Devious - Chapter #3 - Free To Read

I slept late Friday and rushed about doing some errands. A pair of butterflies the size of Rhode Island did the mambo inside my stomach. Research can be exciting. I've traveled with a circus and walked the high wire (with a harness) during my last feature. Now, those memories seemed like a leisurely stroll compared to what lay ahead. Visions of high-speed chases, bullets flying, and sirens wailing all kept jumping through my mind. Was this really necessary? Maybe I could just hang out at a donut shop and eavesdrop on the conversations. But that would be cheating my audience as well as myself. I wanted this adventure.

On my way to the station I punched up the news channel on the car radio. I didn't like what I heard.

"Repeating the top story. Governor Aikens has announced his plan to cut staffing to the state police by twenty-eight percent next year. Despite protests from angry citizens and the troopers' union, the proposal has passed the state house. Layoffs will begin in January with the new fiscal year."

No wonder the governor had picked up the nickname Axman. He'd already cut spending to support the arts, welfare, and unemployment. What a guy.

Parking behind the building, I tried to stop wondering how the cutbacks would affect the department and concentrate on my research. The troopers would have heard the news as well. My hopes of riding with a friendly cop who could give me plenty of insight into his daily routine might have vanished with the chop of the governor's cleaver.

Inside, I found Sergeant Malone to be a wiry man with frozen cobalt in his blue eyes, and a nose that had been broken more than once. I guessed him to be about five feet eleven inches tall, a good four inches above my own height. I also guessed he was about forty. Malone's hair was jet black and worn considerably longer than Bert's. He greeted me with genuine warmth and ushered me into a private office for a brief conversation.

"The captain left a message for you, Miss Richmond." He handed over a letter- sized envelope with the state emblem in the corner. I opened it and scanned the paper.

"What's this?"

"Standard release form. The department is willing to let you accompany a trooper during his patrol, but only if you waive any claims against the state, should anything happen to you during the evening. It’s the normal procedure." Malone had a deep, gentle voice, almost sympathetic.

"What the hell." I signed the form, handing it back.

Malone returned the form to the envelope and placed it in a wire basket on his desk. I noticed how easily he handled the paperwork, and also the size of his hands. They looked strong.

"Now you’re official.”

I smiled softly. "What's the plan for the evening?"

He rested a hip against the edge of his desk. "The men don't know about you yet. It's easier to spring it on them without any warning. If we'd mentioned it earlier, there would be one of two scenarios. Either they'd all want you to ride with them, or they'd be trying to palm you off on a greenie."

"What's a greenie?"

Malone smiled. It was warm and low key and made his eyes dance. "Rookie. We've got two, fresh out of the academy, but they don't patrol alone." The smile faded. "If you heard the governor's latest budget announcement, you can figure those rookies won’t be around for very long."

I nodded. "How many men do you expect to lose?"

"All told, maybe six. Most of our officers are veterans, seven years or more. It's the young guys who will get the axe. That's the shame, because when the older ones retire, who's going to be experienced enough to replace them?"

"Too bad the governor can't order a twenty-eight percent reduction in crime, to match his budget cuts," I said.

"Dream on." Malone took my elbow and guided me toward the door. "What do we call you?"

"Jamie will do. If you get real friendly, I'll let you call me Jay."

Malone led me to a large meeting room where the roll call would take place.

There was a lot of conversation going on as we entered. I sat at a long table next to the podium, and stared out at the troopers while Sergeant Malone went through the roll call. He informed them of their assignments, noted a series of burglaries occurring in Northville, and designated vehicles. Nobody mentioned the governor's announcement. I waited patiently, hands folded on the table before me. The evening shift was made up of two female officers, three black men, and four white men. Both women were white. I was glad I'd worn jeans and a sweater. This was neither the time nor the place for skirts and pantyhose.

Malone wrapped up his spiel then cast an eye about the room. The cops all shifted restlessly, eager to be on the road.

"Kleinschmidt. Front and center. The rest of you hit the streets. And like the man used to say, ‘let's be careful out there’."

With a scuffling of chairs, the troopers left the conference room. Kleinschmidt waited until they were gone before coming forward. He was younger than most of the others. His body looked big but soft, as if he were out of condition. His hair was already receding rapidly toward the back of his skull.

"`Sup, Sarge?"

"This is Jamie Richmond," Malone said. "She's a reporter and an author. Tonight she's going to ride in your cruiser, observing your routine for research purposes. At no time is she allowed to interfere with the performance of your duties."

Kleinschmidt's full moon face fell. "An observer? Ah, c'mon Sarge. How about letting her ride with Billings or Rothman?"

"I don't want the lady bored to death with fishing stories. She wants to observe a regular trooper during his shift. That's you. End of discussion."

Kleinschmidt opened his mouth to argue his case but one good look from Malone changed his mind. Disgusted, he looked directly at me for the first time. "Okay, lady, let's go." He mumbled so softly, I almost didn't hear him. Malone followed us out to the parking area.

Kleinschmidt didn't offer to hold my door, which I appreciated. I was supposed to be an observer, not his date. He took a clipboard and filled in the upper half of a daily report. Name, badge number, rank, mileage on the car. He checked the lights, horn and emergency flasher. He shot a quick look at the tires. I glanced around for Malone. He was deep in conversation with a mechanic examining a patrol car. But his eyes met mine across the parking lot. He smiled another low-key flash of warmth. One of my butterflies did a back flip.

Kleinschmidt slid behind the wheel and keyed the engine. "Ready, lady?"

I checked my safety belt. "Ready."

He put the car in gear and headed toward the freeway.

Trooper Kleinschmidt didn't talk to me for the first hour. Our assigned quadrant was a seven-mile stretch of the interstate, south and east of the post. Two main highways intersect the area, making for a lot of activity, especially during the commute home. Mass transportation and Detroit are terms that shouldn’t be even remotely associated in the same sentence. Nearly everyone drives in the city. Carpooling is something people on the eastern seaboard might do. In Motown, it’s every man, woman and child for themselves. And each of them in a separate car.

We cruised back and forth, rotating from north to south at whatever whim struck Kleinschmidt. I listened to the chatter on the radio and watched him. The patrol car was old, five or six years at least. The radar unit was inoperable. He floated the big Chevy from one lane to another, pacing cars occasionally. Traffic was already thick, and it wasn't even five o'clock yet. Boooooorrrrrrrring. His silence was getting on my nerves.

"I'm sorry if having a passenger offends you."

"Forget it, lady. My whole day has been going like this." Kleinschmidt cut the wheel and pulled alongside a delivery truck. He flashed his lights once, waiting until the driver reduced his speed. Then Kleinschmidt drove past and continued his patrol. The truck driver tooted his horn as we went by and I fought the urge to wave.

"No tickets?" I asked.

He shrugged. "It’s hardly worth the trouble unless they're going seventy-five or faster. Truckers usually play it safe, but sometimes they need a little reminder." Kleinschmidt moved his hat from the dashboard and placed it gingerly on the seat between us.

"How long have you been on the force, officer?"

"Trooper. Three years. Thanks to Governor Axman's plans, I don't think I'll get a fourth." His eyes flicked off the road for a second and he glanced at me. "What kind of things do you write?"

“Feature stories for newspapers and magazines. And I just sold a mystery novel. Tightrope Twist. Do you read mysteries, Trooper Kleinschmidt?"

His face softened for the first time. I could easily see him with a double chin in five years. "Call me Smitty. Sorry, I only read hunting magazines. Never been much of a bookworm."

I smiled. "Everybody's different. One thing I didn't ask Sgt. Malone, what do you do about dinner?"

"We get half an hour break for meals and two ten minute breaks for coffee. I usually don't stop until after nine. It makes the last part of the shift go by in a hurry. Okay with you, Miss Richmond?"

"Jamie. And nine o'clock is fine. Tonight's my treat. It's the least I can do, since you're stuck with me."

Smitty relaxed some more and rewarded me with an actual smile. "It's a deal."

It takes a certain type of person to be a cop. The majority of the population treats you like a rabid dog. Some show respect, but not many. People still have a hard time believing you're out there to help and protect them, not just to write tickets for speeding twenty miles an hour over the limit. A lot of people never think about it, me included.

Smitty stopped an old Mustang ten minutes later for an equipment failure. The front windshield was so badly cracked that I don't know how the kid could have possibly seen through it. Kleinschmidt gave him a ticket that would be waived if the car were repaired before the court date. He talked to the kid for a while about the vehicle in general and some bodywork the kid was going to do.

I'd gotten out of the car when he did, standing on the shoulder of the interstate. Cars and the occasional truck roared by. The backwash was enough to rock you in your tracks. I stayed out of the way, but got close enough to hear what was going on. In keeping with my role as an observer, I kept my mouth shut until we were back under way in the Chevy.

"What about the speeding? He was going pretty fast when you pulled him over."

"That's my call. The department gives us some leeway with traffic situations. He's just a kid. His record is clean. If I give him a verbal warning, it might be enough to slow him down a little. Besides, if I give him a break, he can afford to get that windshield fixed." Kleinschmidt didn't look at me as he continued down the road. He was more relaxed than when we'd left the post, but still all business.

Whenever Smitty left the car, his sunglasses remained behind and his hat was firmly in place. He approached each vehicle in the same manner, cautious, yet confident. Smitty turned as he walked, giving them only a profile of himself as he neared the driver's door. I asked him about it.

"Never boldly walk up to a car. It's a good way to get your head blown off. Anybody could be waiting there, with a gun in his hand, ready to kill you."

Ten minutes later he pulled over an old Camaro with expired license plates. Three large black women were squeezed inside. They kept sneaking looks out the rear window at me, trying to see what I was doing. Kleinschmidt came back to the unit, grumbling and shaking his head.

"What a mess. The driver has an expired license. Her sister, the front seat passenger, owns the car, but doesn't drive. The one in the back has no identification." Smitty stared at the car. All three women were now watching us.

"Do me a favor, Jamie."

"Sure."

"Stand right there and cross your arms, like you're mad at the world. Stare at them. Every once in a while, check your watch."

"Okay." I assumed the position he described.

"Perfect."

"What do you do now?"

"Call it in. See what the dispatcher can come up with. This could take a while to sort out." Kleinschmidt studied the car again then jerked his head in my direction.

I listened quietly while Smitty radioed in. He wasn't surprised when the results came back. Both sisters had warrants out for their arrests, stemming from the failure to appear in court. Now his job became even more difficult. While he was finishing up with the dispatcher, another patrol car pulled in behind us. A black trooper came over to join me at the hood. His nametag read Billings. He folded his arms across his chest and spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

"You, observer, what's going on?"

"Expired plates. Smitty's checking it out with the post." I caught myself talking out of the side of my own mouth. It seemed quite natural with my tough guy posturing.

"They want me to search the vehicle," Smitty said as he climbed out of the cruiser. "Keep standing where you are, Jamie, and try to look pissed off. Care to join in, Leo?"

Billings undid the snap that held his weapon in place. "Most definitely. I'll stand guard while you do the routine."

I did as he requested. The women wiggled out of the car and stood by the rear bumper, alternately watching me and Trooper Billings while Smitty searched the interior. Eventually they seemed to ignore Billings all together. There was a lot of nervous shuffling back and forth, but the trio was more interested in watching me watch them than in Smitty's search. Fifteen minutes passed before Kleinschmidt exited their car. He called the dispatcher, relayed the information, and got further instructions. He conferred with Billings then approached the trio.

At this point, the women had a choice. Pay a large cash bond to Kleinschmidt, or go to jail. I've heard stories about women keeping rolls of cash tucked in their bras, but this was the first time I actually saw anyone who did it. All three women got into the act. They dug out more money than a Vegas pit boss in ten seconds.

Kleinschmidt spent ten minutes doing the necessary paperwork for the cash bond and writing out tickets. Still using his best manners, he politely explained the situation.

"Okay ladies, here's the story. Your plates are expired, only one of you has a license, which is also expired, and you have no insurance. You have posted bond to allow you to remain free until your next court date. Here are the receipts. However, I suggest you do not drive this car until you have taken care of these infractions."

"How we gonna get home?" the driver asked.

"Call someone else for a ride. Or call a cab. It's your decision. I can't tell you what to do, but I suggest not driving this car."

She stamped her foot. "Shit."

Billings climbed into his cruiser and returned to his neighboring patrol area. Smitty waved me back into the car and we drove away. I looked over my shoulder to see the trio climbing back into the Camaro.

“They didn't even wait until you were out of sight," I said with a grin.

"Didn't think they would."

"What was all that about me standing there watching them?"

Smitty joined the flow of traffic before answering. "They kept asking about you, wondering why you were riding with me."

"Some people get a little weird when they meet a reporter," I said.

Kleinschmidt nodded and slid the car into one of those restricted areas of the median, where he casually spun the Chevy in the opposite direction.

"I didn't tell them you were a reporter."

"What did you tell them?"

He shrugged and refused to even glance at me for a moment. "I said you were a narcotics cop. I told them you were riding with me until you got cleared from a shooting incident. Told them it probably wasn't your fault that pistol was locked on automatic."