The Tin Collectors Read online

  “It just keeps getting better,” Shane said softly. “I can hardly wait till the tin collectors find out you and I were spending time together.”

  They turned and walked back into the house. Shane stood in the living room. It was probably a waste of time, but he decided to make his own search anyway. He checked the living-room furniture first. The carpet indentations were exposed, proving that the two cops had moved the sofa as promised. He pulled off some of the seat cushions and saw that they had all been stabbed with a kitchen knife that had been left on the floor under the sofa. That meant they had been looking for something that was small enough to be hidden inside a seat cushion. Something about the size of a videotape, he thought.

  As he moved through the house, it was obvious that Samansky and Ayers had done a thorough job. It was also obvious that whatever was missing was still missing. The whole house had been searched. If they had found what they were looking for, they would have stopped when they recovered it.

  Shane kept looking anyway, but he was getting dispirited. He ended up in the bedroom closet. He carefully went through the top shelf. Nothing. He checked the shoeboxes. Nothing. As he was getting set to close the closet doors, something caught his eye. He looked again and saw that there were half a dozen white shirts in plastic cleaner bags. What stopped him was that several of the shirts were on white hangers with printed plastic that read BAYSIDE CLEANERS, while two others were on plain hangers with light green cellophane over them. He took all the shirts off the rod and held them up.

  “What is it?” Barbara asked.

  “I don’t know. Why do you use two different dry cleaners?”

  “I don’t. I just use Bayside, here in Venice.”

  Shane held up the Bayside Cleaners shirts. The covers indicated that Bayside was located at 201 South Venice Boulevard. He put them on the bed, then examined the other shirts with the plain hangers and greenish cellophane covers. There was no printing to indicate the name and address of this second cleaner. He pulled the laundry tag off one of the Bayside shirt collars. It was a small yellow strip with a number and bar code. Then he found the laundry strip for the unknown cleaner: a purple square stapled through the bottom buttonhole.

  “You say Ray was away a lot. Maybe he had these cleaned somewhere else.” Shane took the shirts with the purple square strips and folded them over his arm. “We have a database for laundry tags. Sometimes, when we get a John Doe with no ID, the laundry mark helps us identify the body. I’ll drop this at the Scientific Investigations Section and see what they come up with. I better get out of here. Did you find that cell phone number?” he asked.

  She snapped her fingers. “Forgot,” she said, and went digging around in one of Ray’s drawers. She found the box the phone had come in. Inside, with the warranty and sales slip, Ray had written the number. She handed it to Shane.

  “Same number as on the AT&T printout,” he said, holding up both sheets of paper. “Whoever she is, she was using Ray’s cell phone.”

  “So we can’t trace it.”

  “Guess not.”

  Shane moved toward the front door but stopped in the entry as Barbara put a hand on his arm. She looked at him softly with her beautiful blue-green eyes.

  “Can we see each other?”

  “Barbara…that’s gonna get us nothing but grief.”

  “Tell me you don’t want to see me. Just say it, and I won’t bring it up again.”

  “I can’t say it, ’cause I do. It’s just…”

  “If we’re careful?” she said. “I feel so lonely, so frightened.”

  Why is this happening this way? he wondered. Finally he put a hand up to her face and held it there for a moment. “I’ll think about it. I guess if those two cops notify RHD, the damage is already done,” he heard himself say stupidly. Of course, he knew he could probably explain away one incident. He could say he’d come over to apologize or pay his respects. All he needed was to start seriously fooling around with Ray’s widow in the wake of this shooting. A first-degree murder charge would probably be his reward for that behavior. How could he even consider seeing her again? His heart was beating fast, slamming in his chest like a broken cam shaft, his breath coming in rasping gasps. Loneliness swelled. He looked at her and wondered again how this had gotten so fucked up.

  “Buy a cell phone,” he said impulsively, “a new one. Leave the number on my home machine. You have mine. Since these cells aren’t secure, don’t use my name if you call me.”

  “Okay,” she said. Then she reached up to kiss him, and he found his lips brushing against hers. He started to put an arm around her but then pulled away and quickly left her house without looking back.

  Samansky was right. They should be ashamed, but a hard-on was stuffed sideways in his Jockey shorts. He reached down and adjusted it. Another work of art, The Pagan Love God; hang it with the others. The Shane Scully Gallery was filling fast.

  He got to his car and knelt down to survey the bashed front fender. It was hard to tell whether he or his poor black Acura had been taking more hits recently. He reached over and tugged the fender slightly off the new radial front tire. Then he got behind the wheel, and with the front fender rubbing badly, he turned the car around and drove back to his house on the East Canal in Venice.

  Two hours after he got home, another uniformed patrolman showed up. He hand-delivered the PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL envelope Shane had been dreading. Inside was an LAPD Letter of Transmittal.

  The Letter of Transmittal

  Police Department

  Letter of Transmittal April 21, 2000

  ADJUDICATION

  Complaint filed by Robbery/Homicide and IAD. Place of Complaint: 2387 Shell Avenue, Venice, CA. Complaint Investigation CF no. 20-4567-56. This complaint form contains allegations of misconduct against Department employee:

  SERGEANT I. SHANE SCULLY

  Serial No. 8934867

  SOUTHWEST DIVISION

  RHD

  Allegations are listed below with recommendations for classification and supporting rationales.

  ALLEGATION ONE: That on April 16, at approximately 2:30 A.M., Sergeant Scully inappropriately involved himself in an incident of domestic violence.

  ALLEGATION TWO: Sergeant Scully drove to the house of his ex-partner, Lieutenant Raymond Molar. He did not use his police radio to call uniformed police, instead electing to inject himself into a potentially dangerous incident where uniformed personnel would have been in a better position to contain the situation.

  ALLEGATION THREE: Sergeant Scully arrived on the scene and used inappropriate and out-of-policy escalating force. (Force may not be resorted to unless other reasonable alternatives have been thoroughly exhausted.)

  ALLEGATION FOUR: After engaging in an inappropriate escalation of force, Sergeant Scully fired his police weapon, which resulted in the death of Lieutenant Raymond Molar.

  ALLEGATION FIVE: Sergeant Scully removed from the Molar residence certain related case items that he believed would reflect badly on him in the subsequent investigation. (Note: The confidential nature of these materials prohibits notification and description of same in this letter of transmittal, but such notification will be made available to the accused upon discovery.)

  CLASSIFICATION

  It is recommended that all allegations be classified as sustained.

  RATIONALE

  It has been determined by investigating officers that Sergeant Scully had a prior relationship with the wife of the deceased. As a result, Sergeant Scully should have known that his involvement in this domestic dispute would not produce a favorable outcome. His reckless attempt to intervene in a family dispute where he had an emotional history, and his refusal to call for uniformed assistance, produced a situation that resulted in an undue escalation of force and the death of Lieutenant Molar. Further at issue is Sergeant Scully’s prior relationships with both the deceased, Lieutenent Molar (ex-partner), and Molar’s wife (former girlfriend). This throws doubt on his use of force and
gives rise to questions of personal motive. It is also noted that on February 12, 1984, then-Patrolman Scully was involved in a physical altercation with the deceased in the underground parking structure at Southwest Division. This altercation resulted in the breakup of their partnership and Scully’s transfer to West Valley Division.

  COMPLAINT HISTORY ANALYSIS

  Sergeant Scully’s use-of-force history has been examined, and it has been determined that this officer has had six complaint investigations in ten years (none sustained). However, he has received one departmental admonishment due to a nonsustained Board of Rights involving the severe beating of a nineteen-year-old Hispanic gang member in Southwest Division. (It was determined by the board that some eyewitness accounts of the beating were perjurious, and this perjury resulted in the subsequent not-guilty verdict. However, in the estimation of Sergeant Scully’s commander, some undue force had taken place.) In reviewing his complaint history, it has been decided that this officer has shown a pattern of failure to exercise good judgment. Additionally, he has received admonishments for two separate (preventable) traffic accidents. There are no negative-comment-card entries from his current commanding officer.

  RELIEF FROM DUTY CONSIDERATION

  It is recommended that this officer be relieved from his duty in Southwest Robbery/Homicide and that he be suspended without pay until further notice. Note: The complaint copy and Relief from Duty Suspension Form (1.61) issued by Internal Affairs Division and signed by Deputy Chief II Thomas Mayweather is being faxed to Sergeant Scully’s CO, Captain Bud Halley, in accordance with departmental regulations. Upon receipt of same, Sergeant Scully shall surrender his gun, badge, and identification card to Captain Halley for safekeeping.

  RECOMMENDATIONS

  The chief of police has directed this case to a full Board of Rights, said board to commence ten days from the date of this letter.

  COMMANDING OFFICER’S RESPONSE

  None.

  Respectfully submitted,

  Alexa Hamilton

  Internal Affairs Division

  10

  Panel

  A letter of transmittal is always delivered to an accused officer and is, in essence, a summons and complaint. It gives the preliminary results of the IAD investigation and the determination by the department of the appropriate form of adjudication.

  Shane had received the letter just before going out the door to pick up Chooch from school. He ripped open the brown envelope with trembling fingers. He had figured it would be bad, but this was even worse than he had expected. He shook with rage as he read the allegations. Then he stuffed the document into his side pocket and headed out the back door. Fuck ’em, he thought, I’m not gonna plead this out. I’m gonna fight it.

  He pried the crushed front fender farther away from the tire, using the Acura’s tire jack. Then as he took the 405 over the hill to Coldwater, he turned on his cell phone to call his new defense rep, Rags Whitman. He had talked with him once yesterday, but Rags was in the middle of defending another BOR, so they had agreed to meet at six that evening.

  He punched the number into his cell phone.

  Rags Whitman was on a break outside hearing room three when he answered the phone. Internal Affairs had rented the top three floors of the Bradbury Building in downtown L.A. It was a beautiful turn-of-the-century structure with a glassed-in courtyard and black wrought-iron banisters. Because Parker Center had become so overcrowded, the entire Advocate Section of IAD, as well as its four main hearing rooms, had been moved to this architectural treasure at the corner of Broadway and Third.

  “Yeah,” Rags answered in his surprising soprano voice.

  “It’s Shane. I just got the Letter of Transmittal.”

  “Bad?” Rags asked.

  “They suspended me without pay. They’re alleging I shot Ray because I used to date Barbara. It’s total bullshit!”

  “You’ll probably do much better with DeMarco, if that’s the way they’re going. He fights gladiator-style.”

  “DeMarco won’t take the case.”

  “He changed his mind. Your machine was turned off. He’s been trying to reach you all afternoon. He didn’t have your mobile number, so I gave it to him. The way this is going, you better start leaving your cell phone on.”

  “Oh,” Shane said. He’d turned his answering machine and cell phone off because he was afraid that Barbara would call. He’d been having second thoughts about seeing her and wanted to put some distance between them for the time being. “You got his number handy? I don’t have it with me.”

  Rags Whitman gave it to him, and Shane dialed.

  “Go,” DeMarco said when he answered. Shane could hear a mellower brand of rap being played in the room behind the conversation. This time he thought it was L. L. Cool J.

  “It’s Shane.”

  “Where’ve you been? I changed my mind. I gotta get one more swing at that bitch advocate Alexa Hamilton. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

  “I had my cell off by mistake. I’m glad you reconsidered. I got this fucking Letter of Transmittal. It’s a complete load a’ shit. They’re fuckin’ me over, Dee.”

  “Meet me at the beach as soon as you can.”

  “I’ve gotta go pick up a friend’s kid at school. I promised his mother. Okay if I bring him?”

  “Sure, I’ll meet you at the Silver Surfer. It’s a bar-restaurant on the Strand, about six doors up from my place. How ’bout an hour?”

  “How ’bout an hour and a half?”

  “See ya then.”

  “Hey, Dee…thanks. I feel better with you on this. I wanna go to war. I don’t wanna plead out this bullshit. I wanna fight it.”

  “We’ll talk in an hour.”

  When he arrived at Harvard Westlake, Brad Thackery was waiting for him. Thackery followed Chooch to the car and immediately came around to the driver’s side.

  “We still haven’t heard from Chooch’s mother,” he said angrily, shoving his thin, pinched features and wiry hair down into Shane’s face.

  Chooch got in the passenger side and pretended to pay no attention, looking out the side window at the football field.

  “Whatta you want me to do about it?” Shane said sharply.

  “I want you to have Mrs. Sandoval get in touch with my office.”

  “I told her to call you two days ago.”

  “Obviously, neither you nor she have any idea of the seriousness of Chooch’s situation. This is about his future here at Harvard Westlake.”

  “I told Sandy. I can’t do more than that.”

  “Facta non verba,” Thackery said with a smirk, then added, “Actions speak louder than words.”

  “Gobbelus feces,” Shane replied, and after a second to figure it out, Chooch burst into laughter.

  Shane put the car in gear and pulled out onto Coldwater. He was smoking mad. Of course, he knew it wasn’t Thackery, it was his whole damn life that was pissing him off.

  “Gobbelus feces. Eat shit—pretty fuckin’ good,” Chooch crowed.

  “Calm down, will ya…it wasn’t that funny.”

  Chooch looked at him carefully, then turned off his headset and put the rig back into his book bag.

  “Don’t worry about Thackery, okay? It doesn’t matter that Sandy didn’t call. They’re gonna throw me out anyway. It’s a done deal. I’m not even in regular classes anymore. I’m in detention. They don’t care if I do my homework or not. They’re just sitting on me till they can tell her I’m dust.”

  “Shit,” Shane said. “Good goin’.”

  “I don’t care, so don’t sweat it.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, I forgot. I’m just this month’s paid jerkoff.”

  “That was before. You’re not a paid jerkoff anymore. You’ve been promoted.”

  “To what?” Shane was barely paying attention. His mind was spinning, a kaleidoscope of horrible, career-ending problems.

  “You’re my doobie brother,” Chooch said with a grin, “my ganja gan
gtsa and Rasta weed warrior.”

  “Listen, Chooch, you gotta forget about that. Okay? I’m having a rough time right now, I’m not thinking straight. That was a huge mistake.”

  “Shit, it was the first thing you did that I liked. Showed me some stones, man. No other cop I know would sit around with some kid and bogart a fatty.”

  “Chooch, if you tell anybody about that, I’m gonna kill ya.”

  “No sweat. I can keep a secret.” He smiled, then put his headphones on again and cranked up the tunes. He stayed plugged in until Shane made the turn onto the Santa Monica Freeway. It was the wrong way home, so Chooch took off his headset and looked over. “Where we going?”

  “I gotta go to a meeting down at the beach. It should only take an hour, maybe less. You can hang for a while, okay?”

  Chooch cocked an eyebrow. “Something’s going on, right? You’re in the soup, just like me, aren’t ya?” he said with surprising intuition.

  “It’s okay. I can handle it.”

  They shot off the end of the freeway, back onto the Coast Highway. Five minutes later Chooch and Shane were walking through the front door of an almost empty bar-restaurant with a sawdust floor and a neon sign that read SILVER SURFER.

  It was 4:15 in the afternoon.

  They found DeMarco seated at the bar. He was wearing cutoffs and a blue-jean vest with no shirt, working on his third beer. The other two empty brown glass longnecks were lined up on the bar beside him.

  When Shane introduced DeMarco to Chooch, the teenager looked at the longhaired defense rep and smiled. “Cool fuckin’ earring, dude.”

  “I like your friend, Scully. You’re finally kicking.” The defense rep smiled at Shane.