The Injustice of Valor, page 6
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN VAL ARRIVED back at the WAVE Squad a short while later, two fiftyish men in black suits and crew cuts greeted her, their expressions grim. One stood at least six-five, with a lanky build, and both looked like they enjoyed eating puppies for breakfast. Because, Val recalled from their previous meeting about a year before, they probably did.
“Inspectors Finley and Blanchard,” she said to the two Internal Affairs investigators. “If you’ve come to treat me to lunch, I’ll have to disappoint you—I’ve already eaten.” She tried her best to appear casual, and hid her hands behind her back so they couldn’t see them shaking. Their presence unnerved her, and the fact that they showed up without an appointment was downright intimidating.
Blanchard, the taller and more senior of the two, pointed to the small private conference room next to Petroni’s office. “We’d like a word with you about what happened at the Blue Line last night. If you’ll join us?”
Finley, shorter and heavier with a six-foot, 250-plus-pound frame bursting out of his cheap suit, led the way into the meeting room. Blanchard waited for Val to follow, then closed the door behind them. Someone had turned up the heat to about 80 degrees, so Val shed her uniform jacket and draped it over a chair at the head of the table. She took that seat on purpose. Petroni coached her a year before on how to take control of IA interviews in case the circumstance should ever again arise. She hoped this one went better than her prior meetings had.
“I understand you and Officer Peterson have a bit of a history,” Finley said with a crooked smile. He sat halfway down the table to Val’s right and leaned back in his chair, still sporting that shit-eating grin. “Care to share your side of the story?”
“Sure, once my union rep shows up,” Val said. “You know as well as I do, that’s department policy for IA investigations.” Another Petroni coaching point.
“Did we say this was an investigation?” Blanchard ran a hand through his short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He sat across from Finley, wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. Both investigators kept their jackets on, despite the room’s muggy heat. “I don’t recall labeling it as such, do you, Finley?”
Finley smiled at her and rolled his eyes again, this time at his partner. His ruddy face gleamed with a sheen of perspiration. “Of course, you’re entitled to having anyone you want in the room with us,” he said. “It might take a lot more time to run them down, though, and—”
“That’s okay,” Val said. “I’m more than willing to wait. It’s important.” And hot, especially for the two men in their heavy black suits. Fine with her. She pulled out her cell phone and texted the person who’d recently taken on the union rep role:
Need you at WAVE HQ as my union rep—IA inquiry.
“While we’re waiting,” Finley said, loosening his tie an inch, “why don’t we cover some deep background? Not the events of last night, but stuff that sets the context. Sound reasonable?”
“No,” Val said. “It doesn’t sound reasonable. My union rep might offer some advice for me on—oh, wait.” Her phone buzzed with a text message:
On the 3rd floor—I’ll be there in 2 mins.
“They’ll be right up,” she said.
“They?” Blanchard shook his head. “How many people are you bringing in here?”
“One for now,” Val said. “I am allowed to include legal representation as well as—”
“Don’t get all legalistic on us, for Christ’s sake,” Blanchard said, his voice loud and irritated. “That’s the problem with you millennials. You won’t just have a conversation. Everything’s a goddamned federal case. In our day—”
A series of sharp raps on the door interrupted them, and the door swung open. In walked the hefty, bear-like frame of Sergeant Travis Blake, one of Val’s best friends on the Clayton police force. Travis carried his uniform jacket draped over one arm, meaning, Val guessed, Petroni had warned him about the room’s temperature setting. Which means she probably jacked up the thermostat herself. Val made a mental note to thank her later.
“Hey, Tony. Steve.” Travis nodded to Blanchard and Finley. “I see I made it just in time.”
“We were just getting started,” Finley said, extending a handshake.
Travis crushed Finley’s hand in his massive paw, eliciting a wince from the Inspector. He offered a handshake to Blanchard next, who pretended not to notice. Then he hung his jacket over the back of a chair and sat between Val and Blanchard. The two men shared the same height, but Travis’s hefty frame dwarfed Blanchard’s, almost hiding him from Val’s view, and vice versa. Which, Val guessed, was Travis’s intent.
“So where were we?” Travis said. “Let me guess. You were reminiscing about the good old days when we first got on the force. How internal investigations trampled over the rights and dignity of patrol officers. So glad we’ve adopted rules since then that leveled the playing field, eh, Tony?”
Blanchard’s expression soured even more, somehow. “Never mind all that. Let’s get to the meat of the matter. Officer Peterson filed a complaint, alleging you assaulted him at the Blue Line—”
“Peterson sexually assaulted me,” Val said, seething. “I defended myself. Period.”
Travis rested a hand on her arm. “Let’s listen to the allegations in full before we respond,” he said, his voice calm. “Please continue, Inspector.”
“Witnesses corroborated Officer Peterson’s account,” Finley cut in. “Story goes, you and Peterson were flirting inside the bar, talking real close and lots of touchy-feely. Then you invited him to follow you out to the patio area and, you know, one thing led to another.”
“No, we don’t know,” Travis said, cutting Val off. “Please elaborate. Who is this witness?”
“That needs to stay confidential for now,” Blanchard said, his tone curt. “The last thing we want is to raise the potential for retribution or witness intimidation—”
“Like I could intimidate Tackle Box Simpson?” Val said, incredulous. “He’s twice my size with thirty years seniority, not to mention rank and political pull for God-knows-what reason. Simpson’s the one trying to intimidate me and exact revenge for getting his ass suspended last fall. Rightfully so, by the way.”
“Nobody mentioned any names,” Finley began, but Val cut him off.
“Come on, it’s no secret he’s behind all this crap. And stop calling Ben Peterson ‘Officer.’ He hasn’t even clocked in here yet.”
Blanchard blew out a noisy breath and leaned around Travis to glare at Val. “The point is, you don’t deny assaulting Peterson—”
“Of course I deny it!”
“And as my colleague mentioned a few minutes ago,” Blanchard said, talking over Val’s objection, “you two have a rather sordid history of romantic entanglements intermixed with hostility—”
“There was never a ‘romantic entanglement’ of any kind between us!” Val stood and slapped the table. “If he’s claiming that, he’s lying. Hell, everything he’s alleged is a damned lie. Every word!”
“Val,” Travis said, again in a calm tone. “Please. Sit. Listen.” He waited for her to sit, then leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Try not to respond, okay? That only plays into their hands. We need to learn everything they know before volunteering any information. Got it?”
Val nodded, heat flushing her face and neck.
“So, Steve.” Travis turned toward Finley, almost turning his back on Blanchard. “Can you provide the details of this alleged ‘sordid history’? What is Peterson claiming went on between them that led up to this?”
Finley cleared his throat and cast a quick glance at his senior partner, who fluttered his fingers as if to say, Go ahead. “It’s, ah, not a real detailed account. Peterson says he and Dawes socialized in a romantic capacity back at the academy—”
“Psht!” Val couldn’t hold back her objection, despite Travis’s warning. “Ben asked me out, and I—”
Travis held up his hand in front of Val’s face to quiet her, nodding at Finley.
“And it didn’t end well,” Finley finished for her. “Dawes took out her anger on Peterson in a self-defense workshop.”
“I executed the self-defense technique being taught—”
“Shh!” Travis’s eyes widened, his face growing red with impatience.
Val closed her mouth, swallowed, and nodded.
“A little over a year ago, both were assigned to an inter-city task force. Dawes took every opportunity to humiliate Officer Peterson, who was then an officer with the Hartford force,” Finley said. “When the two met up in the Blue Line last night, Dawes engaged in good-natured banter and initiated intimate contact with Peterson. Squeezed right up next to him at the bar, despite the COVID distancing guidelines. He says she dropped strong hints that Peterson should follow her outside into a private space for a more, ah, private rendezvous, so to speak.”
“That. Is. All. Utter. Bullshit!” Val ignored Travis’s consternation and raised hand. “I did no such thing.” She thought her blood might boil right out of her skin.
“Then,” Blanchard interrupted, his tone impatient, “when Dawes noticed they had company—witnesses to their little make-out session—she panicked, grew violent, and assaulted Peterson. Allegedly,” he added when Travis seemed ready to interrupt. “The assault, which Ms. Dawes does not deny and instead claims is ‘self-defense,’ resulted in serious injuries to Mr. Peterson, requiring treatment by medical professionals. That part is fact, not allegation.”
“Really?” Travis said, his tone gleeful. “She put him in the hospital?”
Val suppressed a smirk. She hoped.
“Peterson checked in to urgent care, yes,” Finley said. “It seems Ms. Dawes got a few good licks in.” He, too, seemed amused.
Not Blanchard. His tone grew even sharper. “Ms. Dawes, you’re trained in martial arts, are you not?”
“Jiu jitsu,” Val said before Travis could stop her. He flushed red, and she thought he might explode. Chastened, she declined to elaborate further on her training.
“Did you employ those techniques in your, ahem, ‘self-defense’ maneuvers against Ben Peterson?”
“Ms. Dawes prefers not to answer,” Travis said, quicker than Val this time, “until we’ve heard the entirety of the allegations against her.”
Finley and Blanchard exchanged weary glances. “That’s pretty much it,” Finley said. “Now we’d like to hear what Dawes has to say. Her side of the story, so to speak.”
This time Val waited and let Travis respond. “Give us a few minutes alone to confer, would you?” He pointed toward the door.
Blanchard signaled to Finley with a raised hand: Stay put. “That’s not how this works,” he said. “You’re not her lawyer, Blake. You’re here to observe, to make sure we follow the process. We get to ask questions and Dawes answers them. If she’s honest and forthright, things go a lot smoother for everyone. If she lies or stonewalls us like you’re advising her to do…things don’t go so smooth.” His tone grew menacing.
“I understand,” Travis said. “What I want to do is help Val understand the situation and inform her of the process. I’m not saying she should withhold anything. I just want the conversation to be…productive. We all want that, right?”
Blanchard scowled, but Finley put on his friendly-smiley face again that struck Val as utter fake bullshit. “Sure, sure,” he said. “We’re okay with that, aren’t we, Tony?”
Blanchard stood and stomped out of the room, muttering under his breath.
“I guess we’re taking a quick break, then,” Finley said. “See you in five.” He followed his partner out, closing the door behind him.
“Now,” Travis said, turning to Val. “Tell me what really happened.”
The rain stopped after lunch, which, on Fridays, was always Connor’s favorite: mac and cheese with extra cheese on top, sliced apples, and chocolate milk. So much better than what Mom ate: kale salad with beets and some sort of rice-like thing, king-wa or something. It looked yucky, and he said so. But Mom said that’s what kept her skinny and healthy. Dad came in and said she could stand to chow down on some mac and cheese once in a while. That made her sad, and even though he said “Only kidding,” Mom cried and locked herself in her downstairs bedroom again. Which she called her “workout studio,” although she kept a bed in there next to her Pilates machine. Most mornings that’s where she’d come out, wearing PJs and rubbing the sand out of her eyes. So it had to be her bedroom, right? Dad slept upstairs in the largest bedroom, next to his office, a room Connor never, ever went in. Ever.
With no Mom to tell him he couldn’t, Connor put on his warm jacket and hat and ran outside to play. He returned to his favorite spot on the banks of Clearwater Creek, his mom’s science lesson from that morning fresh in his mind. Today they’d studied a fascinating new subject: rocks. The building blocks of geography…no, that wasn’t quite right. Geo-log-raphy, or something like that. Darn. He’d already forgotten the most important thing—the name of his new-favoritest science. Flunk!
Anyway. Connor’s camp-out spot on the creek, which he wanted to call his secret hideout except that Uncle Ambrose had already discovered it, had lots of cool rocks. Today’s homework from Mom: find at least five new kinds and figure out their names. Mom hadn’t taught him all the names, though, so he might need to come up with some on his own.
He found three super-fast. First, slate, a shiny, black kind that formed in flat layers and poked its sharp edges out of the dirt pretty much everywhere. When he picked up a piece, it broke in his hands, even though it felt super hard. Mom called it “brittle.” Which must mean “breaks easy,” because it did. He’d discovered a long time ago that “slate” skipped really well on the surface of the stream if he flicked his wrist right. In Connor’s mind, he called those kinds of rocks “skippers.”
Almost as abundant (a word that Mom said meant “lots and lots of it”) were the brownish-gray speckly rocks that covered the bottom of the creek. She called those “sandstone,” a word that made him laugh. How could it be sand and stone at the same time? Connor called them “potato rocks” because they looked like unpeeled potatoes, except without the little eyes that grew into new potatoes. Or rocks, in their case.
He searched all afternoon and saw all kinds of rocks. He picked up samples of each, hoping that Mom would feel better and give him an extra lesson to help identify them. If she stopped being sad. Maybe if he found some pretty ones, it would help cheer her up.
While reaching for an extra-sparkly one that looked like a robin’s egg, voices rose up nearby. Grown-up voices, but not voices he recognized, like Mom or Dad or Uncle Ambrose. Or even Miss Embley, who cleaned the house on Mondays and sometimes helped Dad in his office on days when Mom went out somewhere. He couldn’t tell if they were men or women or one of each. One of them talked with a funny accent, sort of like the Apu character in Dad’s favorite cartoon, The Simpsons. It sounded like they were coming toward him from downstream. Not in the stream itself—probably up on the hiking trail. The one that followed the brook from the state park to the cabins that his parents owned and sometimes rented out to tourists in the summer.
Not usually in March, though.
Stranger danger!
He crept up the bank of the creek, secret and quiet like a spy, careful not to step on sticks or anything that would make a noise. The rain made everything pretty soft, so that helped. When he reached the top, he peeked out over the bushes toward the trail.
Sure enough, two people, not far away, maybe the distance of running from home plate to first and second base in baseball. Much closer than he’d guessed. A small man with brown skin, dark hair, and bright white teeth. Big teeth! Not like Dad’s or Uncle Ambrose’s or Connor’s. Even larger than Mom’s normal-sized teeth. And a woman with broad shoulders and a man-like face, dark eyebrows, short black hair, and a big chin. And the Adams-Apple thing in her neck that usually only men had. But holy mackerel, what big boobs! Way bigger than Mom’s, even bigger than Miss Embley’s. Which Mom said were fake, so probably this lady had fake ones, too. Her skin was kind of dark, although not as dark as the man. She looked twice as strong as him, too. She even carried a big basket of stuff, like one of those pick-a-nick baskets he’d seen on TV. The man carried only a walking stick.
The man said something that made the woman laugh, probably one of those things grown-ups think is funny but really isn’t. They got all giggly and she hugged and kissed him, ew, even as they walked. Connor was glad it wasn’t funny to him—he didn’t want to laugh and give away his secret position. But to keep it secret, he’d have to move, or they’d see him soon. The trail would cross the brook upstream a ways and they might look back and see him easy-peasy, with him wearing a red jacket and hat, plus white shoes. He didn’t look like a rock or a plant or even a deer.
He beat a “hasty retreat” as Dad liked to say, scampering down the bank to the side of the stream. There he waited for them to pass by, which they did without looking down at him at all. While they continued upstream toward the footbridge, he crept downstream to where he could climb back up the bank unseen.
Connor hadn’t finished his rock-finding homework, but he had all weekend to do that. He’d encountered strangers. He had to tell someone. A grown-up who could keep him safe.
He hoped Mom had gotten over her sadness and would come out of her “studio” soon.
Val stared at her folded hands on the table in front of her, her mood as gloomy as the gray, rainy weather outside. “I screwed up, didn’t I?” she said to Travis Blake, who paced the small meeting room in silence.
Travis glanced at her, his body turned sideways at the opposite end of the table, hands clasped behind his back. He sighed and shook his head in dismay. “How many times did I tell you to shut up and listen? More than once, right?”
