CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Back at Pacific Division, a large crowd of citizens and reporters has formed outside the building. People hold protest signs that read NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE; SAY HIS NAME; and JUSTICE FOR BRANDON. I enter the parking lot, and after scanning my badge at the kiosk, I park the Mustang in the usual spot.
My work cell phone rings. Captain Beckett. Again. I ignore the call and enter the building.
Inside, the silent treatment prevails, and officers continue to avoid me. I go to my modular and take a seat at my desk and start working on the report. I'm thirty minutes into writing when Captain Beckett enters my office.
"Something wrong with your phone?" he asks.
"No, sir."
"What makes you think you can ignore my calls like this? Step into my office. Now."
I follow the captain into his lair and shut the door behind me. He takes a seat in his high-back chair and rests his elbows on the large executive desk.
I continue to stand.
"I've tried to be patient with you. I even let you keep working after your injury, when I should have benched you. But now I hear you met with Mrs. Graves."
Word travels fast through the department, especially when Boston is the one spreading it.
"Yes, I did," I say.
"What the hell for?"
"She said she had new information."
"The case is closed, Finnegan. The department will be releasing a statement this evening in a press conference, and I want everything you have on this case on my desk before you leave today."
"There's something you should know, sir. It could change everything about this case."
Beckett scowls. "What did I just say? I'm not interested, Finnegan."
"It's about protecting this department, sir, and avoiding a public relations crisis."
"Well, if it's that dire, I expect it to be in your report."
"Yes, Captain."
"Then I want you to take some time off."
"Time off?"
"It will do you some good."
"How long, sir?"
"A month. You've got the time."
"Am I being suspended?"
"Did I say that? It's just time off. You can reflect on your career choices."
Maybe he's doing me a favor by keeping me away from the job until things cool off? Or is this the first step to being terminated? "I understand, sir. Am I dismissed?"
"Get out of my office," the captain says before directing his attention to his computer screen. I return to my desk and continue working on the report. After an hour of pounding keys, I receive a text message from Tori asking if I'm free to talk later. I text: Sure, I'll call you.
I write for another two hours, completing the report just before five o'clock. It's exhaustive, and at times, it reads more like a confessional with me assuming the role of witness, perpetrator, and contemptible police officer, but every word is accurate. I print the report. Then, I compile statements from Brandon's parents, interviews with his classmates, a transcript of Marlena Sanchez's interrogation, photos of Brandon's autopsy and the ME's report, photos of the crime scene and the tire tracks found near the body, forensic reports (including what I deem questionable evidence gleaned from Joey Garcia's computer by Boston's team), a summary of my meeting with Mrs. Graves and Clara "Sugar" Montgomery (including the existence of the video disc), photos of Brandon's abandoned car and notes on the Paradise Lost's parking lot and exterior surveillance cameras, summaries of the interviews with the club owner and patrons, photos of Joey Garcia's crash along with a summary of events, and anything else germane to the case into the LAPD's standardized format known as the murder book.
Before I take the murder book to the captain's office, I scan all the documents and save them onto a flash drive. Beckett's office door is open, but he isn't there. I set the large binder on his desk and start heading down the hallway toward the exit when I hear a commotion coming from the lobby. Two patrol officers rush past me with their hands on their pistols.
"It's a Ten Thirty-Two, Detective, in the lobby," an officer says as he runs past.
It's one of the greatest fears for any division. A gunman on the premises. I follow the officers to the lobby, where I see Ishmael Soledad brandishing a long-barrel revolver and pointing it at Javier Perez.
Officers have taken cover behind the check-in desk and in the hallway. There are at least twenty guns trained on Ishmael.
"You killed him," Ishmael says. "You killed my boy!"
Perez is frozen with his hands high above his head.
"Put it down!" Captain Beckett shouts. "We will not hesitate to shoot you."
"Kill me?" Ishmael says. "Just like you killed my boy? Fuck you. Fuck all of you!"
"Put the gun down!" the captain repeats. "I will not tell you again."
I draw my gun and move toward Beckett, who's crouched in the hallway. "Sir, let me try and talk him down. I'm the lead detective. If he's here for answers, it's best they come from me."
"Not going to happen, Finnegan. Fall back."
"Sir, please? He'll listen to me—I know it."
"You're out of your depth."
"Please, sir. Let me try." Captain Beckett mulls over my request. "The last thing we need is for Brandon's father to die by our hands, too."
Beckett's nostrils flare. I know he's still angry with me, but I'm our one tactical advantage. As the only person here who knows Ishmael, I stand the best chance of talking him into surrender. "Sir?"
Beckett nods reluctantly. "Don't be a hero."
"Copy, sir."
Beckett follows with, "Any sudden moves, and he's dead."
I leave Beckett hunkered in the hallway. I move toward Ishmael but maintain a good distance, slightly off-line, so if he is to fire on me, he'll need to turn his body to face me. "Mr. Soledad?"
Ishmael keeps his gun on Perez, whose face is coated in sweat, and whips his head around to face me. "You the one," he says, his eyes pink and flushed, possibly still healing from the sun's hellacious effects.
"Let's talk about this."
"What's there to talk about? My boy is dead because of you devils. You all killed him, and for what?"
"I know you're angry. You have every reason to be."
"You have to face judgment!"
"You're right, Ishmael. We do," I say, slowly lowering my gun. I look toward Perez, whose shirt is soaked through with sweat.
"What the hell are you doing, Finnegan?" Captain Beckett shouts from the hallway.
"I got this," I say to Beckett, holstering my Glock. "You want justice. I get that, but this is only going to end one way."
"It isn't right," Ishmael says. "I wasn't there when he needed me. I failed him."
"No. We all failed him."
Ishmael begins to sob. "I just want to hear it," he says. "I want to hear the words."
"Hear what words?"
"Say it. Say you killed Brandon."
"Bullshit," Captain Beckett mumbles, loud enough for me to hear. Ishmael extends the gun closer to Perez's face. No amount of training accurately prepares you for a gun pointed inches from your nose. Perez is losing his footing, wobbling like a palm tree caught in a Santa Ana wind.
I turn and give Beckett a harsh glare and then return my attention to Ishmael. "OK, Ishmael. OK, just focus on me. Forget about them."
"The words, damn you," Ishmael bemoans. "Say the words."
"All right, we killed him. We killed Brandon," I say. "Now, put the gun down."
"No—not you. I want to hear it from him," Ishmael says, looking to Captain Beckett.
"What?" I ask.
"He's the boss, ain't he? He's giving the orders, so I want to hear him admit it. I want someone to take some fucking responsibility."
"Captain?" I say, looking back at him. He's stone-faced, mouth sealed, not budging.
"No one has to die," I repeat, looking to Ishmael. "We can end this."
"Tell him to lose the gun first," Captain Beckett says, keeping his eyes on Ishmael like he's weighing his life against speaking a sentence.
"Captain, please?"
It's as if time has stopped or slowed to such an incremental pace that we might as well be moving in slow motion. "Fine," the captain says. "We killed him. We killed Brandon Soledad."
"Again," Ishmael demands, stepping closer to Perez with the revolver still aimed between his eyes. "Say it again. Say you killed my boy."
"Drop the fucking gun," Beckett snaps back.
"We killed Brandon Soledad," I say, repeating it another five times.
Officer Ahn stands behind me and begins repeating the words, and soon, other officers join in, chanting: "We killed Brandon Soledad."
From the window, I can see protestors congregating around the station, screaming for justice, demanding a reckoning, and it's all being captured on camera phones for the world to see.
A SWAT unit, a large armored truck, pulls into the parking lot, and officers empty from the vehicle in full tactical gear. Other officers returning from patrol take to directing the crowd away from the building.
I advance toward Ishmael with my hands positioned in front of my chest, palms open. "No more death, Ishmael. It isn't what Brandon would want. That much I know."
"He was my son, a child of God. Flesh and blood. Can't you people see that?"
He slowly lowers his gun. I keep between him and the dozen officers with their fingers on the triggers of pistols and shotguns.
"I know, Ishmael. I know what he meant to you," I say. "I know he mattered."
I breathe in, exhale slowly, and grab hold of the revolver's barrel and pull it away from Ishmael. Perez quickly moves away from the front desk, seeking refuge in the hallway. Officers pounce on Ishmael, manipulating his arms behind his back to cuff him. I open the revolver's chamber. "Empty," I say, looking to Captain Beckett.
Officer Ahn kindly takes the gun from my hand. "I've got it, Detective," she says.
"Check him for other weapons, Finnegan," Beckett orders.
I search Ishmael, running my hands across his pockets and waistband, along his legs, and down to his ankles. "Got anything sharp in your pockets?"
Ishmael shakes his head, and I reach into his pockets, pulling out a few coins and my business card. Captain Beckett snatches the card from my hand. He looks at it. Disappointment turns to fury. "Get the hell out of here, Finnegan," he says.
"But, sir—"
"Go now! Get out of my fucking sight."
I can feel the hard glares of my fellow officers; when I look at Ahn, in her face, an ardent declaration of forgiveness, but both of us know there may be no salvation for me.
I turn and leave out the rear entrance. I can hear the roar of the protestors growing more agitated. In the parking lot, I get into the Mustang. My heart is beating out of my chest. Is it a heart attack this time? Or the panic that's becoming commonplace? I try to get a handle on the feeling, gripping the steering wheel tightly, jerking it with force.
Then, without much thought, I release a primal scream loud enough to be heard blocks away. It's a strident cry; my throat burns raw.
I collapse over the steering wheel, emptied, fearing I'm going mad.
My phone rings. Tori. "Hi," she says. "Can we meet?"
I catch my breath and steady my voice, but I can't subdue the tremble. I look at my watch, then I say, "Six thirty."
"That works. What's the place?"
"Doyle's Pub. Downtown."
"OK. Finn, you sound strange. Is everything all right?"
"I'll see you later."
I end the call.