Zimmerman's Algorithm

1.08 Fri. Mar. 6

A T eight-thirty Friday morning, Gideon hobbled into Captain Davis' office. He had spent the last day sorting out the paperwork on Lionel's shooting and giving interviews to Internal Affairs.

His captain looked worse, as if he'd hadn't slept in the past week. His desk was piled high, as if he was trying to barricade himself in his office with paperwork.

Gideon leaned on his crutch and waited for Davis to notice him.

Eventually Davis looked up. He frowned and said, "So what are you doing here?"

"I want to know what was happening with Lionel—"

Davis looked at him, and Gideon could hear him sigh. "You're off duty, Gideon."

Gideon crutched up to the desk. "I have a right to know what's going on with that case."

Davis shook his head. "What the hell gives you that idea?"

"My brother—"

"This is a police department—not some freelance detective agency. Go home. Rest."

"All I want is—"

"All I want is a double-digit drop in the homicide rate and an adequately funded department. Who gets what they want? Get some rest and let this be."

Gideon stood there, debating whether to push the issue or not. He looked at Davis and decided not. The phrase "public relations disaster" went through his mind as he thought of the incident on the Metro. Shooting someone to ribbons on the platform of what was supposed to be the safest subway system in the nation could not be helping the PR situation.

He hobbled back out of the Captain's office and crutched over to one of the desks. Behind it sat Tamon Gardener, a homicide detective he knew from the academy.

Gardener was doing his best not to look directly at Gideon. He managed to avoid eye contact until Gideon had crutched up to directly in front of his desk.

"I'm sorry, man," he said. "We aren't supposed to talk to you about any police business."

"Christ, why—" Gideon was about to repeat himself, he had a right to know what was going on. He had a right because it was his case, his brother. He wasn't about to let some political bureaucracy in the department shut him out of the investigation.

However, it was obvious from Gardener's expression that word had come down from on high in the department. It would be pointless to voice his frustration.

Instead, he decided to try a little finesse. "Look, all I need is one thing for my report—"

"Look, I shouldn't even be talking to you."

"I just need the case number for the Metro shoot-out." Gardener looked up at him as if trying to decide if he'd be breaking any standing orders by giving Gideon that information.

This has got the whole damn department tied up in knots, Gideon thought.

Gardener scribbled on a pad. "Look, steer clear of this until things calm down. IA's breathing down the neck of anyone who touches this case."

"I'll put in a good word for you with Magness," Gideon said. He pocketed the slip of paper while balancing on his crutches.

"Don't do me any favors."

When Gideon got home, he crutched his way upstairs and turned on his computer. The old machine took a while to warm up. It gave Gideon a chance to find himself a comfortable position in his chair. It took him a little longer to get oriented, moving the mouse with the wrong hand.

Eventually he called up the department. The computer dialed, and soon he was hearing the whine of a carrier.

He hadn't used his account in the DCPD database since he'd been gunned down. He'd spent all his time on his own private account. He was hoping that all the folks who wanted him on vacation had overlooked his mainframe account. He logged in and waited.

In a few seconds the screen flashed a prompt at him. He was in.

He fished out his copy of the Case ID for Lionel's shooting. It took him about ten minutes, typing with the wrong hand, to enter the fifteen digit ID number and get Lionel's file up. The computer thought about it for a few minutes, then the screen showed the first page of Lionel's file.

Kareem Rashad Williams had quite a rap sheet tagged onto his ass. Gideon didn't care much about that, he knew most of it anyway. He paged into the active case file on the Metro shoot-out.

The autopsy records were on file. The cause of death was no surprise; what did surprise Gideon was the fact that the toxicology scan showed enough PCP in Lionel's system to send the Mormon Tabernacle Choir into orbit. That was enough of a surprise for Gideon to back up to the guy's rap sheet.

Dealing heroin, dealing coke, dealing speed. No Angel Dust. Not much in itself, but that combined with the odd fact that Lionel had decided to go flying right before he was supposed to meet with a cop that had no reason to like him made the whole thing seem somewhat fishy.

Back to the autopsy.

The cause of death was no big surprise. A bullet had severed his spinal column. The neck wound had finished him off.

It was the ballistics that really made Gideon wonder. The police, collectively, had fired twelve shots. Lionel was hit by five shots. Seven bullets were dug out of the walls of the Metro station. That meant that at least one bullet had passed through Lionel and had lodged in the wall. That was possible, only two- slugs were dug out of Lionel's body.

What bothered Gideon was the fact that all the bullets, except the fatal shot, could be tied to a specific police gun. The one in Lionel's neck had fragmented explosively, as if someone was firing hollow points. More disturbing, the neck shot had hit him in the front, in his throat. From Gideon's memory, that meant that the shot had come from in front of Lionel, from behind where Gideon had been standing.

But the only thing behind Gideon at that point was a mass of panicked civilians.

But someone had shot first, starting that firefight, and it wasn't Lionel. There had been another shooter on the platform. There was little sign that anyone was investigating that, and—at this point—Gideon doubted he would be welcomed if he brought it to the department's attention.

Shit.

He spent the rest of the evening getting himself acquainted with Lionel, the guy who was responsible for Rafe's death.

Gideon only stopped his computer research to hobble downstairs and watch the television. He had been waiting for this moment for a long time. Three-thirty PM, the press conference announcing the Senate investigation into the Daedalus incident.

By three he was sitting on his couch in the living room, his foot propped up on the table in front of him. On his lap was a copy of the opening statement that Mayor Harris' speech writer had drafted for him.

On the screen, Senator Daniel Tenroyan, Republican from Maine, was talking to reporters. He looked like an

English professor, standing in front of a podium as if giving a lecture to a bored classroom. ". . . the first hearings will be held on April second, and should last for two weeks. Because of some sensitive testimony we'll be hearing about the Daedalus computer, these hearings will be in closed session—"

Gideon sat up, spilling Mayor Harris' statement from his lap. He wasn't the only one that Tenroyan had caught by surprise. The entire press corps had erupted in a flurry of overlapping questions. For a moment Tenroyan was stuck, unable to be heard over the reporters' questions, his stillness highlighted by camera flashes.

The anchorman cut in, saying, "There you have it. There will be a House-Senate investigation of the shooting of two law enforcement officers by the Secret Service, but the hearings will be in closed session. That means that there'll be no press coverage of the hearings themselves. There's no word yet on whether there'll be any offers of immunity in exchange for testimony . . ."

"I don't believe it," Gideon muttered. He looked down at the canned speech—an emotional plea for the financial salvation of the D.C. police department.

The statement was pretty much irrelevant now. It was one thing when an opening statement was in public view on CNN, it was another when only a few Congressmen and Senators would hear it—the people responsible for perpetuating the problem in the first place.

They had to know something was wrong here. There was something more than a simple fuckup that had gotten his brother killed. But the people who were supposedly investigating were turning away from it. First the DA and the grand jury avoiding the subject, and now Congress wanting to hide the whole process from prying eyes— bargaining with immunity at the same time.

"Fucking politics," Gideon muttered.

Gideon knew what it was. Some bastard stood to be embarrassed, someone powerful enough to put the brakes on the investigation. It infuriated Gideon.

He reached over and picked up the phone. With the Administration bearing down on this, there was no one left on the force he could turn to. But there was at least one ex-cop he knew who might be able to help him.

Gideon called the number for the man who had been his first partner as a detective. He muted the television as a deep voice answered, "Kendal Associates Consulting."

"You still answer your own phone, Morris?"

"That who I think it is?"

"Yes, it is," Gideon said. "You up for meeting me for dinner?"

"Five to one they never even return an indictment," Gideon said, stabbing a piece of lamb stir-fry with his fork. His aim was a little off; he was still wasn't completely used to eating with his left hand.

Morris Kendal looked across the table at him and shook his head. "You're being pessimistic." Kendal was a large man, nearly three hundred pounds. He was bald, black, and built like a pro wrestler.

They were sitting in a Mongolian barbecue restaurant a block east of the garish Chinatown Friendship Arch spanning H Street. They sat a few tables away from a circular dais where a quartet of chefs were grilling the patrons' meals.

Kendal had been a ten-year veteran of the detective bureau when they paired Gideon with him. Kendal had spent two years as his partner, teaching him, keeping him from screwing up too badly. Gideon had had no idea how lucky he had been to have been assigned to Kendal, not until Kendal announced that he was retiring and going into business for himself.

At the time, his mentor's decision had surprised him. Kendal had seemed every inch a cop and it was impossible to envision him as anything else. Now Kendal was making about six times as much as a private security consultant as he'd ever made as a detective. He drove a Mercedes and wore thousand-dollar suits. Now the only thing that surprised Gideon about Kendal's move was the fact that he hadn't made it a lot sooner.

Somehow, Kendal's skepticism about what was happening with the investigation seemed too reminiscent of Rafe's skepticism about Lionel. "Look," Gideon said, "this kind of crap worries me. It's not like he didn't know what he wasn't asking." Gideon finally speared the strip of lamb.

"So what does this have to do with you asking me to dinner?"

"I need someone to get to the bottom of this thing."

Kendal grinned. "There isn't anything here to get to the bottom of—"

"I know you've got contacts in the CIA—"

"—and even if there was, you couldn't afford me."

"I'm asking this as a favor."

Kendal laughed. "A favor? I'll say this, they didn't shoot off your balls."

"Come on. This isn't just cop pride—they killed Rafe, Morris. I saw the top of his skull peel away, and his wife just about believes I shot him myself." Gideon shook his head. "I've spent hours with IA. If someone big's behind it, who you think will get tagged with the blame?"

"You're being paranoid."

"Am I?" Gideon shook his head. "The Attorney General of the United States might have to resign over this, and he’s probably taking the fall for somebody—"

"Taking the fall?"

"I told you what I saw. Silencers? Black ninja suits with 'Treasury' hidden until the last minute? I doubt those were Lloyd's boys."

"So, what, you think you stumbled on some black op? Who by? The CIA?"

Gideon shrugged. "I don't know. An agency with the clout to stonewall a grand jury and convince Congress to close the investigation to public scrutiny."

The air was filled with the smell of roasting pork as the chefs emptied someone's bowl onto the grill.

"Free suggestion," Kendal said.

"Yes?"

"Walk away."

Gideon shook his head. "You think I could if I wanted to?"

Kendal attacked his bowl of chicken, pineapple, and rice. He took a few bites, shaking his head all the while. "You know the odds of you just stumbling in on someone's clandestine operation? And if you're right, you know what you're getting into? You're my friend, don't get mixed up in this."

Gideon leaned over and said, "I'm mixed up in it now. This is the nation's number one screwup and they need someone to hang the blame on."

"You think you're being prepped for that duty?"

"IA has been glued to me. This guy, Magness, eyes me like he's already scripting the trial."

"You need to get into this?" Kendal took another slow bite of his chicken. "You have a story, and you have the triggermen, right?"

"How long before they turn the screwup into the work of one reckless cop?"

"Was it?"

Gideon's throat clenched shut and his fork clattered to his plate. "How can you—"

"You're too close to this. Can you tell me that it wasn't?"

Gideon lowered his eyes and whispered. "He was my brother."

He heard the scrape as Kendal pushed his chair away. Gideon looked up at the man, who towered over him like an impending avalanche. "You aren't going to help me."

Kendal shook his head. "I've always been willing to back you up. You know that. I will look into this for you," he walked up and squeezed Gideon's shoulder. "But I just want you to know that there isn't

necessarily a conspiracy here just because you happen to need one."