Big Guns: The Langston Collection

By Robert J. Mendenhall

Langston. A sprawling, midwestern metropolis teeming with corporate greed and political corruption, coldblooded criminals and callous cops. But there are those who consider their vow to serve and protect a solemn oath.

 

Like Adam Pike. A former homicide detective for the Langston Police Department, Pike is now a private investigator with an ethical code that often puts his life at risk.

 

Homicide Detective Brad Elliott. Once Pike's partner with LPD, Elliott finds himself teaming with him in more than one case that tests their friendships and loyalties.

 

And Detective Sergeant Beth Dolan. A supervisor with LPD's Warrant Service Unit and Elliott's former wife. Dolan is good at her job, but self-doubt puts her team, and herself, at grave risk.

 

Seven stories of the men and women of Langston, risking and sometimes losing their lives protecting the innocent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Planet Press, LLC
• Release date: Jun 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9781954678279

Robert J. Mendenhall

Robert J. Mendenhall is retired Air Force, a retired police officer, and a former broadcast journalist for the American Forces Network, Europe. A member of Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America, Mystery Writers of America, Short Mystery Fiction Society, and International Association of Media Tie-in Writers, he writes across genres including science fiction, adventure, crime and suspense, and the occasional horror. He currenty writes the pulp action and adventure series Code Name: Intrepid. He lives in Southwest Michigan with his wife and fellow writer, Claire. And many animals. So... many... animals.

Book preview

BIG GUNS

The Langston Collection

Robert J. Mendenhall

Blue Planet Press, LLC

Copyright © 2024 Robert J. Mendenhall

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from Blue Planet Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information or permission, contact Blue Planet Press, LLC via email at [e-mail].

Cover art and design by Plasmafire Graphics

This is a work of fiction. The resemblance of any character in this book to a real person is coincidental.

ISBN-13 9781954678279

First Electronic, June 2024

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

MOMENTS OF DECISION

PRO BONO

CRITICAL CONDITIONS

BIG GUNS

NO WAY OUT

OFFICER DOWN

DIRTY LAUNDRY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PREVIEW ENOUGH JUSTICE

RJM’s CODE NAME: INTREPID

MORE FROM BLUE PLANET PRESS

BIG

GUNS

The Langston Collection

MOMENTS OF DECISION

by

Robert J. Mendenhall

In any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing. ~Theodore Roosevelt

THE ASSISTANT STATE’S attorney for Kelder County, Illinois, gathered the reports and photographs into an accordion folder and pushed her chair back. I’d worked with Ashley Hughes dozens of times before, testifying in court as a homicide detective under her skilled prosecutorial direction. She was focused and meticulous. Ethical. Relentless. Under any other circumstances, for any other case, I’d welcome her involvement. But it was my name on that case file and I wasn’t the homicide investigator. I was the suspect.

I didn’t stand. I stared at her empty chair as if she still sat there.

I’ll be honest, Detective Pike, she said. This doesn’t look good for you.

I glanced up. The icy numbness that saturated my body seemed to ripple with the movement.

Do I need a lawyer? I asked, knowing full well what an idiotic question it was.

She frowned. We have courtroom history, so I’ll have to recuse myself. Martingale will probably review the case personally. But… it might not be a bad idea for you to retain one.

I looked back at her chair and nodded. She draped her hand over my shoulder and left the interrogation room.

I couldn’t begin to count the number of times I’d sat on the other side of that table, interviewing witnesses, interrogating suspects, or just shooting the shit with other detectives. But it had a different feel from this perspective. Confining; unnerving with its nickel-gray walls and black acoustical ceiling tiles. The one-way mirror that fooled no one of its purpose. And the smell. I hadn’t noticed it before today, but the room had a dry basement odor to it.

The door opened and closed and I knew who it was without looking up.

How are you holding up? Detective Brad Elliott pulled Ashley’s chair to the side of the table, a technique we had both used when we wanted to put an interviewee at ease.

How do you think? I snapped and immediately regretted it. Brad and I had been partners for six of my fourteen years on the job with the Langston Police Department. We were the most successful team of homicide dicks in Area 2 or, according to Elliott, in the entire department.

Sorry, he said. Dumb question.

I shook my head. Ashley thinks I should get a lawyer.

She thinks this will go to trial?

I killed fellow cop, Brad.

You didn’t have a choice.

Not everyone believes that.

I believe it.

I smiled, a weak facsimile of one anyway. Well let’s hope you’re on the jury.

He leaned back, tilting his chair until the front legs came off the floor. Have you spoken with the union rep?

Uh, huh. He’ll be with me at the hearing tomorrow morning.

Good. He leaned forward. How about we head over to Woody’s and grab a drink or three?

I pushed myself up. If you’re buying, I could go for ‘or three.’

We left the interrogation room and stepped into the squad room. The afternoon watch was on duty and most of the desks were occupied. Phones rang and keyboards clacked. There were hushed conversations and an occasional bark of laughter. Two detectives from the violent crimes unit led a cuffed suspect into another interrogation room.

As I passed each desk on our way to the stairs, conversations slowed or stopped all together. Some of my fellow detectives were less than furtive with their disdain. Others, even the sympathetic ones, simply ignored me. I had never felt such isolation in a crowded room.

Dale Patrone, a thick-necked burglary investigator, sipped a mug of coffee and blocked the stairs. Patrone liked to shave once a week, so he had a perpetual shadow of stubble on his face. He reeked of cheap cigars.

Brad and I stopped in front of him. Patrone said nothing. He just stared at me, expressionless, as he sipped.

Can we get by, Dale? I asked evenly.

He continued to sip and eye me over the mug’s rim.

C’mon, Dale, Elliott said. Move out of the way.

Patrone shifted his gaze to Brad and lowered his mug. Or what? Your partner will shoot me?

I wasn’t armed and he knew that. The brass had taken my badge and gun when they put me on paid administrative leave. I knew Patrone was just trying to goad me. We had never seen eye to eye on things; our investigative techniques were different, though I couldn’t argue with his results. He and his partner cleared a lot of cases.

The squad bay behind me was completely silent.

Look, Dale… I started to say. But then I couldn’t form more words. I knew Patrone had been friends with Eric Kelly… the detective I had killed. They’d been partners before Patrone had transferred here from Area 3.

He skewered me with a stare. I locked eyes, not wanting a confrontation, but unable to avoid it.

Brad stepped between us. Seriously, Dale. This doesn’t need to get ugly.

It already is, Elliott, Patrone said.

Enough! The shout was so penetrating it seemed to emanate from everywhere but came from the other side of the squad bay.

Deputy Chief of Police Glen Ridley marched through the squad room, his face as stern as I had ever seen. Ridley was the commander of the department’s Criminal Investigation Bureau and my boss’s boss. Two gold stars adorned each collar point of his white short-sleeved shirt. He wore a black leather, basket-weave duty belt with mandatory handcuff case and sidearm holster holding his department-issued Glock Model 22. Ridley stood an even six feet with a solid frame, luminous blue eyes, and charcoal hair showing signs of silver at the temples.

Chief… I said.

Patrone’s demeanor changed immediately. Clearly, he either respected Ridley or feared him.

Ridley stopped next to me, but addressed Patrone. Don’t you have a case to wrap up, Detective?

Yes, sir, Patrone said and shuffled back to his desk.

Ridley turned and faced the squad room. He didn’t say a word. Not one; just scanned the room. Conversations continued. Typing resumed. Eyes diverted.

How did it go with the ASA? he faced me and asked.

She’s handing the case over to Martingale for review.

Did she make a recommendation?

If she did, sir, she didn’t share it with me. But I’m not optimistic.

He nodded. Stop by and see me after the hearing tomorrow.

Yes, sir, I said.

Ridley nodded again and retraced his steps through the squad room. Brad and I took the stairs, but I could practically feel the eyes of my fellow detectives piercing my back. Sharp. Like needles. Or daggers.

We pushed through the glass doors to the back parking lot. Look, Brad… I’m not up for drinks. Especially at Woody’s. Not tonight. Woody’s was a cop bar. I could expect to find the same hostility there.

I get it, he said without a trace of judgement or disapproval in his voice. You know, the truth will come out and when it does, a lot of those dickheads are going to feel foolish.

The truth is already out there. They’re just waiting on a ruling to justify their anger.

Suit yourself, he said as he pointed his remote start at our… his department sedan. It chirped and fired up. Brad was always lighthearted. Quick with a joke and first to put a positive spin on a negative thing. But he turned serious now. Don’t do anything foolish, Adam. Don’t get drunk alone and don’t… He paused.

I’m not going to eat my gun, if that’s what you’re worried about. It was. I could tell. The suicide rate was high in law enforcement. I personally knew three cops who had taken their own lives when things had turned to shit for them.

He nodded, but I could tell he still had his concerns. Okay. But if you need me, partner, you call me.

Thanks. I will.

Brad got into his car and drove out of the lot. I went to my Ford Explorer, started it up, and sat behind the wheel, unsure of what was going to happen and fearing the outcome.

Star with solid fill

The Internal Investigations section was a review board of the Office of Professional Standards, which itself was an executive branch of the superintendent’s office and comprised entirely of civilians with no operational connection to the rest of the department. It was structured that way deliberately and it worked. At least I always thought so, but I had never been the subject of an internal before. Now, I was unsure and anxiety-ridden.

I sat in the lobby of the ninth floor at One Police Center and waited for my union representative to arrive. I’d only been up here twice before, neither for discipline. Compared to the opulence of 1PC, the facilities at Area 2 Headquarters were positively spartan. These floors were lushly carpeted, the walls richly paneled. Light piano music played from recessed speakers in the ceiling. The smell of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air. The receptionist was elegantly dressed and answered the telephone with a pleasant, professional voice. Behind her, a series of glass doors led to the various offices of the command staff and the superintendent.

I checked my watch for the third or fourth time in the past twenty minutes. My rep was late. I’d never known a union representative to be late for a hearing such as this. It was… not done. Union reps were sworn officers, sometimes patrol officers, sometimes supervisors, but always available and un-harassed by command. That was in the negotiated contract.

Detective Pike? the receptionist said, holding her hand over the mouthpiece of her phone.

I looked up.

The review board is ready for you.

I checked my watch again for no good reason other than nerves. My union representative isn’t here.

She relayed that information and listened. Her face slackened for a moment, then resumed its professional veneer.

I’m sorry, Detective. Mr. Lowry said the hearing will proceed with or without you.

I couldn’t make my case if I wasn’t in the room. I stood. All right.

She spoke into the phone again, then hung up. You can go right in. The conference room will be the third door on your left.

Thank you.

I’ll send your representative in as soon as he arrives.

I gave her a weak smile and a subtle nod. The glass door labeled Offices of the Superintendent of Police buzzed and I pushed through them. A sign on the conference room door said Hearing in Progress. Do Not Enter. I knocked and a moment later the door opened.

I’m Detective Adam Pike, I said, trying to imbue my voice with confidence. I may not have pulled it off.

Come in, Detective, the man said and stood aside. I’m Eugene Lowry. Please take a seat. He motioned toward a chair on the wide side of a twelve-foot by six-foot conference table. Lowry moved to a seat directly across from me and between two others.

Detective, Lowry said, turning to his left, this is Aaron Reynolds and, he indicated the woman on his right, this is Melissa Shaw.

I nodded at each introduction, making eye contact and sizing them up. Reynolds appeared to be in his fifties, with thinning gray hair and a pattern bald spot on the crown of his head. He wore a pair of cheap readers low on his nose, the kind with a round frame on the bottom and straight across on the top like my grandfather used to wear. His suit coat was navy, his shirt powder blue, and his tie navy pinstripe. He exuded bureaucracy.

Melissa Shaw was a handsome woman, also in her fifties I guessed. She wore a gray pants suit, the jacket of which covered an ivory silk blouse buttoned to her throat. No jewelry I could see. Hair dyed just enough to offset the onset of gray and tied behind her head in a knot. I couldn’t see them, but I suspected her shoes were sensible.

Lowry, on the other, might have been in his early to mid-forties. He wore a neatly groomed circle beard slightly lighter in color than his dark-brown hair, open-collared white shirt under a tan sport jacket, gold-plated wristwatch, and a simple gold wedding band.

At the far end of the table, a department stenographer recorded the hearing. The room was functional without losing any of the lavishness of the ninth floor—whiteboard, podium, television monitors, AV screen, coffee bar, min-fridge. A soft drone of moving air emanated from the ceiling returns of the air conditioning system.

Would you like some coffee? Water? Lowry asked.

I declined both.

All right. This hearing is being recorded by audio recorder and stenographer… he read the date, time, and location aloud. He reintroduced the board members, himself, and me for the record.

Detective, he said, Do you know the purpose of this hearing?

I do, Mr. Lowry. But I would like it on the record that my union representative is not present and I am voluntarily proceeding without him.

So noted. I would like at this time to read into the record… Lowry went on to read from my personnel file such mundane information as my date of hire, academy ranking, performance evaluations, etcetera etcetera.

Fourteen years on the job, Lowry added, and not one disciplinary action. Not even a written warning. That’s impressive. And I see you were awarded the department’s Medal of Valor. He glanced up from my file with a raised eyebrow.

Yes, sir.

You’ve had an exemplary career.

Thank you.

A single, loud rap at the door drew an annoyed look from Lowry. He got up and answered the knock. Dale Patrone sidestepped Lowry and took a chair next to me.

What are you doing here? I said.

I’m your rep. There was no joy in his voice.

Since when?

Since an hour ago.

An hour? Then why are you late?

I got lost. Patrone folded his hands on the table and smiled at the board.

Lowry shut the door and sat. That he wasn’t pleased with the disruption was painted all over his face.

Let the record show that Detective Pike’s union representative has arrived. State your name for the record.

Detective Louis Dale Patrone on behalf of Detective Adam Pike.

This did not go over well with me. I knew that Patrone had been a union rep in Area 3, but he’d never assumed that role when he transferred to Area 2. How the hell did he weasel his way into this? I didn’t trust him to look out for my best interests and quite frankly I would have preferred to have gone it alone.

All right, Lowry went on. Detective Pike, we’ve read your report and the supplemental reports by others involved, and have conducted thirteen interviews. The purpose of this hearing is for you to provide testimony. To present your account of events culminating in the death of Detective Eric Kelly.

I flinched at those last words—in the death of Detective Eric Kelly. I understand.

Before we get to that, Shaw slid a folder to Lowry, Some new evidence has come forward.

I expected my union rep to object, but Patrone said nothing. Lowry removed an eight-by-ten glossy photograph from the folder and slid to me. I picked it up and stared at the image. It was a bit grainy, as if taken from a distance. Probably a cell phone. It was the first photo I had seen of the shooting and it was surreal. Like an out-of-body experience. I was looking at me the moment I pulled the trigger.

Patrone didn’t bother to look at the photo.

Where did this come from? I asked.

I’m not at liberty to say, he told me.

Has this photo been examined by forensics? To see if it has been doctored? I asked as I handed it back to him.

Are you saying that’s not you in the photo? Reynolds asked.

It appears to be me. It appears to be the scene. In a criminal case, this photo would have been thoroughly examined for authenticity before it would be used in a court of law.

Shaw leaned forward. This is not a court of law, Detective. This is a hearing to determine if you violated department policy and if you should be fired.

Still, Patrone remained uninvolved. The man was useless to me. I understand that.

Let’s move on, Lowry said as he slipped the photo back into the folder. You understand that, even though you were ordered to appear before us, you cannot be compelled to testify?

I understand, Mr. Lowry. I’m willing to testify.

Lowry nodded. All right. Why don’t you give us your account, starting with how it was you came to be partnered with Detective Kelly on that day.

My thoughts swirled as I took myself back. A rock formed in my gut. I closed my eyes for a moment, inhaled deeply, exhaled.

That morning, I…

Star with solid fill

I sipped my tepid coffee and grimaced. Shit, that’s bad.

At the desk facing mine, Brad Elliott grinned and tapped his Starbuck’s cup without looking away from the computer monitor. Never touch that swill. Only the good stuff for me.

Yeah, well, you may be onto something. I pushed my chair back and carried my mug to the sink near the coffeepot, and poured it out. I pulled the smoking