J. Jance - Without Due Process

“It’s not really an us-and-them situation, you know,” I counseled, once we met in the elevator lobby on the eleventh floor. “As a detective, you’ll find yourself assigned to work up here from time to time. These folks are mostly just a bunch of regular guys, especially Tony Freeman.”

Sue shot me a skeptical glance. “They may all be regular,” she countered, “but I still can’t see myself ever wanting to join them.”

Because IIS is a secured area, we had to stop at the reception desk and log in. “I’m Detective Beaumont,” I said to the young woman sitting there. “And this is Detective Danielson from Homicide. We’re here to talk to whoever’s handling Ben Weston’s case.”

There must be something about the set of my eyes and nose, or maybe it’s the way I comb my hair that brings out the worst in receptionists everywhere. This one was no exception. Busy filing a broken nail, she seemed only vaguely interested in what I had to say.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

I smiled back at her, one of those long-view smiles. “We work in Homicide,” I told her. “It’s hard to schedule those a week or so in advance. Can you tell me if someone in IIS has been assigned to work on the Weston case?”

“I’m not allowed to give out that kind of information.”

“Who is?”

“Captain Freeman.”

“Can we see him?”

She glanced pointedly behind her at the door with its number-coded lock. A red light glowed above it, announcing to those outside that the room was occupied and no one was to enter without Captain Freeman’s express permission. “He’s with someone right now,” the receptionist replied curtly, “and it’s already after four. Maybe you could come back tomorrow morning.”

“Maybe we’ll wait,” I said. “In fact, I’m sure of it.”

I motioned Sue into a chair and took one myself. It’s the kind of passive/aggressive resistance that universally drives receptionists crazy. This one flushed angrily and slammed the nail file into the top drawer of her desk. She picked up the phone and pounded the keypad.

“Captain Freeman? There are two detectives from Homicide out here. They want to talk to someone about the Weston case. Should they wait, or should I have them come back later?”

After listening for a moment, she nodded. “All right. I’ll tell them.” Putting down the phone, she allowed grudgingly, “You can wait, but it may be some time.”

We must have cooled our heels for a good half hour before the light went off and the inner door clicked open. Captain Anthony Freeman, the tall, ramrod-straight commander of IIS, ushered a young black woman out of his office. She was five six or so and slender, wearing one of those tight, ankle-fitting getups we used to call toreador pants. She wore a red windbreaker with the word “Powerized” printed on the back. Her hair hung down in a mane of shoulder-length, pencil-thin braids. She carried a large leather purse which she held up to her face as they slipped past us, effectively obscuring her features from our view.

Captain Freeman hustled her into the elevator. Only when she was safely inside the elevator and totally out of sight did he stop to shake her hand. “Thank you so much for coming in,” he said to her. “You can be sure we’ll get on this right away.”

There was a murmured but inaudible reply, then Freeman stepped back and the elevator door glided shut.

Who’s this mystery lady? I wondered. She must have had something to do with Ben Weston’s case, or they both wouldn’t have been so concerned about Sue and me not being able to identify her later. Whoever she was, she was important enough that Captain Freeman himself, the head honcho of IIS, rather than one of his investigative underlings, was dealing with her directly.

Now, though, Freeman turned his full attention on us. He came back to where we were sitting. “Won’t you come in,” he said graciously, as though inviting welcome guests into his own personal living room.

For someone used to the dingy municipal appointments of the rest of the Public Safety Building, IIS can be a real shock to the system. Just to give some scale of value, let me point out that Captain Powell’s fishbowl office on the fifth floor has zero windows to the outside world. Tony Freeman has two. Powell conducts his business in his cramped office where everyone who walks by has a clear view of everything that goes on at his desk. Freeman’s interviewees are hidden from view beyond that daunting security door with its electronically controlled lock.

Inside, Freeman’s digs are almost spacious, with an “art in public places” piece-one of the less-controversial ones-that covers most of one wall. The Scandinavian teak furnishings themselves may not qualify at the corporate executive level, but they’re a whole lot better than the Spartan green metal stuff down in Homicide.

Once we stepped inside the room, the lock clicked home and Freeman paused long enough to flip on the switch to the red light. Evidently we were not to be disturbed. Then he hurried over to his desk and turned over the top page of the yellow pad that was lying there before straightening up and looking us in the eye. He proffered his hand.

“Hello there, Detective Beaumont. Good to see you again.” He shook my hand and then turned to Sue. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Detective Danielson,” she said quickly, returning his handshake. “Sue.” He nodded back at her and sat down behind the desk.

Captain Anthony Freeman is as straight a straight arrow as they come. As Seattle PD’s designated Eagle Scout, Freeman has the spit-and-polish look of the military about him. Prematurely bald but with a fringe of reddish hair and a matching bottle-brush mustache, he inarguably counts as one of the good guys. You don’t get to be Camp Fire’s Man of the Year two years in a row without making some contribution to the community at large, but he’s no pushover either. Despite twenty-two years on the force, he still manages to maintain some of his youthful illusions, but anyone who’s broken the rules will tell you that he’s hell on wheels when it comes to crooked cops.

He motioned the two of us into chairs. “What can I do for you today?” he asked. “Connie said you wanted to talk to someone about Ben Weston.”

Sue glanced briefly in my direction, as though appealing for help, but then she launched off into it on her own anyway. “We’ve just learned something very disturbing, Captain Freeman. Detective Beaumont and I both thought it necessary to bring it directly to your attention.”

“The two of you are on the Weston Family Task Force, aren’t you?” Freeman asked. “I believe I remember seeing both your names in the set of reports I’ve been given.”

Sue nodded. “Detective Beaumont is assigned to the Adam Jackson part of the investigation. Since my regular partner, Detective Kramer, is helping Sergeant Watkins run the entire operation, I’ve been pitching in wherever needed.”

Freeman nodded. “Before you begin, let me ask you a question, Detective Danielson. Has whatever it is you’ve learned, whatever you’ve come here to tell me, been brought to the attention of either Sergeant Watkins or Detective Kramer or some other member of the task force?”

“I mentioned some of it to Detective Kramer earlier today, but I haven’t written an official report yet. I haven’t had time. The other, the part we found out just a few minutes ago, we haven’t told anybody. As I said, we came directly here.”

“Good,” Captain Freeman said, nodding thoughtfully. “Now, go on.”

Sue hesitated. “Is Internal Investigations conducting its own Ben Weston inquiry?”

“I’m not at liberty to say at the moment,” Anthony Freeman replied. “Considering everything that’s happened in the past few days, it would certainly be reasonable to assume that we were; and whether or not we are, I’d be most interested in hearing whatever it is you have to say.”