A Colton Internal Affair
Auteur
Jennifer D. Bokal
Lezers
16,6K
Hoofdstukken
18
Chapter 1
Grace Colton sat in the passenger seat of the patrol SUV. Sweat snaked down her back, and the straps of her Kevlar vest were heavy on her shoulders. Beside her, Brett Shea drove. His black Lab, Ember, was secured at the rear. The dog snuffled at the grate between kennel and seat, before letting out a soft whine.
She knew exactly how the dog felt.
Despite the fact that it was mid-September, summer still had Grave Gulch in its clutches. The dashboard glowed green in the darkened auto. Although it was 9:37 p.m., it was still seventy-eight degrees outside.
The air conditioning blew a weak stream of cooled air into the cabin, and Grace leaned into the vent. Tendrils of blond hair, which had hung limp around her face, fluttered. Sitting back, she shifted her rig. Grace knew every piece of equipment she wore and had taken the time to check each item before her shift began. Body camera on her chest. Mic head on the shoulder. She also wore extra ammo, a sidearm, a Taser, a collapsible baton, and a radio attached to her utility belt.
Brett took a left at an intersection. At the end of the block was Grave Gulch Park. A crowd of people—approximately fifty by her estimation—stood at the property’s edge. Their chanting was unmistakable.
“Hey-hey! Ho-ho! Chief Colton has got to go!”
Grace winced.
“It’s a hell of a thing,” said Brett, turning left at another intersection. “Our job is to keep people safe, despite the fact that they hate us right now.”
“I always thought that cops were the good guys,” she said, her mouth dry. “It’s why I joined the force—to do good and protect my community. But what do you do when the department is doing bad?” The conversation ebbed, and Grace glanced out the window. It had been revealed that Randall Bowe, a former GGPD and CSI analyst, had doctored evidence for years. His false findings had put innocent people in jail and let guilty ones go free—namely, a serial killer, Len Davison. The community was rightfully outraged, but that also meant the many Coltons in the department were also under fire.
She began, “It’s just...” With a shake of her head, Grace said, “Never mind.”
“We’ve got to know each other pretty well, working to catch that catfish last month. It’s not like you to be speechless.” He gave a quick chuckle to show that he was teasing, at least a little.
He was right. Usually, Grace was overflowing with words. “It makes me.” She paused. “Well, upset.” She glanced out the window again, seeing only her reflection in the glass. Like she had said, she’d become a cop to be on the side of right. Right now, everything in law enforcement seemed to be wrong. “I get that things happen, and the cops aren’t always right. We’re just as much Bowe’s victims as the whole city.”
“Hey, don’t let these protesters get you down. It’s this damned heat that’s got everyone on edge. Isn’t that right, girl?” Brett asked, addressing the dog.
Ember gave a happy bark.
“See, even she thinks it’s the heat.”
Grace gave an exaggerated eye roll, then glanced at Brett. He wore the same uniform as Grace. He had reddish hair, blue eyes and a way about him that made her feel totally secure. It was no wonder that her big sister, Annalise, was head over heels in love with the guy.
Grace had been so focused on her new job with the force for the past year that she hadn’t gone on a decent date in months. Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder if there was a guy for her.
“It just sucks that everyone’s so hard on Melissa. I know she’s doing her best, despite everything that’s happened.” Melissa Colton was the chief of police and Grace’s favorite cousin. Honestly, that was saying something. Grace had a lot of cousins.
As an awkward kid in middle school, Melissa had stopped by to take Grace out for ice cream. Grace still remembered sitting in the passenger seat of Melissa’s car, for the first time in her life feeling cool. From that day to this, Grace had been totally devoted to her older cousin.
Melissa was smart, dedicated to the GGPD and willing to work long hours to see that justice was served. In short, she was everything that Grace wanted to become.
Melissa had even found her own true love—Antonio Ruiz. Had most members of the Colton clan found their happily-ever-after? Except for Grace, that is.
“You and Melissa are pretty tight,” said Brett, his words breaking through her reverie.
“She’s my role model, that’s for sure.”
“She’s a good lady.”
The chanting protesters could still be heard. Sadly, Grace knew that they had a right to be upset. Still, the fact that much of the anger was directed at Melissa sat like a rock in her gut.
Glancing down an alley, she saw it, and her heart froze midbeat.
“Stop the car.” A person, clad in a dark hoodie and jeans, had his hands on a window. He wore a backpack. From his build, she could guess the person was male.
“What is it?” Brett asked, his foot dropping onto the brake.
“I hope it’s not trouble,” Grace replied, her door already open. She pointed toward the figure, who stood near the window. Sure, it could be the homeowner, locked out of his house. Still, she was more than a little suspicious. “Sir,” she said, directing her words to the man in the alley. “Do you need assistance?”
Even from where she stood, Grace could see his shoulders go rigid. He froze, his hands on the window. For a moment, she thought he was going to address her.
Without a word, he sprinted down the narrow alley.
Grace cursed. “I’ll go after him on foot,” she yelled over her shoulder to Brett. “You come around the block.”
If Brett answered, Grace didn’t hear what he’d said. She sprinted toward the figure, doing her best to ensure her footfalls remained loud on the quiet street.
The person glanced at Grace. She glimpsed the face: it was a male. Caucasian. Dark mustache. Then, he pivoted and sprinted to the far end of the alley.
Heart racing, legs pumping, Grace ran after the suspect. “Stop,” she called out. “Grave Gulch Police.” Sure, she was a rookie cop, not even on the force for a year. Still, her training was fresh, so she knew what to do.
The first rule of policing: be clear as to what she wanted and to whom she was speaking. She tried again. “You, sir, in the black hoodie and backpack. Stop!” she called again. “Police.”
The man never broke his stride.
Grace activated the mic on her shoulder. “This is Officer Colton. I’m in pursuit of a suspect in a possible breaking and entering.” She gave her location.
Her radio chirped. The voice of the dispatch officer broke through the static. “Ten-four, Officer Colton. Do you have a description of the suspect?”
She recalled that single second when the man had looked her way. “Caucasian male,” she gasped. “Black or navy-blue hoodie. Dark mustache. Height approximately five feet ten inches. One hundred and sixty to one hundred and seventy pounds.”
Rule two: always get film of any interaction with the public—especially if the incident could end up in court. Slapping the control on her chest, Grace turned on her body camera.
Adrenaline raced through her veins. It gave her a surge of power, and she closed in on the suspect. Yet, the end of the alleyway loomed large.
Was Brett waiting with the SUV and Ember?
God, she hoped so.
Turning as he ran, the suspect glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were wide, and his nostrils flared.
How was she supposed to read his expression?
Was he afraid?
Angry?
Slipping the pack from his back, he whirled it around. The bag sailed through the air, coming right at Grace’s chest. On instinct alone, she shifted her body and lifted her arm to block the blow. The bag connected. For a moment there was a flash of pain as the bag hit her, then an explosion of white filled her vision and agony rocketed through her wrist, her hand.
The bag hit the pavement with a metallic clatter. Grace stumbled, slowed and sidestepped the backpack.
Pushing the discomfort from her mind, she sprinted the last few yards. Bursting onto the sidewalk, she stopped short. There was no Brett, no Ember, no police SUV.
What made matters worse, the suspect was gone.
Camden Kingsley sat at his desk, located in the back corner of the Grave Gulch DA’s office. As an investigator with Internal Affairs, he’d been relegated to no-man’s-land between a supply closet and a conference room that nobody ever used. Honestly, he didn’t mind the solitude. Being set apart allowed him to remain neutral—investigating the investigators.
Despite the large window that overlooked the street, the room was dark, illuminated only by the computer screen. A file filled the monitor, complete with a photo of a dark-haired man. A list of identifying information—name, date of birth, sibling, spouse—accompanied the picture. Camden didn’t need to read anything: long ago he’d memorized every word.
Staring at the man’s dark eyes, Camden asked, “Randall Bowe, where in the hell are you?” For years, Bowe had worked as a forensic scientist for the Grave Gulch PD. During a murder trial several months prior, it was discovered that Randall had tampered with the evidence that implicated the accused, one Everleigh Emerson, when she was actually innocent.
After that trial, there’d been a review of all of Bowe’s cases. And that’s when the crap really hit the fan. When his crimes came to light, Bowe went on the run.
Aside from finding the forensic scientist who was on the lam, Camden’s job was to discover what really had happened with Bowe. Sure, Bowe was trying to punish his wife for having an affair. He planted evidence in cases where he thought suspects had cheated on their romantic partners or rewarded faithful spouses.
It was a twisted retribution yet, there was one question that had plagued him from the beginning. What did the rest of the GGPD know about Bowe’s misdeeds? It was the same question he’d asked himself every day for months now. So far, he didn’t have an answer.
“Knock, knock,” came a voice at his doorway.
Camden looked up. District Attorney Arielle Parks stood on the threshold. The DA was in her midfifties and kept her blond hair short. She wore a dark green blouse and an ivory skirt; both were creased from a long day at the office.
“What’s up?” he asked, his eyes burning with exhaustion. “You’re here late.”
“I was just about to say the same thing to you. What are you working on?”
“Randall Bowe,” he said with a sigh. As part of IA, Camden operated independently of all other city agencies. Since many of his cases ended up in court, he worked closely with Arielle.
The public was outraged about the whole Bowe debacle—and Arielle was a favorite target of the protesters. “Have you found anything?” she asked, her voice hopeful.
Camden shook his head. “Nada.”
“Listen, it’s almost ten o’clock. You should go home. Even people who work for Internal Affairs need to sleep sometime.”
“I’m almost done,” said Camden. He was the only Korean American man on the force. Sure, he sometimes felt that he had to prove himself. Yet, his long hours had more to do with his need to uncover the facts—any personal sacrifices be damned. “I’ll be out of here in ten minutes, half an hour tops.”
The light from his monitor reflected off the lenses of Arielle’s signature tortoise-rimmed glasses. The older woman could have been looking at nothing or anything. The effect was slightly disconcerting. “What’re you hoping to find?”
Camden paused and looked back at his computer. “The truth,” he said.
“Are you any closer?” Arielle asked. She stepped into his office. The motion sensor turned on the overhead light.
Camden squinted at the glare.
“I keep wondering...” he began.
“What about?” Arielle asked, taking a seat on the opposite side of the desk.
That was one of the things he admired about the district attorney. She was as hungry for the truth as Camden. Did he really want to share his suspicions with the DA yet?
All the same, he was the one who’d alluded to his concerns. If he didn’t want Arielle involved, he should’ve just kept his big mouth shut.
“We all agree that Bowe changed a lot of evidence on a lot of crimes,” said Camden. He shifted his monitor so Arielle could see the screen. He pulled up an electronic copy of the initial arrest report of Everleigh Emerson. She’d been charged with murdering her estranged husband. Bowe’s findings—fibers and hair on the murder weapon—were the cornerstone of the indictment.
The case went to trial. It seemed like an easy conviction for Arielle’s team at the DA’s office. Then, it came to light that Randall had fabricated the evidence linking Everleigh to the crime.
In the end, all charges were dropped.
Justice had been served.
The truth had won out.
It’s just that the Emerson case—along with dozens more—left the Grave Gulch DA’s office looking bad. The police department looked worse.
“What am I supposed to see now that I haven’t before?”
“I keep asking myself what if,” said Camden.
“Okay. What if?”
“Bowe’s wife cheated on him. That’s a fact.”
“True.”
“He forgives her to a point. But decides to punish those he sees as unfaithful spouses by falsifying evidence. Or to vindicate himself by altering reports to exonerate criminals who were faithful.”
Arielle nodded. “Also true.”
“He contacted Melissa Colton.”
“True again.”
“I just keep thinking.” He paused. “What if Bowe wasn’t working alone?”
Arielle’s head snapped back, as if she’d been slapped. “What are you implying?”
He’d bet money that the district attorney knew. Still, Camden said, “What if Bowe had help from someone in the GGPD? What if it was Chief Colton?”
Arielle gave a short laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”
Camden leveled his gaze at the district attorney. His stomach was tight, a rope tied into a knot. “I wish I was,” he said, “but he hasn’t been in contact with anyone else.”
“Have you found any evidence to connect the chief to the investigations?”
“That’s just it,” said Camden. “Her name is all over the Emerson arrest warrant.” He clicked open another file and one after that. “Her name is on all of these arrest warrants. And before you say it, I’ll point out the obvious. She is the chief of police and involved in most every arrest.”
“We know what motivated Bowe—his hatred of those who cheated on their spouses. What would Chief Colton get out of sending innocent people to jail?”
“I guess that’s the biggest puzzle piece that’s missing,” said Camden. “A motive. I might be wrong. Still, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask the questions.”
Arielle rubbed the middle of her forehead. “Keep digging, and keep me personally informed of anything you find. Don’t talk to anyone else. The last thing we need is for your theory to get leaked to the press.” She stood.
Of course the DA would be worried about the media, the public image, the voters. Only a few months prior, ADA Evangeline Whittaker had faced serious public outcry. She’d been the prosecutor on one of the cases where Bowe had provided evidence. Despite the fact that Evangeline wasn’t part of the DA’s team anymore, the episode was still a stain on the office. More than that, Evangeline was gaslit and made to believe that she’d witnessed a crime on the streets. To him, it seemed like the whole town was on edge, albeit for good reasons. Yet one more incident could be too much. Camden said, “Discretion is my middle name. Anything else?”
Arielle began to shake her head. She stopped. “Actually, there is. Go home. Get some rest.”
Camden laughed. “I can do that, too. Is there anything else you need that’s work-related?”
“Sure, we all just need to hope that the GGPD isn’t involved. This town’s a tinderbox. One more scandal with the police and Grave Gulch is going to go up in flames.”
Pulse pounding, breath ragged and short, Grace stood at the end of the alley. She scanned the street. Cars, parked at the curb, lined both sides of the road. A single streetlight, at the end of the block, threw a puddle of light on the sidewalk. The street was filled with businesses—a laundromat, a hairdresser, a barbershop—all of them closed for the night.
Yet the truth was undeniable. Aside from Grace, the street was empty.
The suspect had inexplicably escaped.
The block ran perpendicular to Grave Gulch Boulevard. Across the street was Grave Gulch Park. The wide lawn was surrounded by a wrought iron fence and protesters.
With a shake of her head, Grace turned her attention back to the matter at hand and the suspect who seemed to have vanished. Too bad she didn’t believe in magic, which meant one thing: the guy must still be nearby.
She moved along the sidewalk, her steps slow and light. Grace paused at the fender of a car. Peering into the space between the bumper of one auto and the next, she saw nothing but pavement.
Slowly, she moved to the next car and the one after that.
There was a rustling noise, like leaves in the wind. She stopped. A shadow moved. It was her man.
Having hidden in the doorway of a business, the suspect darted onto the sidewalk.
“Stop.” Still following protocol, she pursued and called out, “Grave Gulch Police.”
The suspect didn’t even slow, not that she’d expected any different.
She hit the mic on her shoulder. “In pursuit of suspect,” she said, sprinting after the man and passing two people loitering at the entrance. “He’s headed for the park’s western entrance. Advise Detective Shea.”
Dispatch responded, though their unintelligible words were nothing but noise.
At that same moment, the suspect turned. There was something in his hand. A flash of silver that caught the light. Grace could see a barrel. A trigger. He held a firearm, trying to aim at her as he ran.
“Gun!” she shouted, alerting anyone who might be nearby. “Take cover.”
For Grace, time didn’t slow as much as it shattered into a million pieces. She held her own sidearm, yet she didn’t recall taking it from the holster. The suspect’s weapon came up inch by inch. She understood that it was a small handgun.
Before the suspect had the chance to fire, Grace stopped, aimed and pulled the trigger.
There was the report of the gun. The flash of a flame was followed by the scent of a match-strike.
The suspect spun in a drunken circle. He staggered backward two steps, before falling face-first onto the concrete.
Bile rose in the back of Grace’s throat. A couple—a man and woman she had barely noticed before—stood at the end of the block.
“Grave Gulch Police,” she said to the couple. Her hands trembled, and her throat closed on the last word. “Stay where you are.”
The woman began to wail. “Omigod, omigod, omigod!”
“Dude, you shot him,” said the man. “You shot him!”
The young man approached the suspect, who lay on the ground, moaning. Grace exhaled. Thank goodness the shot wasn’t fatal.
“That man’s armed and dangerous,” Grace said. Following all the safety procedures she’d been taught, Grace kept her own firearm pointed at the ground. She approached at a run. “Stay away from him.”
The man knelt next to the suspect.
“For your own safety,” said Grace, “you need to step away.”
“Or what?” the young man sneered, while getting to his feet. “You’ll shoot me, too?” He grabbed his girlfriend, still wailing, by the elbow. “Let’s get out of here.”
The couple ran.
Lying on the ground, the suspect held his shoulder. Blood from the bullet wound leaked through his fingers. “I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot. Why’d you shoot me?”
“Where’s your firearm?” Grace asked.
He continued to cry out. “I’ve been shot. I’ve been shot.”
“Your gun.” That was another rule. Make sure any suspect has been disarmed. “Where’s your gun?”
“I’ve been shot.” He gritted his teeth and spoke through the pain. “My shoulder. You shot me in the shoulder!”
Grace had paid attention to every word said at the police academy. She listened to every piece of advice given by senior officers. But nothing had prepared her for this moment. The sour taste of panic rose in the back of her throat. As if chaos was an animal, she could feel its eyes watching her in the dark—ready to pounce.
She scanned the sidewalk. A pool of blood surrounded the man. Yet, there was no firearm lying on the ground. Did the suspect have it still? What was she supposed to do next?
Grace knew. She had to get the suspect into custody.
“Put your hands where I can see them.” She looked down the barrel of her gun, placing the suspect’s chest in the middle of her sight.
“Put my hands where? How? I can’t even move my damn arm.” The suspect looked at Grace for the first time. “Aw, damn, I got shot by a little girl.”
“Put your hands where I can see them.” Her jaw was tight, and her words like flint.
The suspect lifted his palms. They were both covered in blood. She removed a set of flex-cuffs from her utility belt. One-handed, she slipped it around the suspect’s wrists, before pulling the ends tight.
“Where’s the gun?” she asked again. She slipped her own handgun back into the holster. Until the firearm was secured, not much else mattered.
“I don’t have a gun.” The man’s face was greasy with sweat. The front of his hoodie was wet. The coppery stench of blood hung in the air.
“Do you have any other weapons?” she asked, slipping on a pair of sterile gloves. Starting at his shoulders, she patted the suspect down. The man didn’t have anything with him—not a wallet, and most definitely not a gun.
Standing, she actuated the mic on her shoulder. “There’s been an officer-involved shooting,” Grace said, before giving Dispatch the address. She ended with “Send an ambulance.”
“An ambulance is on the way,” the operator replied.
From her training and limited time in the field, she knew what needed to be done next. From her utility belt, Grace removed a wad of gauze.
“I’m going to apply pressure to your wound now,” she said. “It’ll help stop the bleeding until EMTs can treat you properly.” A ragged rip in his hoodie made the bullet hole easy to find. She pressed the gauze onto the wound. Sure, she’d shot the guy. Still, he was part of the community she’d sworn to protect and serve. It was an oath that Grace took to heart. “What’s your name?”
“Robert,” said the man, his teeth gritted. “Robert Grimaldi.”
“Mr. Grimaldi, can you tell me what you did with your firearm?”
“What firearm?”
“The one you pointed at me,” said Grace.
“I never pointed no gun at you. Never.”
Her patience was thin, yet she refused to be drawn into an argument with Grimaldi. Drawing in a deep breath, she counted to three and exhaled. “We both know that’s a lie. Where’s the gun?”
“How old are you?” asked Robert. It was then that Grace noticed the absolute silence. The protesters, little more than a block away, had stopped chanting.
Before Grace could wonder what that meant, there was a single whoop of a siren and the flash of blue and red lights. Brett stopped his SUV next to where she knelt on the sidewalk.
“What happened?” he asked, jumping from the driver’s seat.
“Mr. Grimaldi drew a weapon, and I fired before he had the chance to shoot. He doesn’t have the firearm on him now,” said Grace.
“Anything else?” Brett asked.
Grace pointed her chin toward the alleyway. “He also threw his backpack at me.”
Grimaldi said, “The little-girl cop is lying about the gun. I don’t have a gun. I didn’t have a gun. And you won’t find a gun because it don’t exist.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Brett. Then to Grace he said, “I’ll take Ember and do a search. If he threw the gun away or dropped it, Ember will find it.”
Three more police cruisers approached, their sirens wailing and lights flashing. An ambulance followed. Police cars parked at the end of both streets, creating a barricade.
But it was too late.
She now understood what had happened with the protesters. Her pulse slowed, turning sluggish in her veins. They’d heard the gunshot and come—en masse—to investigate. More than four dozen people now stood just beyond the patrol cars. They no longer held protest signs. Now, they all had cell phones. What was worse, they were recording the incident. Dread pooled in her stomach.
A duo of EMTs approached. One carried a stretcher, and the other had a medical kit. “We can take over from here, Officer,” a tech said.
Grace stepped to the side. Her head swam, and her legs were weak.
“What’s going on?” one of the protesters yelled. “What happened? Did you shoot that guy? Hey, lady, I’m talking to you.”
“Just ignore them.” Brett grabbed Grace by the elbow and led her to the side. As they walked, he spoke. “It was a legitimate shoot. He drew a weapon. You had no choice but to fire. Let’s go and find that backpack and then the gun.”
It seemed that Robert Grimaldi had noticed the protesters, too. It didn’t matter that he still lay on the ground, or that he was being treated by the EMTs. He yelled to the crowd, “The girl cop shot me. And for no reason.”
The mob began to boo.
It was then that Grace knew an undeniable truth. Sure, things had been bad for the Grave Gulch Police Department before tonight. Yet, because of her, it was about to get a whole lot worse.
