James Buchanan The Good Thief

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bar and they spilled through the fatal funnel into the house,
back-lit, exposed and vulnerable. A cadre of SWAT charged
up the narrow central stairs ... arguably the riskier area to
search. Nate blinked rapidly to adjust his eyes to the dim
interior.
They had a vague idea of the floor plan of the premises,
but lacked time to get a bearing on their surroundings.
Darting through the rooms like a fucked up screenplay for
some daytime cop drama, Nate, Chavez and his Sergeant
covered the dining room and kitchen. Another three man
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The Good Thief
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team would be dancing the same steps through the living
room.
They met at the back in the family room as the shout of,
"Clear," echoed from above. One door left. Everything
focused on that door.
Syd's turf, he knew what he intended to do. Nate and the
officers could only guess whether he was armed and intended
to fight, flee, or surrender. From behind that thin, thin
barricade came the unmistakable snap-click of a round being
chambered. Time stretched like taffy.
Nate didn't want to die and the flimsy interior wall sure as
hell wouldn't stop a bullet. He swallowed and tried not to piss
himself as the sound ricocheted to conclusion.
Chavez jerked his chin at H.M. Robinson. The Sergeant
took a breath and nodded. "Come on, Syd, don't do this." He
pleaded in the most reassuring and reasonable manner Nate
had ever heard.
"Go to hell." The voice on the other side of the wall was so
soft, for a moment Nate thought he'd imagined the words.
Robinson took a breath. "Think of your kids, your wife."
His tone was soothing and calm. Nate watched the sweat
trickle down the Sergeant's skin and realized the man
speaking was anything but. "They love you no matter what.
You've been to too many funerals with family ... it shatters
them, you know that. There are other options. Open the door,
Syd."
The loudest concussion ever to assault Nate's ears
answered.
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Chavez screamed, "No!" His shoulder landed hard on the
door. The frame splintered, but the door didn't budge. Nate
joined the effort, pushing on the wood. Something large and
heavy was propped on the other side. Three of them shoved
in concert. A loud crash and they were through, climbing over
an old metal file cabinet, pushing it out of their way.
Dressed in full uniform, Syd Price sat on the couch in his
home office. His service revolver rested loose in his right
hand. The left draped casually across his lap, resting atop the
case containing his service ribbons and Police Star for
Bravery. A study in casual repose, his eyes were shut, his
mouth relaxed. If it weren't for the ungodly amounts of blood
staining his shirt, slacks, shoes, sofa and congealing on the
wall behind him, you might think he was merely sleeping.
A blue set of rings around a hole the size of Nate's thumb
marked Price's temple. Black flecks of un-burnt powder dotted
the cherry-pink muzzle imprint stamped around the edge of
the wound. Nate knew, but had trouble processing, that the
stain probably was a result of incomplete combustion carbon
monoxide mixing with fresh blood. Otherwise the fluid was
viscous and dark like merlot thickened with strawberry jam.
The cloying copper smell of blood and other bodily fluids
gagged him. One of the detectives backed into the hall and
retched.
Nate managed to hold it until he was in the yard.
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Chapter 25
"A high ranking member of the Los Angeles Police
Department shot himself yesterday afternoon. Detectives
from the department attempted to arrest Sergeant Syd Price
at his home in the Los Feliz area when he failed to turn
himself in as previously arranged." Nate looked up from his
clumsy attempts at chopping zucchini. Oh well, it would still
taste okay. Chicken was already baking under a layer of
canned tomatoes in the oven. Nate leaned on the island and
absently popped a slice of squash in his mouth. He'd put the
TV on earlier for noise. Now it had his attention.
In the living room a peppy, sincere reporter voiced over a
shot of a man in the uniform of the LAPD. An older officer
with a heavy mustache, gray hair and florid cheeks, stared
from the screen. "Sergeant Price, a twenty year veteran of
the force, was indicted last Thursday by the Grand Jury on
several counts of possession of child pornography and
molestation." The camera cut to a young, female reporter in
an expensive suit and streaked hair. Behind her loomed the
grey slab front of Parker Center, LAPD HQ. "It is not known at
this time how many victims there may be ... but sources say,
based on the number of photographs found, there could
eventually be dozens."
It looked like everything would shake out fine career wise.
The rookie had recanted the whole crotch grabbing story
when the details filtered down. Tuesday Nate reported for
desk duty. Is still had to be dotted and Ts still had to be
crossed, but at least Nate was in uniform. Sergeant Robinson
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The Good Thief
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gave it another week before Nate could go back on patrol.
Two days of being a desk jockey and dealing with the
administrative side of a bust gone very bad.
Half the department was in crisis debriefing. He, and those
who'd actually witnessed the aftermath, were set up with
departmental shrinks. Nate still saw the image of Syd Price on
the couch every time he shut his eyes. Relying on Soma was
the only way he managed to sleep. God knew, he didn't want
to start drinking to cope.
"On June 15, detectives began investigating Lieutenant
Price after an attempted burglary uncovered evidence of child
pornography." Now another photo appeared. This time it was
Caesar's mug shot. Years out of date and as bad as most,
Caesar still managed to look rather dangerous and sexy. "The
alleged burglar, Caesar Payan-Serrano, turned over materials
he found and agreed to cooperate with police in this matter."
"Detectives obtained a search warrant for Price's home."
The house on Turney came into view and he caught the
grainy image of his own form crashing through the door.
Thankfully no one had filmed him puking in the back yard
afterward.
Nate spared a moment to wonder how many neighbors
were sitting at home angsting over whether anything had
happened to their kids. "During the search, officers found
numerous sexually explicit photographs and videotape
recordings of small children. Receipts led them to a nearby
storage unit." On cue the orange and grey fa�ade of a pay-
by-the-month place appeared. "Apparently rented by Price,
where additional photographs and videotape recordings of
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The Good Thief
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children were found. After examining the videotapes and
photographs, the police determined that they contained child
pornography of both boys and girls, six to ten years of age,
many engaging in sexually explicit acts. Over one hundred
videotape recordings and photographs were seized."
A knock on the patio door startled Nate. He turned to see
his twin pointing at the latch. Swinging his eyes back to the
news he wandered over, unlocked the sliding door and
pushed it open for her. Carol handed him a Trader Joe's bag
as she wandered past. Bottles clinked inside.
They cut to a shot of the lead detective. The IA Dick stood
on the steps of Parker Center, surrounded by a sea of
microphones. "It is a tragedy of immense proportions any
time a child is victimized." The detective's tired voice carried
both anger and hurt. "That the perpetrator was a member of
our own law enforcement community, someone who should
have been there to protect them, saddens every officer [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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