Wolfman is Back Page 2

Brad took the hand. “Serg … Detective Brad Coulter.”

  “Coulter? The TSU guy?”

  “That’s me.”

  “A detective now. Good for you. What unit?”

  “That’s a little fuzzy. Today’s my first day. I’m working with Detective Tommy Devlin.”

  Walsh shook his head. “Shit, your first day. You haven’t even started work and you collar these two. Not a bad way to start. You might have set the bar a little high, though.”

  “I’m a shit magnet. Trouble finds me.”

  Walsh laughed. “Well, Detective, shall we interview these pukes?”

  “You bet.”

  “Let’s see what the big guy has to say. His name is Phil. Lots of priors for theft, car theft, and minor assaults. We’ve been after these two for months. They’re generalists—carjacking, robbery, burglary. We think they’re good for at least twenty cases.”

  Phil made a big production about waking up when Brad and Walsh entered.

  Walsh took a seat across from Phil. Brad leaned against a wall.

  “How long was I asleep?” Phil rubbed his eyes. “Why am I here?”

  “That’s funny, Phil,” Walsh said. “I’m Detective Walsh. You’ve already met Detective Coulter.”

  “Yah, he’s the guy who gave me this headache. He hit me with something.”

  “You must have a head injury,” Brad said. “You were running and tripped on the thirty-yard line.”

  “That’s bullshit. Whatever you think I did, I didn’t. I’m innocent.”

  “You assault a driver, steal his car, cause several traffic accidents—all witnessed by the detective,” Walsh said. “Then you run into the football stadium with the cop in pursuit. The last thing you are is innocent.”

  “You can’t prove shit.” Phil glared at Walsh, then turned to Brad. “I want him charged for assaulting me. It was police brutality. I ain’t done nothin’.”

  Phil leaned back in his chair and put his arms across his chest. “I got nothin’ to say.”

  Walsh stood and walked to the door. Brad followed him to the hall.

  “That’s it?” Brad asked. “What’s your strategy?”

  “That was just the warmup,” Walsh said. “I needed to see what his position was. Now we talk to his partner, Glenn. Once I hear what Glenn has to say I play them against each other.”

  “But these guys know that’s what you’re going to do.”

  Walsh nodded. “You bet they do. We plant a seed in one room, another seed in the other room. Then give them time to think, to wonder what the other guy is saying. The saying, ‘honor among thieves’ is false. You’ll see. The only question is who breaks first.”

  They entered the second interview room. “Glenn, I’m Detective Walsh.” He slapped a folder onto the table and sat. “I think you’ve met Detective Coulter.”

  Glenn’s eyes moved between the detectives.

  Walsh took a seat across from Phil. Brad stood by the door.

  Walsh opened the folder and flipped through the pages. He shook his head a couple of times.

  “What?” Glenn asked.

  “Oh, my.” Walsh closed the file and shook his head again.

  “What the—” Glenn stared at the folder. “What’s in there? What’s going on?”

  “Well, Glenn, you’ve been a very bad boy in your short twenty-five years. Already two stretches in prison. This will be strike three. These crimes will put you back there for a long time. Especially when you’re the leader.”

  “What? Who said that? Did Phil say that? I ain’t no leader.”

  Walsh shook his head. “That’s not the way I heard it. You’re the brains and Phil is the brawn.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about no brawn. I was just hitchhiking. I don’t know Phil. Next thing I know he’s beating that driver and we’re running from the cops.”

  “Just hitchhiking,” Walsh said.

  “Yeah, heading to British Columbia.”

  “Detective Coulter, did you hear that? Hitchhiking? Glenn must think we’re stupid. How does that make you feel?” Walsh pounded the table with a fist. Glenn twitched. “That’s the oldest excuse there is. I was just hitchhiking. Do you think this is my first interrogation?” Walsh opened the file and pulled out a piece of paper with handwriting on it. He passed it to Brad, who nodded and handed it back. “Phil has a whole different story.” Walsh put the paper back in the file folder.

  Glenn held his head in his hands. He groaned and shook his head. Finally, he looked up. “I ain’t taking the fall for this. Give me paper and I’ll write it down. That asshole was beating up queers and guys picking up hookers on the stroll. He said they’d never call the cops. Sometimes the guys with the hookers were rich, and we got a lot of money. Then he had the idea that if we took their wallets, we could go to their houses next and clean them out, too.”

  “Start at the beginning and write it all down.” Walsh slid paper and a pen to Glenn. “When you’re done, I’ll talk with Phil.”

  Brad and Walsh stood in the hall.

  “That was quick,” Brad said. He had seen a lot of interrogations, but Walsh made it look easy.

  “Most of these guys aren’t that smart. Some keep their mouth shut and demand a lawyer. Others, like these two, can’t wait to turn on each other. Glenn crumbled faster than most. By the end of the day I’d bet we clear twenty or more cases. Let’s see what Phil says now.”

  Walsh sat in front of Phil while Brad stayed by the door. “Well, we talked to Glenn and he says this was all your idea. He was just hitchhiking and didn’t have anything to do with this.” Walsh pulled out the same piece of paper and waved it in front of Phil. “It’s all right here.” He slid the paper into the file folder. “So, based on Glenn’s information, we cut him loose.”

  “What?” Phil yelled. “That little shit was involved in every one of them.”

  “Every one of them?” Walsh asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, it was all his idea. He was out of money and looking for an easy way to get some cash. He said he knew a guy who would buy stolen cars. I’m telling you, man, it was all his idea. He said between rousting guys on the stroll and boosting cars, we’d make a ton of money.”

  Walsh leaned close to Phil. “Well, we let Glenn go.” Walsh tapped the file folder. “It’s all here in his statement. He claims he didn’t have anything to do with this and it was all your idea. The carjacking and all the other things. You got anything else to say?”

  “Are you crazy?” Glenn said. “The carjacking was his idea and all the other stuff, too. He’s the one who said the home invasions would be easy. He knew where to fence stuff. There’s lots of cash. He’s the one who said that robbing Johns on the hooker stroll would be easy cash.”

  “All right,” Walsh said. “We’ll see if we can catch your buddy before he’s released.” Walsh got up to leave the room. “If what you say is true, I’m gonna need you to put that down in writing. You willing to do that?” Walsh tossed paper and a pen to Glenn. “Start writing, and it better be the truth. If you put lies into a sworn statement, I promise you, the judge will be angry.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Damn right. That lying motherfucker.”

  They left Glenn to write his statement.

  “Who’s the leader?” Brad asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Walsh said. “We’ve got enough to charge them both and hold them until I figure out everything they’ve done. The crown prosecutor has the final say. But I’d be surprised if they see the real world in fewer than fifteen years.”

  “I should get to my new job,” Brad said. “I’m already late. Nice working with you.”

  “You too, Coulter. Good luck.”

  He had missed the adrenaline rush. It was good to be back.

  Chapter Three

  Brad took the stairs to the second floor and entered the detective bureau. The big room hadn’t changed in twenty years—or more. The ceiling was smoke-stained, the carpet worn down to the underlay, and the desks second-world-war surplus
. The desks faced each other two by two in pods of four. Detectives occupied half of them. Brad glanced around the room. Years of cigarette smoke, coffee and sweat permeated everything. This morning, the freshly brewed coffee was the strongest. Since he’d tossed his away, he followed the aroma and poured a cup.

  Four years ago, he’d met with Detective O’Shea in this room after an armed robbery of a Brinks armored car. Brad had fought with one suspect, who got away. When he walked into the detective office that night, he was in awe. Street cops weren’t allowed in the sacred detective office. Walking in now as a detective was quite different. Back then, he thought it was all secret stuff including passwords and handshakes. O’Shea had died when a guy who was high from sniffing glue shot him in a standoff that lasted hours. Five other cops were injured. The suspect had escaped from the collapsed garage and was brought down in a hail of police bullets. The whole thing was a shit-show from the beginning, but it had initiated important changes.

  Brad shook off the memories and absorbed the atmosphere. He was a detective now and belonged here. He just needed to learn the secret handshake and password.

  He snaked his way to the back of the room where he found an office the size of a storage room. Detective Tommy Devlin sat at a desk. Brad and Devlin had worked together over the last four years, first in the Tactical Support Unit and then two years ago fighting outlaw bikers. Devlin’s real passion was undercover, hanging out in the shadows and taking down drug dealers.

  “’Bout frickin’ time.” Devlin dropped a pen and looked up. “Grab a seat. Your first day back and already you’re causing shit.”

  “I prefer to think of it as good police work. I already have two arrests. How about you?”

  “I don’t know how you do it, but shit finds you. I hear they ran.”

  Brad smirked. “Yeah, that was the best part.”

  “Lots of guys bet you wouldn’t be back. I wasn’t sure, either.” Devlin leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about your year off, Mr. Counselor, sir.”

  Shrugging, Brad said, “Deputy Chief Archer talked with me about my career and where I thought it was going. I told him TSU was great. He said I needed to aim higher and that I should consider writing the bar exams. I made the mistake of telling Maggie what Archer said. She agreed and then told her dad, Judge Gray. He was all over the idea and smoothed the path for me. A year ago, Archer gave me a leave of absence. I studied fourteen to eighteen hours a day. I’d take a break jogging with Lobo, then back to studying.”

  “That doesn’t sound like fun.”

  “Not at all. The last law course I took was eight years ago so I had a lot of refreshing to do before I could even start prepping for the exams.”

  “All studying and no fun.”

  “Lots of studying. But the last couple of months were with Vaughn Matson, the chief crown prosecutor. That was interesting. A few times I thought I could be a prosecutor and maybe I should stay. But I missed the action so now I’m back.”

  “Matson and Judge Gray couldn’t convince you to stay?”

  Brad shook his head. “They tried. Maggie and her dad ganged up on me every family dinner. Matson made sure I was working on the challenging cases. None of it worked.”

  “So, I’m working with a card-carrying lawyer, huh,” Devlin said.

  “Not yet. I wrote the bar exams, but I don’t know if I passed. The letter should come in a few weeks.”

  “How’s Maggie? She still loving being a paramedic?”

  “Yup. She loves it. Although I think she’s become more cynical.”

  “That happens to most of us,” Devlin said. “If you don’t become cynical you must not be paying attention.”

  Brad leaned forward. “Tell me about this team.”

  “Okay.” Devlin held out his hand. “The team consists of”—he lowered one finger—“you”—he lowered a second finger—“and me. Not much of a team—you and me. After all the shit with the bikers two years ago, I proposed a special unit to focus on high-risk offenders. It took a while to get through all the red tape, but now we’re up and running.”

  “Just the two of us?”

  “Yup, for now,” Devlin nodded.

  “How does this work?”

  “We get cases from detectives—scumbags they think are good for serious stuff—and we track them. Or prosecutors let us know when high-risk offenders like sexual predators have been released from jail. We keep tabs on them, follow them from wherever they’re living to work, then back home. We try to catch them violating their release conditions like staying away from schools and playgrounds. We’ll gather information on the Hells Angels. You can reacquaint yourself with our friend, Jeremy Pickens.”

  “I really hate that guy,” Brad said. “What a prick. He played us like a fiddle and hitched his star to the Hells Angels.”

  “He’s still president and they’re getting stronger,” Devlin said. “The Angels control all prostitution, drug trade, and extorsions in the city.”

  “I’d love to take him down.”

  “You might get your chance. That will be our back-burner case—the one we work on when things are quiet.”

  Brad rolled his eyes. “You think things will ever be quiet for us?”

  “Probably not. We even have an official name. We’re the Serious High-Risk Offender Program, or SHOP.”

  “SHOP?” Brad laughed. “That’s the best you could think of?”

  “Tracking scumbags was already taken.” Devlin slid a pager and charger across the table. “We’re on call all the time. Our hours vary depending on what we’re working on. Probably more evening and night shifts than day shifts, unless we’re in court. Maggie gonna be okay with this?”

  “We talked,” Brad said. “She’d be happier if I was flying a desk, but she also knows that would drive me crazy, and then I’d drive her crazy. Besides, it’s not like she works nine to five. She did have a few choice words for you, though.”

  “A paramedic with a potty mouth, I like that. How’s living together?”

  “Like any couple, I guess,” Brad said. “We have good days and bad days.”

  “You two ever gonna get married?”

  “She’s mentioned it.”

  Devlin grinned. “Who’s the holdback? You?”

  “Yeah, I guess. It’s the job, it’s—”

  “She understands the job,” Devlin said. “After four years I don’t think much surprises her.”

  “As much as I try to leave work at work, you know shit follows me.”

  “There’s that—”

  Devlin’s phone rang. He snatched it up on the second ring, listened for about a minute, then hung up. “Your first case.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll be interested,” Devlin said. “Two days ago, Jeter Wolfe escaped prison. The Wolfman’s back. We need a plan.”

  Twenty minutes later, Brad leaned against the wall in the briefing room, watching the street cops come in for the afternoon shift briefing. The briefing room had chairs for about fifteen cops and standing room for another ten. The rookies and younger cops sat anxiously in the front rows. The veterans jockeyed for space against the back wall. A couple of older cops, the ones always late for briefing, rushed into the room and, seeing no space against the wall, grudgingly took chairs in the back rows.

  Brad nodded to Briscoe, who grinned from the back row. Normally, this briefing would be his to give. He was taking full advantage now that Brad and Devlin would be in charge. The room filled beyond capacity. Some cops going off shift had stopped by. The rumor mill was working overtime with the news that Wolfe had escaped. Except it wasn’t a rumor, it was the horrible truth. The temperature in the room rose quickly. Brad sniffed the air—a few guys must have forgotten to shower before work.

  The room buzzed with a dozen conversations. Some whispers, groups laughing, and a few loud talkers trying to drown everyone out.

  Devlin strode to the front of the room. A few cops stopped talking, but most continued. “Hey, t
ime to get started.”

  No luck—the noise continued.

  “Hey, maggots,” Devlin yelled. “Shut the fuck up!”

  The room instantly quieted.

  “That’s better. We’ve got important shit to cover. First, if you have been wondering why the city has been so peaceful over the last year, it’s because Sergeant—excuse me, Detective Coulter was attaining higher education. He’s now a lawyer.”

  Brad bowed.

  There was a chorus of boos, insults, and lawyer jokes.

  “Okay, save that crap for later. Oh, if you find yourself working with Coulter, I suggest you wear a vest and a helmet—he tends to attract shit. He’s been beaten several times, shot several times, and bombed. More than any other cop—hell, more than all of us combined. Other than that, he’s swell.”

  Devlin glanced at his notes. “Most of you already know this stuff, but for our keener front-row rookies, a little crime history. Two years ago, the Gypsy Jokers and Satan’s Soldiers biker gangs fought for control of prostitution and the drug trade. Coulter, as sergeant in the Tactical Support Unit, and me, in narcotics, were right in the middle of that shit, fighting both gangs. We lost an officer and many others were injured. Ultimately, both bike gangs lost and the Hells Angels moved in. As a city, we traded one problem for an even bigger one.”

  Devlin clicked the remote for the slide projector and an image of Wolfe from his biker days filled the screen. Wolfe wore his Gypsy Jokers vest and was standing by a Harley Davidson motorcycle.

  “Jeter Wolfe was the Gypsy Jokers’ Sergeant at Arms. He did all their messy stuff—assaults, rapes, and murders. Two years ago, he had been near death from a beating he took from the Hells Angels and was not expected to live. But he did. He was found guilty of three murders, and the kidnapping and repeated rapes of two sixteen-year-olds. During the trial, he threatened the crown prosecutor Jenni Blighe, and the girls he’d assaulted. Wolfe said that when he got out, he’d come for them.”

  Devlin clicked the remote and Wolfe’s mugshot filled the screen. “A few days ago, Jeter Wolfe, a thirty-four-year-old Caucasian male, escaped from Edmonton Max.”