Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3) Page 3

  That line, which I’d stolen from somewhere, got a lot of people laughing and nodding.

  “And I know it’s hard not to let the bastards grind you down. You get tired and discouraged, and it seems like it doesn’t matter, because even if you’re doing the best you possibly can, that’s still not going to bring your loved one back. And, of course, that’s the only thing that would make you whole. But you can honor your loved one by not giving up. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve been knocked down as long as you’re still getting up.”

  I looked over to Walker, my signal for a reprieve. I had covered all the points on my index card, and then some.

  “Detective Gideon knows something about being knocked down,” said Walker. “He lost his wife to illness not long before both he and Sirius were hurt in the line of duty and had to go through extensive physical therapy. But Detective Gideon didn’t give up. He didn’t let the bastards grind him down. What’s that Latin phrase of yours, Gideon?”

  “Noli nothis permittere deterere.”

  “Words to live by,” said Walker. “And you know what I like about it? You can’t help but sound smart when you go around speaking Latin.

  “Now, I have plenty of questions I want to ask Detective Gideon, but I’m going to have the opportunity to do that later. So if you don’t want me to hog the detective’s time, this is your opportunity to ask your questions.”

  A dozen arms shot up. Usually people ask me about Ellis Haines or want details about the night we arrested him. For once, those questions didn’t surface. The 187 Club wasn’t interested in the voyeuristic aspects of that case; they had more pressing questions of their own.

  I was asked how I handled stress and avoided being ground down by the bastards. I was put on the spot as to whether, as a matter of course, I offered loved ones of the victim advice as to where they could go for help. And then I was put on the spot again when I was asked what advice I gave to loved ones of victims. Two people asked variants of the same question: How could they make sure their cases didn’t slide to the investigative back burner?

  “As I’m sure Detective Walker has told you,” I said, “if you want detectives to keep working the case, you might have to act as an advocate of the deceased. You should think about using social media and devote a website to the victim and what happened to him or her. I also would look into using Twitter or Instagram. The more outlets you have, the better your chance of getting someone to come forward who might know something about your case.

  “Do whatever you can to get the fruit to fall from the tree. Someone out there knows something. It’s possible you can prod the conscience of a reluctant witness. People might have heard something after the fact. Or they might remember an important fact. Keep posting reminders. Use whatever you can to keep the case alive, be it birthdays or memorial dates or any tie-in you can think of. And use LAPD social media if you can. In addition to our official website, there are plenty of departmental Twitter accounts you can follow. Don’t hesitate to ask those accounts to reference your case.”

  I called out some of the Twitter accounts I knew offhand, such as @LAMurderCop and @77thHomicideCop, and saw some people writing them down.

  “Two more questions,” Walker announced.

  I looked at the clock and was amazed to see it was already six forty-five.

  “And one of them better not be where you can find the best doughnuts,” I said.

  It was the best comic relief I could come up with for what had been an intense evening.

  The Hispanic woman who’d been helping Langston earlier raised her hand. She was an attractive woman, but her prominent frown lines and heavy dark circles bespoke a troubled life. I signaled her with my finger.

  “I’m Catalina Ceballos,” she said. “My husband was shot to death three years ago. According to LAPD, his case has been solved, and yet his murderers have never been convicted. When I tell people this, no one seems to understand how that could be. There was never even an arrest. On the books, LAPD says they solved this case. They call it a ‘cleared other.’ Because of that I’m in limbo. The police say they know who killed my husband, but the district attorney said there wasn’t enough evidence to make a case. How is this possible?”

  “I am sorry for your loss,” I said. “Unfortunately, there are certain homicides that don’t lead to an arrest but are sometimes still designated as ‘cleared other.’ For example, murder/suicides are almost always categorized as ‘cleared others.’”

  “My situation wasn’t like that,” Catalina said, her voice cracking slightly. “And there are others here”—she glanced at a white man sitting next to her—“whose cases LAPD also solved with an eraser.”

  Her voice had grown huskier, but she fought off tears and tried to continue speaking.

  “The men that murdered my husband have never spent a day in jail. And when I try to get the detectives to do something, the only thing that happens is that I get threatened by the gang that murdered my husband!”

  Catalina stopped speaking, her emotions silencing her. The man sitting next to her offered his hand and then stood up. He had long brown hair and appeared to be in his early thirties.

  “I’m James,” he said. “Catalina’s situation is Kafkaesque. LAPD is cooking the books to improve its homicide clearance rate and not giving us any answers.”

  “While I sympathize with what Catalina has had to go through,” I said mildly, “I wouldn’t call it cooking the books.”

  “Then why does the L.A. Times continue to run stories saying the department’s homicide solve rates are bogus?”

  I had read those stories, and also the department’s rebuttal. “LAPD admitted that in 2014 and 2015 there were some clerical errors, but subsequently the solve rates turned out to be actually better than first reported.”

  From her seat, Catalina found her voice: “Did you know that more than ten percent of LAPD’s homicide solve rate over the last few years have been ‘cleared others’?”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” I said. “But sometimes there are reasons that are out of the hands of LAPD as to why charges weren’t filed or arrests weren’t made. As a cop, I can tell you we like putting away the bad guys.”

  “When a case is officially closed,” said Catalina, “detectives no longer have any reason to gather evidence.”

  “Is there a question there?” I asked.

  She shook her head, and it was clear I hadn’t won her over. “I’m not sure if there is. I just thank God that Langston is trying to help reopen my husband’s case.”

  Langston decided I’d been on the hot seat for long enough. “Ronaldo, last question,” he said.

  A Hispanic man who looked to be about forty stood up. He was wearing a soccer shirt in the colors of one of the Premier club teams, but I didn’t know which one. I wondered if Ronaldo was his real name or if it was a nickname inspired by the soccer player.

  “So, what do you do when your homicide dick retires,” he asked, “and the new dick refuses to do jack about your case?”

  “I’m sorry if that’s what you’re experiencing,” I said. “Obviously I don’t know the particulars of your situation, but sometimes perception isn’t the reality. Some detectives communicate better than others. It’s possible the new detective has been working the case but hasn’t kept you in the loop. So what you need to do is schedule a meeting with him, and then you should document everything that’s said. Insist that you be kept up to date. If nothing changes to your satisfaction, you can ask that the case be reassigned to another detective. But again, the more documentation you do, the better your argument will be.”

  A few more people in the audience tried to sneak in a last question, but Walker said, “No, no, and no. Rest assured, I will prevail upon Detective Gideon to come back in the future so that you can ask him more questions, but right now all I want to hear is some applause.”

  The clapping sounded generous to my ears, and I nodded in appreciation.

  “I look forw
ard to seeing everyone next month,” said Walker. “I’ll probably need that long to recover from my annual Cactus to Clouds trek.”

  Most in the audience seemed to know about Walker’s walk, but he explained for those who didn’t.

  “Every year on the anniversary of my son’s death, I hike from the Skyline Trail in Palm Springs to the Mountain Station in Mount San Jacinto. It’s my way of making the worst day on the calendar one of the best. Like I’m always saying, we need to find ways to take the sting out of death.

  “As we do every meeting, I close with the poetry of Langston Hughes, who I was named for. Tonight, as I often do, I’ll recite his poem ‘Dreams.’”

  Langston the poet, and Langston the cop, urged everyone to hold fast to their dreams lest they become a broken-winged bird incapable of flight. It was a very short poem; it reminded everyone that despite what had happened, they still needed to dream.

  We were the living, but many in the room needed to be reminded of that.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE LAST SUPPER

  Walker gave me the name and address of where we would be eating and said he’d meet me there. The restaurant was located in the Baldwin Hills Mall, which was only about two miles from the park.

  As Sirius and I settled into the car, I said, “Given the meeting we attended, I think we need some appropriate music for the drive. What do you say we go really old school with Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor?”

  Sirius didn’t respond one way or another.

  “Maybe organ music is a bit much,” I conceded. “But in that case we should probably rule out hard rock as well. So let’s eliminate Metallica’s ‘Fade to Black’ and ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls.’ And I think we also need to rule out Queen’s ‘The Show Must Go On.’”

  I chewed on my lip and deliberated. “Let’s not go the ballad route either. No Elton John’s ‘Candle in the Wind.’ But I’m thinking we can choose from three golden oldies: A, Bob Dylan’s ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door’; B, Elton John’s ‘Funeral for a Friend’; or C, Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper.’”

  Sirius wagged his tail for both B and C, but C got it by a hair—or hairs. “Tough choice,” I agreed, “but what’s life without more cowbells?”

  In my T-shirt collection I have one with a picture of Christopher Walken and the words I Got a Fever, and the Only Prescription Is More Cowbell. It references one of my favorite Saturday Night Live skits.

  I found the selection on my phone, which synced with the car’s sound system, and the music started. It was the right background for me to contemplate our time with the 187 Club. It’s one thing to offer up metaphysical musings about death, but it’s an entirely different experience when a loved one’s life is violently wrested away.

  John Donne wrote the sonnet “Death, Be Not Proud.” It’s an oft-repeated line. I tweaked it a little and said, “Murderers, be not proud.”

  Sirius offered up a chuff. Great minds think alike.

  The restaurant Walker had chosen was called Post and Beam. I didn’t know much about it other than that I’d seen celebrity Chef Govind Armstrong’s picture with his smiling face and long dreadlocks featured in several publications.

  Sirius and I waited for Walker at the outside entrance to the restaurant. The upscale bistro seemed a little out of place at a mall that housed a Walmart, a Taco Bell, and a Fatburger. The vast majority of the mall’s patrons were black, just as the surrounding community was predominantly African American.

  For a Monday night, it looked like the restaurant had a good crowd. I detected a few side glances thrown my way, which wasn’t surprising. I was a north-of-forty white dude with a German shepherd, standing on a sidewalk, which meant I might as well have been screaming, “Cop.” People wondered what I was doing there.

  After half an hour of waiting and my almost giving up on him, Walker finally appeared. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I had to put out a fire or two. Normally I would have told you to be waiting inside for me with a drink in hand, but I wanted to be here to make sure there was no problem with getting Sirius inside.”

  “You needn’t have worried about that. All police dogs are allowed to dine in restaurants. It’s the law in California.”

  “There are laws and there are laws,” said Walker. “When they got rid of Jim Crow laws, people of color could supposedly dine in any restaurant in the land, but that doesn’t mean there haven’t been occasions when I’ve run into inexplicably long wait times to get seated.”

  He led us inside, where the attractive hostess greeted him with a big smile. “It’s so nice to see you, Detective Walker,” she said. “We have your table on the patio waiting for you and your guests.”

  Her smile extended to Sirius and to me. “Please follow me.”

  We were seated on the patio and handed menus. Before the hostess took her leave, I said, “I’d appreciate it if someone could bring my friend a bowl of water.”

  “Certainly,” she said.

  I opened the menu and started scanning the offerings. It was an eclectic menu, fusion with a southern soul-food bent.

  “I’ve had everything and everything is good,” Walker said. “You shouldn’t leave without having the cornbread, and I usually have two or three sides. My favorites are the mac and cheese, the cooked greens, and the black-eyed peas.”

  “I’m trying to find an accord between my stomach and my mind,” I said. “My girlfriend has been trying to get me to eat sensibly. She’s even taken to making my lunch lately.”

  “How’s that working for you?”

  “Sirius has been eating a lot healthier.”

  Walker nodded and offered a low laugh.

  “Anything you particularly recommend?” I asked.

  “I’m a sucker for the cornmeal-crusted catfish or the short ribs.”

  I consulted with Sirius. “Ribs?” He wagged his tail and I closed the menu.

  “We can get him a burger if you want.”

  I shook my head. “He’s a cheap date. Give him a few handouts and he’s a happy camper.”

  A server appeared at our table, a midtwenties African American woman. She put the water bowl in front of Walker, and the two of them began laughing.

  “I assumed you were the friend,” she said.

  “I’ll take a water back,” Walker said, “not a water bowl.”

  “Don’t worry, Langston, you’ll get your Hennessys in a minute.”

  “You better not serve my Hennessys to that dog,” he said. “Leticia, meet Detective Gideon.”

  We exchanged nods and smiles.

  “Before too long I’m going to have to call Leticia Dr. Leticia,” he said. “She’s at USC studying health behavior research.”

  We put in our orders. After Leticia left us, Walker said, “She knew my son Isaiah. He was her same age.”

  Walker offered the background as an explanation, not as a solicitation for sympathy. “You got kids, Gideon?”

  I shook my head. “My wife and I were planning on having them.” My sentence ended with a shrug, which saved me from having to say anything else.

  “We had three, two boys and a girl. I remember two years after having our first son, Savannah told me she was pregnant, and all I could think was there was no way we could love our second child as much as we did our first. And then the third time came around when she was pregnant with Isaiah, and I thought, ‘Well, there’s no way we can love this child as much as the other two.’

  “I think people have this mistaken notion that if you have a couple of kids, it’s not quite as terrible losing one of them because you still have the others. But love is unique, just as loss is.”

  I wasn’t sure where the conversation was going. Walker didn’t strike me as someone looking for commiseration, and I wasn’t sure what to say.

  He looked up at me and smiled. “In the aftermath of the club’s meetings, I tend to get philosophical,” he explained.

  “You did a good thing starting up the club.”

>   “I’m glad you think so,” he said, “especially after the grilling Catalina gave you tonight.”

  “I can understand her frustration,” I said.

  “She wasn’t kidding about the death threats coming her way. The gangbangers think they can intimidate her. They don’t know Catalina.”

  “What happened to her husband?”

  “The Spook Town Compton Crips took exception to where her husband was dealing drugs. They said he was taking business that was theirs.”

  I nodded. The gang had been active in East Compton for as long as I could remember.

  “Crazy world, isn’t it, Gideon? You wear red or blue in the wrong neighborhood, and you pay with your life.”

  “The ultimate fashion statement,” I said.

  “Catalina says her husband wasn’t a dealer. Both of them were enrolled in community college. She thinks his death was a case of mistaken identity, but then she was a newlywed and probably not privy to his secrets.”

  I thought about Jennifer. I don’t suppose anyone thought of us as newlyweds when she died, but in my mind that’s how it seemed to me.

  “Has Catalina found love in the ashes?” I asked.

  Langston didn’t seem to understand my reference at first, but then he realized I meant her and James. “I think that hand-holding was more a case of how misery loves company,” he said.

  “Relationships have been built on a lot less. What does the department think of your trying to have the Ceballos homicide changed from a ‘cleared other’ to an unsolved homicide?”

  Langston shrugged. “The brass is a lot more concerned about the clearance rate than the detectives working the cases. You know how the higher-ups love their good numbers. Something’s wrong when top cops care more about appearances than finding killers.”

  “Victims need an advocate,” I said. “It’s a good thing they’ve got the club.”