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  Jason was in the conference room with Mike because he was scheduled to meet with an officer from Internal Affairs. There was always an inquest when an officer shot anyone, including a suspected criminal. In this case, the internal investigation would include the circumstances under which an officer was killed in the line of duty. According to departmental protocol and the union contract, Jason was entitled to have a colleague or union representative present for the interview. Mike had volunteered for the duty. He had convinced Terry to squeeze his PT session in early so he could get downtown for the 10:00 a.m. meeting. Jason was glad to have his partner with him.

  Before Jason had a chance sit down, the door opened. In walked a sullen-looking man holding a leather folio against his chest. “Good morning, Detective Dickson,” the man said curtly. “I’m Agent Lucas Gomez, and I’ll be conducting the preliminary inquiry.” Gomez was short, probably not more than five-foot-five, with a dark complexion, black hair, and dark eyes. He had a thick scar running down the back of his left hand. Mike guessed him to be in his mid-thirties. “Is this your rep?” he asked Jason.

  “Yes. This is Detective Mike Stoneman.”

  “I am familiar with Detective Stoneman,” Gomez replied. Then, turning to Mike, he said, “Do you understand your responsibilities as Detective Dickson’s representative during this inquiry?”

  “I do,” Mike said seriously, trying to get a read on this investigator. In Mike’s experience, most of the officers who ended up in Internal Affairs were control freaks and had chips on their shoulders. This was understandable, since other officers viewed them as the quasi-enemy. They were on the wrong side of the thin blue line of solidarity that generally separated officers from everyone else. Cops protected each other, and the guys who tried to accuse other cops of wrongdoing were not appreciated. Mike’s own view was that IA served an important purpose in rooting out bad eggs, who gave the rest of the department a bad rap and undermined public trust. But in this case, Mike was pretty certain that Jason was not guilty of any wrongdoing.

  “Alright, let’s get going. Detective Dickson, please take a seat.”

  Jason took a chair next to Mike, with investigator Gomez across the table, and assumed a stiff posture as if preparing to absorb a punishment. “I’m ready.”

  “Fine.” Gomez placed a small digital recording device on the table and pressed a button, causing a red light to turn green, indicating that it was recording. “Please tell me what happened at the gas station.”

  “It was a convenience store,” Jason replied simply, trying not to sound defensive.

  “Was there a gas station there, Detective?”

  “Yes, there was, but the target was the convenience store, not the gas station.”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “Yes, actually,” Jason said. “The problem was trying to get the jump on our suspects after they came out of the convenience store. The plan was to let them exit the store and start walking back toward the street, then move in behind them and pin them between us and the uniformed officers who were supposed to be blocking the entrances.”

  “Were the officers and squad cars there?”

  “No. That was the first problem. We had called for backup and we expected them to be there, but the suspects exited the convenience store before the uniformed officers were in place.”

  “Why didn’t you abort the operation?” Gomez asked in a tone that Jason interpreted to be accusatory, as if he had already reached the conclusion that Jason had screwed up.

  Jason bit his tongue and took a deep breath. He looked at Mike, who gave him a nearly imperceptible nod of his head and blew air out of his mouth in a silent whistle, his signal for Jason to stay calm and take his time. Then Jason turned back to Gomez. “We did not have communication in place. This was not an undercover operation. We didn’t have earpieces or body mics. I had no way to give a direction to Detective McMillian. But even if I could have, I didn’t think that aborting was required. We still had a substantial element of surprise and could come in behind them with our guns drawn. We should have been able to subdue them. This was a very important murder investigation and capturing this suspect was a high priority. I didn’t think we needed to abort.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I can’t say for sure. I was at the corner of the building. When the door opened and I saw one of the suspects come out, I ducked back behind the wall so that he wouldn’t see me. Remember, the plan was to come in behind them after they started walking away, so I planned to watch from behind the shelter of the building until the suspects came into my field of vision. Once they were twenty feet or so away from the convenience store, Detective McMillian and I would both come out with our weapons drawn and approach the group from behind. But I heard one of the suspects shout to Bo, asking where he was going. I could tell that the speaker was facing the opposite direction, so I peeked around the edge of the building to assess the situation. At that point, Bo turned around to respond to his companion, and he saw me. Bo called out ‘Cop,’ and his companion dove behind a group of trash receptacles lined up against the side of the building. I assumed this man had a weapon and that he would try to fire at me.

  “When I turned my attention back to Bo, he had turned toward Detective McMillian’s position. I saw Bo fire two shots in the direction of Detective McMillian. As soon as he did, I fired at Bo. I then saw the other man’s gun, peeking out behind the trash cans and pointed in my direction. I fired two shots at his position, and I then ran toward Bo to secure him and to secure the other man’s gun.”

  “Where were the other two suspects?”

  “They had begun running toward the street.”

  “Did you make any attempt to apprehend them?” Gomez, who had been looking down at his pad of paper while taking notes, looked up at Jason to watch his response.

  “No. My first concern was Detective McMillian, who was down. I needed to secure the other two men and make sure that Detective McMillian was properly supported. I could have fired at the fleeing suspects, but shooting them in the back would have violated departmental protocol.” Jason stared defiantly at Gomez, who motioned for him to continue.

  “I confiscated the gun from the man behind the trash cans and then the gun from the man called Bo, and then I went to where Ray was down. At about that time, the first black and white pulled up and I shouted to the officer to call for an ambulance.”

  “When you first saw the scene, before you shot the suspect, did you see Detective McMillian?” Gomez asked, focusing in on the critical part of the story.

  “Yes. He was standing at the corner of the building. He had his weapon in his hand and pointed toward the suspect.”

  “Did Detective McMillian fire his weapon?”

  “No.” Jason looked directly into the eyes of the Internal Investigations officer. Gomez looked right back, with no anxiety or concern.

  “Why is that, do you think, Detective? Why didn’t your partner fire at the suspect before the man shot him?”

  Mike jumped in before Jason could answer. “Agent Gomez, Jason can’t evaluate what was going on in Detective McMillian’s mind. It’s probably best that he not speculate.” Mike looked at Jason with a steady stare, hoping that his partner would get the message and shut up. Jason nodded.

  “I can’t really say, Agent Gomez.” Jason clipped his response short and waited for the next question.

  “At that moment, Detective Dickson, were you potentially in the line of fire if Detective McMillian had missed the suspect, or if the bullet exited the man named Bo and continued in your direction?”

  Jason knew this was coming. He had spent the night before replaying the scene in his head over and over. Ray had seen him come around the corner. He had been directly in Ray’s line of fire. Jason was sure that Ray hesitated for exactly that reason. It was a poor tactical decision to set it up like that, with each of them on opposite ends of the building, but they expected the men to come out and walk away without getti
ng into a fire fight at the door. They wanted to approach the group from different directions in order to have the best angles to fire if they resisted as they were walking away from the store, and block them from running around the building. Jason had not anticipated the situation, and it had cost Ray his life.

  “I’m not sure,” Jason said softly. He remembered the instructions he had received from several district attorneys about testifying in court: If somebody asks you to speculate about something you don’t actually know, say you don’t know.

  “And do you think that Detective McMillian might have delayed shooting at the suspect because you were in his line of fire?”

  “Again, Agent Gomez,” Mike cut in, “Jason can’t know why Detective McMillian didn’t shoot first.”

  Gomez shot Mike an annoyed look, but pursed his lips and did not speak. He knew Mike was correct, but he wanted to hear what Jason thought. He tried a different tactic. “Detective, do you think it was your fault that your partner got killed?”

  Mike kicked Jason’s leg under the table, causing him to visibly wince. Gomez shot Mike a withering look of reprobation. Mike just shrugged. Jason replied calmly, “Agent Gomez, that’s the point of the inquiry. I expect that you and the others who are responsible for evaluating the facts will make that determination. I will wait to see what you think.”

  “You have no opinion?” Gomez pressed.

  “Would I like to go back and do some things differently? Sure. I wish Ray had not been shot. I feel awful about it. But I can’t say that it was my fault. It happened.”

  Gomez glared at Jason for a full minute before speaking again. Jason sat impassively, looking back, but trying not to show any emotion. Finally, the agent spoke again. “Do you have anything else you’d like to add, Detective?”

  Jason paused and thought about it, then said, “No. I don’t think so.”

  Gomez reached out to snatch the recorder off the table and switched it off. He stood up stiffly, said goodbye, and walked out without another word.

  Mike immediately said, “Nice.”

  “What?”

  “Nice job staying under control and not giving that asshole anything to hang you with.”

  “Thanks,” Jason said, pushing back his chair and standing up. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Before Jason took a step toward the door, Mike reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his suit jacket. “Hang on just a second.”

  “What?”

  “We haven’t really had a chance to talk about it. So, now that this meeting with IA is done, do you want to tell me?”

  “Not really. Not now.”

  “What if we go pound down a few first?”

  “Mike, I know you are still on leave, but I’m on duty.”

  “Fuck duty! Sully gave you the rest of the day off.” Mike waved his hand in Jason’s direction. “You need to take a few hours, or maybe a few days. Your partner just died. You’re on desk duty anyway until the inquest is over, so what important paperwork will you be missing out on?”

  “I’m fine,” Jason said defensively.

  “Like Hell you are.” Mike looked up at his partner, towering above him. “C’mon, you’re coming with me.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “Yes. Consider it a direct instruction, and also a request for a personal favor.”

  “How’s that a favor to you?” Jason asked.

  “Michelle keeps telling me that I need to open up more and share my feelings. I think this is an opportunity for me to do that and tell her that I took her advice.”

  “Oh yeah? So it’s all about you, then?” Jason said with a smirk.

  “Sure. It’s all about me. Now, let’s go.”

  Chapter 23 – Confessions and Connections

  AHALF HOUR LATER, Mike and Jason walked into Mike’s apartment on West 68th Street. They had stopped in at the deli on Amsterdam to get some sandwiches, which Mike was carrying in a white paper sack. He set the bag down on the table in his small dining alcove, then walked over to a cabinet and extracted two thick glass tumblers. He reached down and fished around in the lower half of the unit as Jason heard the clinking of glass against glass. Finally, Mike withdrew his hands, each of which held a bottle.

  “You were serious about drinking, eh?” Jason observed.

  “I’m not having this conversation sober, and neither are you.” Mike set the two bottles down on the table.

  The apartment was a typically small one-bedroom Manhattan affair, with a small bedroom, small bathroom, and tiny kitchen. But it had an unusually large living room area, half of which was partitioned off into a dining area with a table and six chairs next to a window looking out over the front of the building. The blond hardwood floorboards were worn by years of pacing footsteps. On the wall opposite the dining table hung a series of plaques memorializing police department awards and recognitions.

  Mike uncorked the first bottle and poured a healthy portion of Johnny Walker Black Label into each glass.

  “I’m not really much of a whisky drinker,” Jason said, taking the glass and holding it up against the light coming in from the window.

  “I know. I’ve been meaning to do something about that. There are times when being able to participate in the enjoyment of a good scotch will come in handy. There are men in the world who will judge you based on your appreciation for fine cigars and scotch. I’ve never been able to get into the cigars myself, but I can fake it pretty well. The scotch, however, I have come to appreciate on my own.” Mike held up his glass and gave a salute. He said, “Cheers,” and took a small sip, allowing the liquid to coat his tongue and fire off the taste buds all around his mouth.

  Jason took a healthy swallow and grimaced as the alcohol burned the back of his throat. “Man,” he choked out, “I know it makes for a strong drink, but I prefer vodka or tequila. They go down smoother.”

  “It’s not about smooth on the first sip, my friend. But, we’ll get there.” Mike produced two plates and a pile of napkins and then extracted their sandwiches from the bag. As they ate and sipped their scotch, Mike asked Jason to give him a more detailed run-down on what really happened at the convenience store. Jason gave an accurate recounting, but left out the part when Ray’s eyes had locked with his own, just as Ray had hesitated pulling his trigger.

  When Jason was done, Mike pushed his plate away, bearing only crumbs and a few stray strands of fat from the corned beef. He downed the last of his drink and poured himself another round as Jason took a bite of his pastrami on rye. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Mike spoke again.

  “I know what you’re going through, Jason,” Mike said with more compassion than Jason had ever heard in his voice.

  “You don’t know what I’m feeling,” Jason shot back, annoyed at Mike’s paternalistic attitude.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I know exactly what you’re feeling.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Jason,” Mike said, pulling back to a more controlled voice, “I never told you about how Darren got injured.”

  “Darren – that’s your old partner, right?”

  “Yeah. You’ve never met him.”

  “I heard around the precinct that he got shot on the job. He’s on permanent disability, right?”

  “Not permanent, yet,” Mike said. “He’s still in rehab, hoping to get back to active duty, but that’s not the point. It was my fault that he got injured. He didn’t die, but his career is basically over and it’s my fault, so I do understand what you’re going through.”

  Jason looked quizzically at Mike. “Ray’s death is not my fault.”

  “Yeah. I know. It’s not. But it is, because you were his partner, and you were responsible for him. You were together on the bust and it went bad, and you survived and he didn’t. Your fault or not your fault, it’s your responsibility. I know. It ate me up for months.”

  “What happened?” Jason asked, reaching out for the bottle of Johnny Walker Black.<
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  Mike reached out quickly and grabbed the bottle, pulling it away from Jason. “I’ll get to that, but for this story we need some better scotch.” Mike put the Johnny Black down on the end of the table and reached for the other bottle. It was still sealed, and Mike had to peel back the foil from around the cork before he could remove it. The label was golden and read “The Macallan 18.” Mike stood up, went to the small kitchen and returned with two fresh glasses and an 8-ounce bottle of spring water. He poured a small serving of the Macallan 18 into each glass, then added just a few drops of the water. He lifted the glass to his nose and breathed deeply, letting the smell of caramel and vanilla seep into his nostrils.

  “Why add the water?” Jason asked.

  “The guys who know about this stuff tell me that the water helps open up all the flavor in the scotch. I’m not sure I can tell the difference, but it’s part of the ritual. When somebody offers you a really top-shelf scotch, you put a few drops of bottled water – never from the tap – into the glass. And you never add ice. It makes you seem like you know what you’re doing.”

  “What makes this bottle so top-shelf?”

  “Well,” Mike said as he thought about the question. “First, it smells great, so give it a sniff and see.” Jason obliged and nodded his affirmation that the scotch had a very pleasant aroma. “I got it as a gift from a liquor dealer after I finished up an investigation that involved his warehouse. A guy got run over with a forklift and we cleared all his workers of any criminal charges. I accepted this bottle, although departmental regulations probably would not have allowed it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s about a $300 bottle,” Mike said simply.

  Jason whistled softly. “Is it worth it?”