, and since Detective Lindstrom especially has very close personal connections to the Weston family, we’ve been forced to make some changes in assignments. Detective Beaumont will still be officially assigned to the case, but his area of responsibility will focus primarily on the second boy-John Doe for now, a victim who is evidently not a part of the Weston family proper.”

“Wait a minute…” Big Al began, but Powell silenced him with an impatient wave of his hand.

“Obviously, this case will be conducted under intense media and public scrutiny. We can’t afford any screwups or any appearance of ignoring due process. Everyone in this room knows that as soon as a police officer is killed, there’s an automatic assumption among the media and among the population at large that the entire department turns into a bloodthirsty vigilante committee. Considering your personal relationship with Ben, Detective Lindstrom, I’m sure you can understand why I deem it necessary to remove you from the case. It’s no reflection on your professionalism, Al, but you’ll be assigned alternate duty for the time being. Any questions?”

If Big Al had questions, he wasn’t able to voice them. His face flushed a brilliant red from the top of his shirt collar to the roots of his hair while an incredible array of emotions marched in rapid succession across his broad features.

“No…sir,” he stammered at last. “Can I go now?”

“Sure,” Powell returned sympathetically. “That’s probably a good idea. Take the rest of the day off too, why don’t you, Al. Get some rest. I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow.”

To the captain’s credit, I knew he had wanted to speak with Big Al prior to the meeting. A private conference in advance might have spared the detective the public humiliation of being pulled from the case in a roomful of his peers. By coming late, Big Al himself had robbed Captain Powell of any more diplomatic alternative.

Without another word, Big Al stalked out into the night, slamming the flimsy metal door behind him. The rest of us waited in uncomfortable silence. I don’t think there was anyone in the room, with the possible exception of Paul Kramer, who thought Captain Powell was doing the wrong thing, but we all wished it hadn’t come down quite the way it had.

Kramer started to make some off-the-wall comment, but Captain Powell’s reprimanding stare shut him up. “As for task force organization,” Powell continued, “With this many victims, we’re going to need a clearinghouse for personnel and reports both. Sergeant Watkins from Homicide will be taking over as director. He will be assisted by Detective Kramer, who has in the past shown a certain facility for organization and reports. Detective Kramer will work directly under Sergeant Watkins and help delegate assignments.