The Rogue Element (Scott Priest Book 1) by John Hardy Bell Page B
Authors: John Hardy Bell
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emotionally ravaged, as I suspected she would be. The SWAT officer handed her off with instructions to conduct a thorough body search before the reading of her Miranda’s.
As the uniform turned her around to execute the pat down, the woman’s eyes unexpectedly met mine. They were so swollen from crying I was surprised she could see through them, but it was obvious that she could see me just fine.
“Any needles or other sharp objects?” the officer asked the woman before she stuck her hand in the deep pockets of her soiled overalls.
She didn’t reply, choosing instead to keep her focus on me.
“Ma’am? I need to know if you’re carrying anything that’s gonna stick me.”
The woman’s response was directed at me, and it was one I wasn’t the least bit prepared for.
“Don’t believe what they tell you, detective. Not a damn word of it.”
CHAPTER 14
I managed to slip away from the scene before I could be cornered for an official statement, opting to catch a ride back to HQ with a couple of uniforms. The two young patrol officers, Hicks and D’Agostino, were quiet for the entire drive, as if they were hesitant to speak freely in my presence.
My thoughts immediately drifted back to the two officers I encountered outside of Marisol’s apartment earlier in the day. They were just as inhospitable as these two, and I began to wonder if someone simply took a piss in the morning pot of coffee or if something else was happening; something related to my meeting with Hitchcock and Fitzgerald.
“It’s an issue that affects multiple units in the department, from patrol to narcotics to homicide.”
Hitchcock’s declaration echoed in my head as I watched the officers from the backseat. Were these the kind of guys I was supposed to observe and report on? A couple of no names fresh out of the academy with an unquenchable thirst to clean up the streets and not enough real world experience to understand the depths of their futility?
Or was I supposed to observe the guys who knew the game? The guys who stood callously over Arturo Sandoval’s dead body as they concocted ways to justify his end?
More to the point, did it even matter who I was supposed to observe? Was it all just process to prove to the brass that something was being done to clean up the problem they were all convinced existed? Did it matter that much more that a cop with the Priest last name was involved in that clean up?
A million other questions followed these, not one of them containing anything approaching a discernible answer. All I knew for sure as we made the insufferably long drive was that I wanted to get away from these assholes Hicks and D’Agostino as quickly as I could.
*****
I jumped in my own cruiser the moment I got back to HQ, knowing that I was dangerously close to having the department hounds put on my trail. As far as I was concerned, the inquest into Arturo’s shooting meant nothing. They could ask all the questions they wanted. I wasn’t interested in corroborating Kimball’s version of events. He had his army of frat brothers to do that. The only thing that mattered to me was that my suspect was dead, and he took any real hope of closing Marisol’s case with him.
I hit the street with no particular destination in mind. I’d considered paying a visit to Marisol’s daughters, but I was certain they would mistake my news as a sign of victory, and the last thing I wanted was some kind of hollow praise for a job well done. In my mind, the job was far from done.
I’d barely gotten a mile away from HQ when my cell phone began ringing. The hounds were already sniffing. I’d had every intention of ignoring the calls, but as soon as my phone stopped ringing, it started up again. After the fifth cycle of this, I finally took it out of my pocket. The lone name I saw on the message screen was not the one I was expecting.
I redialed Kyle McKenna’s number with a surprising lack of hesitation. She
As the uniform turned her around to execute the pat down, the woman’s eyes unexpectedly met mine. They were so swollen from crying I was surprised she could see through them, but it was obvious that she could see me just fine.
“Any needles or other sharp objects?” the officer asked the woman before she stuck her hand in the deep pockets of her soiled overalls.
She didn’t reply, choosing instead to keep her focus on me.
“Ma’am? I need to know if you’re carrying anything that’s gonna stick me.”
The woman’s response was directed at me, and it was one I wasn’t the least bit prepared for.
“Don’t believe what they tell you, detective. Not a damn word of it.”
CHAPTER 14
I managed to slip away from the scene before I could be cornered for an official statement, opting to catch a ride back to HQ with a couple of uniforms. The two young patrol officers, Hicks and D’Agostino, were quiet for the entire drive, as if they were hesitant to speak freely in my presence.
My thoughts immediately drifted back to the two officers I encountered outside of Marisol’s apartment earlier in the day. They were just as inhospitable as these two, and I began to wonder if someone simply took a piss in the morning pot of coffee or if something else was happening; something related to my meeting with Hitchcock and Fitzgerald.
“It’s an issue that affects multiple units in the department, from patrol to narcotics to homicide.”
Hitchcock’s declaration echoed in my head as I watched the officers from the backseat. Were these the kind of guys I was supposed to observe and report on? A couple of no names fresh out of the academy with an unquenchable thirst to clean up the streets and not enough real world experience to understand the depths of their futility?
Or was I supposed to observe the guys who knew the game? The guys who stood callously over Arturo Sandoval’s dead body as they concocted ways to justify his end?
More to the point, did it even matter who I was supposed to observe? Was it all just process to prove to the brass that something was being done to clean up the problem they were all convinced existed? Did it matter that much more that a cop with the Priest last name was involved in that clean up?
A million other questions followed these, not one of them containing anything approaching a discernible answer. All I knew for sure as we made the insufferably long drive was that I wanted to get away from these assholes Hicks and D’Agostino as quickly as I could.
*****
I jumped in my own cruiser the moment I got back to HQ, knowing that I was dangerously close to having the department hounds put on my trail. As far as I was concerned, the inquest into Arturo’s shooting meant nothing. They could ask all the questions they wanted. I wasn’t interested in corroborating Kimball’s version of events. He had his army of frat brothers to do that. The only thing that mattered to me was that my suspect was dead, and he took any real hope of closing Marisol’s case with him.
I hit the street with no particular destination in mind. I’d considered paying a visit to Marisol’s daughters, but I was certain they would mistake my news as a sign of victory, and the last thing I wanted was some kind of hollow praise for a job well done. In my mind, the job was far from done.
I’d barely gotten a mile away from HQ when my cell phone began ringing. The hounds were already sniffing. I’d had every intention of ignoring the calls, but as soon as my phone stopped ringing, it started up again. After the fifth cycle of this, I finally took it out of my pocket. The lone name I saw on the message screen was not the one I was expecting.
I redialed Kyle McKenna’s number with a surprising lack of hesitation. She
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