J. Jance - Without Due Process

“I run a tight ship, Detective Danielson,” Tony Freeman continued, “and I run it on the basis of the golden rule-Do unto others and all that jazz. That may sound corny at first, but with detectives rotating in and out of here, it really is a matter of what goes around comes around. Somebody who acts like a jerk when he’s on the delivery end of IIS may very well end up being on the receiving end a few months down the line. That knowledge helps keep everybody honest.”

There was a light tapping on the door. Freeman pressed a button to disable the security lock. The door opened and Kyle Lehman entered the room.

If Captain Freeman is Seattle PD’s straight arrow, Kyle Lehman is its ghostly computer guru. A scrawny, sallow-faced, bespectacled nerd who’s probably thirty but looks nineteen or twenty, Kyle came to Seattle PD years ago to install our computer system and get it up and running. Afterward, he never left. Legend has it that Lehman is listed as a resident in an apartment over on Eastlake somewhere, but he spends most of his time baby-sitting the department’s sometimes temperamental computer system. He sleeps on a cot in his office, showers in the change room, survives on a diet of readily available neighborhood fast food, and spends his spare time playing fantasy quest games on his personal desktop computer.

Not surprisingly, Lehman was the first to show. He arrived dressed all in black-an aging rendition of what teenagers currently call a “bat caver.” He wore a single earring, and his reddish hair flopped crookedly over one eye.

“Morning, Tony,” he said casually to Freeman, although it was well after four in the afternoon.

“I trust this isn’t too early for you,” Freeman returned.

Kyle grinned ingratiatingly. “Naw. Somebody from CCI already woke me up. Mind if I have some breakfast?”

“Be my guest,” Tony Freeman told him.

Lehman took a seat in the corner. At the same time he bit into a mustard-slathered corn dog. An unopened can of diet Pepsi hung out of the pocket of his frayed hounds-tooth jacket.

Up to that point, I had never exchanged a word with Kyle Lehman, but that didn’t keep me from having an immediate, none-too-favorable opinion of the man. I had seen him skulking around the halls on occasion. The only thing that really pissed me off more than his looks was the common departmental knowledge that Lehman made more money than almost any detective on the force. For that kind of money, it seemed to me we could have hired someone who looked a little more like a regular human being and less like something that had just oozed out from under a hard disk drive.

Next, Connie ushered Captain Powell into the room. Larry glanced at Sue and me, nodded curtly, and kept on walking. He greeted Freeman and sat down on one of the three extra chairs that had been crowded in next to the wall on either side of Tony Freeman’s desk.

He exchanged polite greetings with Lehman and then turned to us. “What are you two doing here?” he asked.

Freeman answered before either Sue or I could open our mouths. “Waiting for the rest of our party to show up. Want some coffee, Larry?”

Connie, who evidently was capable of taking a hint once her nails were filed, grabbed the pot along with the rest of its evil-smelling dregs and disappeared into the outer office.

Norman Nichols showed up next. He nodded to Sue as he took a seat next to Captain Powell. Having just helped Sue break into Ben Weston’s computer files, Nichols probably more than anyone had a fairly good idea of why we were there.

Time passed. Tony Freeman sat gazing serenely at the artwork on the wall behind us as though he didn’t have a care in the world. Kyle munched thoughtfully on his corn dog and sipped his soda while the rest of us waited in uneasy silence. There was no joking or lighthearted banter. The new coffee was halfway through dripping into the pot and Connie had left for the day when the third tap finally sounded on the door. Freeman pressed the button and in walked Chief of Police Kenneth Rankin, flushed and puffing and out of breath.

“Why did you insist I use the stairs for God’s sake, Tony?” Chief Rankin growled. “I was all the way down in the Crime Lab. It’s a helluva long hike up from the third floor to the eleventh, you know. And what’s so damned important that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning?”

“Have a seat, Chief,” Freeman said quietly. “We’ll get to it as quickly as we can. Thank you all for coming. Does everyone know everyone else?”

We all did. “Good,” Freeman continued. “I’ve called you here this afternoon to ask for your help and cooperation. It looks as though we have a serious problem on our hands-a rogue cop problem.”

Rankin paled. “Don’t tell me we’ve got another one,” he groaned. “The business with Benjamin Weston is bad enough.”

Lehman, who doesn’t regard himself as a cop and finds no horror in the words “rogue cop,” chose that moment to noisily open a bag of potato chips. Larry Powell looked stricken but sat up straight, paying absolute attention.

“It’s possible,” Captain Freeman said softly, “that this one is far worse.”

“Worse!” Rankin exploded. “How could it possibly be worse?”

“Unless I’m sadly mistaken, Ben Weston may have been nothing but the tip of the iceberg.”

His words grabbed my gut and shook it. Tip of the iceberg? In other words, Tony Freeman was convinced Ben Weston was part of whatever dirty crap was going on. That hurt. It hurt real bad.

“This has something to do with the murders then?” Larry Powell asked after a moment.

Freeman nodded. “Probably. What I’m about to tell you is not to be discussed with anyone outside this room. I’ve just had a very disturbing visit from someone who’s working undercover for Narcotics. Word is out on the streets that the Bloods, Crips, and BGD want to have a summit meeting with someone from Seattle PD. Preferably Chief Rankin here himself.”

That caught me completely flat-footed. After all I thought we were going to discuss something else entirely. And I wasn’t the only one who was surprised. Chief Rankin’s eyes bulged. “With me? All of them at once? What about?”

“About Ben Weston,” Freeman answered. “They say they aren’t responsible for killing Ben Weston and his family. They want to help us find the cops who did.”

You could have heard a pin drop in that room. Sue and I had been gradually collecting our own set of suspicions, but to hear them come ricocheting back at us, uttered with Captain Freeman’s unsmiling, dead certainty, made the hair prickle on the back of my neck.

Chief Rankin was the first to find his voice. “Did you say cops?” he croaked. “You’re saying that a fellow police officer or officers killed Ben Weston and all his family?”

“That’s what they said-cops, plural not singular,” Tony Freeman answered grimly. “That means two or more.”

“And the gangs, all of them together, are offering to help us catch them? I’ve never heard of such a thing. That’s preposterous.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like it before, either,” Tony Freeman agreed. “But that’s the message. They say they’ll help, but only on the QT. Word of this temporary truce is not to go beyond this room, is that clear?”

For several moments we were all too thunderstruck to even open our mouths. I was the one who finally managed to ask a question. “How’s this all going to work?”

“One step at a time,” Freeman replied confidently. “By the way, Larry, as of now and until further notice, Detectives Beaumont and Danielson are working for me.”

Powell nodded his acquiescence, and Captain Freeman turned to us. “Any questions?”

“No, sir,” Sue Danielson replied. “Just tell us what you want us to do.”