Heroes Often Fail

SEVEN

1134 hours

“What do you have?” Browning asked the officer.

Officer Aaron Norris glanced over at his partner, Virgil Gilliam, with a touch of pride.

“I think I’ve got your van,” the veteran told Browning.

Browning turned his gaze to the blue van at the side of the road ten yards away. A black man sat stewing in the driver’s seat. Browning turned back to Norris. “What happened?”

“I spotted him driving-“

Gilliam cleared his throat.

Norris shot him a dirty look, then shrugged, “All right, we both spotted him driving slowly around Medgar Evers Elementary school. The van matched, the driver matched, so we stopped him.”

“You talk to him yet?”

“Got his license.”

Browning held out his hand and Norris gave him the driver’s license. “What’d he say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

Norris shrugged. “He gave me the typical line of crap that I was only stopping him because he’s black.”

“Which in this case is true,” Gilliam said.

“No,” Norris said, “I stopped him because he’s driving a blue van and because he’s black.”

“You didn’t ask him any questions?” Browning asked, ignoring their banter. Sometimes he wished for rookies instead of veterans. They made some mistakes, but they tried like hell to do the job right and were far less concerned with being impressed by themselves.

Norris fixed him with a defensive gaze, as if he’d heard Browning’s thoughts. “Last time I did an interview and a Major Crimes detective came along, he beefed me for supposedly screwing up his investigation.” Norris made air quotes as he finished the sentence. “So no, detective, I did not interview the suspect. He’s virgin territory. Have at it.”

Browning resisted the urge to rip into Norris, knowing it would do no good. He’d never admit he’d been wrong once in his life, anyway. Instead, he looked down at the driver’s license.

Albert Jefferson was the driver’s name. His license read that he was 6’2” and 220 pounds. That certainly fit the preliminary description he had.

He handed the license back to Norris. “Run him up on the data channel. Let me know his driving status, arrest record, anything of interest.”

Norris accepted the license, seemingly willing to let their truce stand.

Browning turned and walked to the van.

The driver sat impatiently in his seat, watching Browning approach in his side mirror. He looked a little heavier than 220 and had a touch of premature gray at his temples.

“Mr. Jefferson?” Browning asked.

“Yeah.”

“I appreciate you being patient today-“

“Patient, my ass. Who are you?”

“Detective Browning.”

“Are you these guys’s boss?”

Browning shook his head. “Not really.”

“No? ‘Cause those are some racist sonsabitches back there.”

“Why do you say that?”

Jefferson snorted. “They only stopped me because I’m black and I when I told them that, the one guy there smirked at me.”

“Actually, Mr. Jefferson, in a way, you’re right.”

“I know I’m right.” Then his eyes narrowed and he gave Browning a suspicious look. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, I’m right? You’re agreeing with me?”

Browning nodded. “Here’s the situation. Earlier today, a little girl was kidnapped. Whoever took her was driving a blue van and the driver was a large black male. You match the description. That’s why the officers stopped you.”

Jefferson listened carefully. “You think I took someone’s baby girl?”

“Not necessarily.”

“But you stopped me.”

“You match the description.”

Jefferson snorted again. “And all us niggers look alike, too, right?”

“Please don’t use that word,” Browning said.

“Why not?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of Norris and Gilliam. “They’re thinking it.”

“I’m not. And it’s ugly. How do you expect white people not to use it when we use it ourselves?”

Jefferson gave Browning an appraising look. “You serious with me?”

“Yes.”

Jefferson shook his head in amazement. “Now I’ve seen it all. A cop, a black cop, who doesn’t like the word nigger when it’s a nigger who says it.”

Browning rubbed his goatee. “Mr. Jefferson, look. If I can get your cooperation, we can get you on your way as quick as possible.” He kept his tone friendly.

“Do I have any choice?” Jefferson asked.

Browning met his gaze. “No.”

“You going to arrest me?”

“No,” Browning said. “But I need to know a few things about you and I need to look in your van. There’s a little girl missing, so one way or another I am going to do it. You can cooperate, or I can have the officers sit here with you while I go get a search warrant.”

“Which some white judge will sign,” Jefferson said with disgust.

“All I’ll care about is that he signs it, not what color he is,” Browning told him. “And yes, I believe he will sign it.”

Jefferson gave a long sucking sound with his teeth, considering. Then he said, “Look, I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m just sick of the way cops in this town hassle black people. You ought to understand that your own damn self.”

Browning nodded his understanding. “I do. But right now, a little girl is missing and I need to move quickly. If you’ve got nothing to do with it-“

“I’ve got nothing to do with it,” Jefferson said.

“Then I need to find that out and move on.”

“Fine. What do you need?”

“The officers said you were driving around the elementary school.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Jefferson sighed. “I’m looking for my son. He didn’t come home last night and he’s running with some punks. Sometimes they hang out at the school playground.”

“How old is he?”

“Fifteen.”

“Tough age,” Browning said.

“Tell me about it, brother.”

“Where have you been today?”

“All day?”

“Since this morning.”

“I was home until about eight. After I had my coffee, I started driving around looking for DeShawn.”

“Anybody see you?”

“The whole neighborhood. And I stopped in at the 7-11 for more coffee.” He lifted a Styrofoam cup that bore the store’s logo. “The clerk there knows me. I buy the Slim Jims a lot.”

“Okay. Is the address on your license current?”

Jefferson nodded. “Been there seventeen years.”

“Wait here, please,” Browning said.

“Wait some more?” Jefferson said, but his tone was less aggravated than before.

“Just for a minute or two.”

Jefferson shrugged.

Browning returned to the patrol car and looked at Norris expectantly.

“Well,” the officer began, “his license is expired.”

“How long?”

“Last week.”

Browning shrugged that off. “What else? Arrests?”

“Not really,” Norris said. “A speeding ticket from ’89. And some type of assault beef from ’83. No convictions.”

Browning frowned. This guy wasn’t looking good for the kidnapping, but he had to follow through anyway.

He turned to the patrol officers. “Can one of you go over to the 7-11 at Fifth and Thor? Take his driver’s license and ask the clerk there if he saw him this morning. If he did, find out what time.”

“I’ll go,” Norris said.

“Thanks.”

Norris shrugged.

Browning turned to Gilliam. “I just need you to stand by while I search his van.”

“He’s going to let you?”

“Pretty sure he will.”

Gilliam raised his eyebrows in surprise, but said nothing.

Both men stepped back from the patrol car and Norris pulled away from the curb and made a u-turn.

Browning walked back to the van.

“Where’s he going?” Jefferson asked.

“To the 7-11.”

“Why?”

“To verify your statement.”

“You think I’m lying?”

Browning shook his head. “No. But I deal in facts, Mr. Jefferson. If it was your daughter who was missing, you’d want us to verify everything.”

Jefferson considered that, then agreed. “I suppose I would. How long is this going to take?”

“Just a little while. Do you mind if I take a look in your van?”

Jefferson opened the driver’s door and stepped out. He gestured with his arm. “Have at it.”

“Would you wait with the officer over there?”

“Why?”

“Over here, sir,” Gilliam said.

Jefferson stared at Gilliam and sniffed. After a moment, he gave a resigned sigh and ambled back to stand with the officer where the patrol car used to be.

Browning began his search. Although he doubted this was the right guy, he made his search a methodical one. He moved slowly over the vehicle’s interior, examining anything of interest. He found a small baggie in the glove box. A bit of marijuana, no larger than his thumbnail, was packed into a corner of the baggie. He put it back and continued his search.

The back of the van was empty except for a tire iron and a gym bag containing basketball clothes. Browning checked the doorframe and the carpet for any stray hairs that may have come loose if Amy Dugger had struggled with her captor. He found nothing.

When he was finished, he discovered that Norris had returned. The three men were standing rigidly at the nose of the patrol car, silent. When Browning approached, he met Norris’s eyes. The officer nodded his head and gave him the okay sign with his thumb and forefinger.

Browning turned his attention to Jefferson.

“Find what you were looking for?”

Browning shook his head. “I found what I expected.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. At least, nothing to indicate you’re involved in the abduction.” He gave Jefferson a meaningful look, hoping he read it.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I go then? I’ve got to find my son.”

Browning looked at the officers, then at Jefferson. “There’s just one more thing, Mr. Jefferson.”

“What’s that?”

“I’d like to take a quick look at the inside of your house.”

“What?”

Browning didn’t answer. He let the request hang in the air.

Jefferson looked at him, then at the uniform cops and back at Browning again. “You guys are unbelievable,” he said.

No one answered him.

Finally, Jefferson said, “Fine. All right that you follow me in the van?”

“That’d be fine,” Browning said.

“Goddamn,” Jefferson said as he turned away and walked toward his van. “My wife is going to love this.”

1135 hours

Officer Jack Willow glanced over at Kopriva frequently as they drove toward the address in West Central. Several times, he seemed on the verge of saying something, but nothing came out. For his part, Kopriva was glad. He didn’t want to deal with any questions about his shooting and he didn’t want Willow’s hero worship. But he knew some of that was inevitable. Willow had still been in the training car when the shootout at the Circle K occurred last September.

Kopriva pointed up ahead. “You’ll want to turn on Lindeke.”

“I know.”

Willow turned north on Lindeke, then west on Swanson. He rolled to a stop about two houses away from the address.

“Are you okay to go in there?” Willow asked.

Kopriva released his seat belt and looked over at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Willow looked at the dashboard. “I just thought…you know, light duty and all.”

“Lieutenant Crawford sent me to check out this lead,” Kopriva said.

Willow shrugged. “Okay.”

“Keep your eyes open while we’re in there.”

“I will.”

The two men walked up to the Henderson house. The chain link fence was dilapidated and rusty. The iron gate squealed when Kopriva swung it open. The boards on the steps to the large porch creaked as they walked up them. Kopriva rapped on the door and waited. He looked out at the yard. The grass was tall and thick, but the flowerbeds were well-tended.

After several minutes, Kopriva knocked again, this time harder and longer. It wasn’t quite a graveyard knock, but it was definitely at least a late swing shift knock, he figured. There would be no mistaking that someone was at the front door.

No one answered.

Kopriva looked at Willow, who shrugged and motioned at the door again. He offered his large mag flashlight. Kopriva considered, then knocked a third time with the heel of his palm. After several thuds, he heard some stirring inside the house.

The door swung open and a tall man stood in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“River City Police, sir,” Kopriva said. He motioned toward Willow and held up his own badge.

The man’s face registered surprise. “What can I do for you, officer?”

“Are you Fred Henderson?”

“Yes.”

“We need to come in and talk to you,” Kopriva said.

Henderson’s gaze flitted between the two of them briefly. Then he stood aside and motioned for them to enter.

The doorway opened into a dark living room. A couch covered with afghans sat against the wall beneath the picture window. Heavy drapes blocked out any light that might otherwise come through the window. There was a well-used fireplace against the far wall. Pictures, mostly black and white, adorned the mantle.

“Who is it, Fred?” came a voice from the kitchen.

“Police,” Fred said, closing the door. He walked into the living room and stood near Willow, as if waiting.

“What do those bastards want?” the shrill voice asked.

Fred didn’t answer.

Kopriva heard the unmistakable sound of a beverage can opening. A moment later, a squat woman in her fifties waddled into the room. Her black hair was cut short and arrayed in wild spikes. Kopriva wondered if she was purposely trying to be stylish or if it just dried that way when she got out of the shower. That forced an image of her getting out of the shower into his mind’s eye and he suppressed a grimace.

“You let them in, Fred?” she asked, her voice high and ragged. Dozens of bracelets rattled as she moved, clicking against each other and the can of Keystone beer in her hand. “Do they have a warrant?”

“He invited us in, Ma’am,” Kopriva said.

Her gaze snapped to him. She looked him up and down quickly, dismissively. “What are you, some kind of detective?”

“No, ma’am,” Kopriva said. “I’m a police officer.”

“Then where’s your uniform?”

“I’m working a plainclothes assignment.”

“Well, Mr. Plainclothes, what the fuck do you want?” she asked and took a swallow of the beer.

Kopriva took a deep breath and instantly regretted it. The house had the stale, musty smell of old beer, cigarettes and body odor. “We’re conducting an investigation, ma’am, and we need your help.”

Her face broke into a smile and she waved her hand at the couch. “Well, then, sit down. Please.”

Kopriva glanced at Willow. Both men hesitated.

“Please,” she repeated. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Kopriva moved to the couch and sat on the edge of the cushion. Willow remained standing.

“Something wrong with your partner?” she asked Kopriva.

Kopriva looked at Willow then back at the woman. “He’s in the car all day. I imagine the chance to stand and stretch his legs is a welcome thing.”

“Of course, of course,” she said with a nod, then turned to Fred and snapped her fingers. “Fred! Get our guests a beer.”

Fred started toward the kitchen.

“No,” Kopriva said.

The woman arched her eyebrows at him, hovering between offended and angry.

“We’re on duty,” Kopriva explained.

She nodded her understanding. “Lemonade, then. Or Mr. Pibb. There’s some Mr. Pibb left.”

“No, really, it’s-” Kopriva began.

“Fred, now!” She gave an embarrassed look at Kopriva and Willow, as if in apology for what she felt were Fred’s poor manners.

Fred disappeared into the kitchen.

Kopriva knew Willow was watching the doorway to the kitchen carefully. He turned his attention to the woman.

“Are you Nancy Henderson?” he asked.

“I am,” she said, and smiled. One of her eyeteeth was broken and the end of the tooth was a hideous black. He also noticed that she was wearing lip-gloss and an excessive amount of pancake makeup, as if she were trying to cover up the two large moles on her left cheek. At least, Kopriva thought they were moles. They might have just been lumps of skin. Either way, the effect was eerie.

“Ma’am, I have some bad news,” Kopriva said.

Nancy looked at him expectantly.

He forged ahead. “I don’t know how to say this other than to just say it, so here it is.” He fixed her with a steady gaze. “Your granddaughter, Amy, has been kidnapped.”

Something flickered in her eyes, but Kopriva couldn’t decipher what it was. Her jaw fell open for a moment, then closed. She looked over at Fred, who had appeared in the doorway with two sodas in his hand, then back at Kopriva.

“W-when?” she asked.

“Today,” Kopriva answered.

“How?”

“I can’t go into details, Mrs. Henderson, until I ask you a few questions.”

“Questions?”

“Where were you this morning?” Kopriva asked.

Nancy looked at him and said nothing. Anger suddenly blazed in her eyes.

“We were both here,” Fred offered. “We were watching a movie-“

“Don’t tell these cocksuckers anything!” Nancy shrieked. She stared at Kopriva, enraged. “Do you think I’m stupid, mister big-shot detective?”

“No, ma’am,” Kopriva said. “I just have to ask-“

“I haven’t seen my grand-daughter since she was a year old,” Nancy yelled at him. “My bitch of a daughter keeps her from me!”

Kopriva raised his hands, making a ‘settle-down’ gesture. “I know you two are not talking.”

“I want to talk to her! She won’t talk to me!” Nancy pointed her finger and waggled it at Kopriva, then took a healthy slug from the can of beer. Fred stood by, unaffected by her outburst.

“Ma’am, we have to ask all of the family members the same questions. It’s procedure.”

“It’s an accusation!”

“Wouldn’t you want us to follow every lead? To eliminate every possibility?” Kopriva struggled to keep his voice even.

Tears welled up in Nancy’s eyes and rolled down her plump cheeks. “Is she really gone?” she asked. Her voice filled with sorrow. “Has someone really taken her?”

Kopriva nodded, struggling to keep up with her mood swings.

“Will you find her? Please?”

“We’re trying, ma’am.”

Nancy walked to the mantle and removed a photo of a bald little girl in a blue and white dress sitting next to a giant numeral one. “This was her one-year photo,” she said, and handed the framed picture to Kopriva.

He took the picture and looked at it politely.

“See the bow?” Nancy asked, pointing.

Kopriva saw the yellow bow atop the little girl’s head and nodded.

“It wouldn’t stay,” Nancy said. “No matter what we tried, it wouldn’t stay. She just didn’t have enough hair. I finally borrowed some tape from the receptionist and we taped it in place for the picture. You can’t tell, can you?”

Kopriva looked at the photo again and shook his head. “No. It doesn’t show.”

Nancy smiled at him gratefully and he handed back the picture frame. She looked at it adoringly. “I’m sure her hair has grown out by now. I’m sure it’s long and dark and lovely, just like Kathy’s.”

There had been numerous photos of young Amy Dugger at her house, Kopriva remembered. And she did have very dark hair, like her mother’s.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry to be the one to have to bring you this news,” he said.

Nancy waved away his apology and replaced the picture frame on the mantle. “No, you’re just doing your job. I understand.”

“Can I ask you those questions now?”

She sat down in a chair next to the fireplace and motioned for him to continue.

Kopriva cleared his throat. “Uh, well, you said you were here this morning, watching a movie?”

“Yes,” Nancy said.

“Mommy Dearest,” Fred offered.

Kopriva pressed his lips together and suppressed a grin. Willow coughed into his fist next to him. Neither Nancy nor Fred seemed to notice.

“Did you leave the house today?” Kopriva managed to ask.

“No.”

He looked at Fred. “Either of you?”

Fred glanced at Nancy, then shook his head.

“Do you own a van?”

“No,” said Nancy and Fred shook his head.

“What vehicles do you own?”

“A 1983 Taurus,” Fred answered promptly.

“It’s parked out back,” Nancy offered. “You can look if you want.”

“That’s okay,” Kopriva said.

“No, it’s not,” Nancy said, her voice suddenly laced with tension. “You asked, Mr. Big Shot, now…you…go…look!”

Kopriva paused, then rose slowly from the couch. His knee ached in protest as he stood and followed Fred through the kitchen. Willow remained with Nancy.

Dishes were piled high in the sink and the remnants of pork chops sat on a plate next to the stove. Kopriva did his best to breathe shallowly and followed Fred to a window next to the small kitchen table.

“There,” he pointed.

Kopriva saw a silver Ford Taurus parked in the small dirt driveway behind the house. The back yard was fenced in and the gate at the driveway was closed. A mangy, yellow dog lay in the corner of the yard in a patch of sunshine. Next to the dirt driveway was a small, detached garage. It was barely large enough to be called a one-car.

“What’s in there?” Kopriva asked.

Fred shrugged. “Fifty years of junk.”

Kopriva nodded, then turned and walked back into the living room. Fred trailed behind him.

“Satisfied?” Nancy asked him bitterly when he returned.

“Yes,” Kopriva answered. “When was the last time you saw your grand-daughter, Mrs. Henderson?”

More tears rose in her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks. “She’s six now. Oh, Jesus!” Nancy leaned her head back against the headrest of the chair and wailed. “It’s been five years since I’ve seen my precious grand-daughter! Five years since she’s seen her Grammy! Oh, Jesus God!”

Kopriva waited while she half-sobbed, half-wailed. When the sounds she made subsided, he spoke again. “Have you had any contact at all? Telephone calls, letters, pictures?”

“Not in five years,” she sobbed.

“Nothing at all?”

“Oh, you bastards!” Nancy roared at him. She stood suddenly and threw her beer can down on the floor at her side. The liquid foamed and gushed out onto the floor. “You think I had something to do with this?”

Kopriva suppressed a sigh. “No, ma’am. Like I said-“

“You’re tormenting me!” she shouted. “I haven’t seen her in five years and now you come here and torment me?”

“We’re trying to find her, ma’am,” Kopriva said.

“You think I took her?” Nancy shrieked at him, stabbing her finger in the air. “Search my house, then! Search it, goddamn you! Search it and then get out there and fucking find my grand-daughter!”

Kopriva considered, then shook his head. “I don’t want to search your house. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“Either search now or get out!” Nancy yelled, waving her arms wildly. “I’m sick and tired of your accusations!”

“I don’t need to search your house, ma’am. I just need-“

“Then get out!” She pointed at the door. “Get out! Get OUT!”

Kopriva hesitated. He looked at Fred, who appeared unaffected by Nancy’s radical mood swings.

He’s used to it, Kopriva realized. This must be par for the course.

With an audible sigh, he rose and walked toward the door. Behind him, Nancy sank into the chair and sobbed violently.

“We should search,” Willow whispered to him as he passed.

Kopriva shook his head. “She’s not here.”

He turned the knob and walked onto the porch.

Willow followed. “If they’re going to let us,” he said urgently, “then we should search. We should make sure.”

Kopriva motioned toward the house. “That woman is so crazy she couldn’t plan a shopping trip, much less an abduction.”

Willow frowned. “Maybe so. But we should make sure.”

“There’s no point.”

“She’s offering,” Willow said. “That’s the point.”

The door swung open and Fred Henderson stood in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, officers,” he said softly. “She’s…not well.”

“Apparently,” Willow muttered.

“Is she on medication?” Kopriva asked.

Fred nodded somberly. “Several. And the beer doesn’t help. “

“I don’t imagine it does,” Kopriva said.

“Then news like this comes along,” he twirled his hands slowly. “It sets her off.”

“Is she always so…” Kopriva trailed off.

“All over the place?”

Kopriva nodded.

Fred shrugged. “It depends. The less she takes her medication, the more beer she drinks, the more she’s like this.”

“I’m sorry,” Kopriva said.

“You’re just doing your job,” Fred said. “Will you call when you find Amy?”

“Of course.”

“That will calm her down, I think,” Fred told him.

“I’ll make sure someone calls.”

“If you have any other questions, officer, please come by.” Fred pushed the thin strands of hair from the side of his head across his bald top. “Anytime.”

“Thanks, Mr. Henderson.” Kopriva extended his hand.

Fred looked at it briefly, then reached out and took it. He shook hands limply, then turned and closed the door.