Chapter 5 - The Blue Wall Strains
The taller detective had a badge that read Det. Kowalski, 4th Precinct. He was forty years old with the broad shoulders of an ex-college tackle and the tired eyes of a cop who had spent too many years taking orders from men who played golf with mayors.
"Marcus Vance?" Kowalski asked as I stepped out into the corridor, closing Evelyn's door softly behind me.
"That's right," I said.
"We have a complaint filed thirty minutes ago from Iron House MMA," the detective said, pulling a yellow carbon-copy report from his folder. "Four men hospitalized with severe trauma. Compound fractures, acute concussions, torn ligaments. The owner claims you initiated an unprovoked violent assault on private premises."
"Did he mention why I was there?" I asked.
Kowalski glanced at Room 314, then down at the floor. He knew. In a city this size, every cop on the north side knew Dustin Vance was an abusive bastard who hid behind his uncle's money.
"That's a separate domestic issue, sir," the younger partner said, stepping forward. He had rookie arrogance written all over his stiff haircut. "We have an open felony battery warrant requested by the magistrate."
"Show me the warrant," I said.
The rookie hesitated. Kowalski put a hand on his partner's chest, signaling him to stand down.
"We don't have the signed paper yet, Marcus," Kowalski said in a lower tone. "Julian Vance called the chief directly. The magistrate is signing it within the hour. I'm telling you this as a favor: come with us quietly now. Don't make a scene in the pediatric wing. If you fight us here, you won't get bail, and Julian's attorneys will have you buried under paper before morning."
"You want to know what happened in that gym, Detective?" I asked.
Kowalski sighed. "I can guess."
"You don't have to guess," I replied. "Dustin Vance put my daughter down a flight of stairs at midnight. He kicked her while she was on the floor until three of her ribs gave out. Then he went to his gym to drink protein shakes and laugh about it with his sparring partners."
"I understand that, Marcus. Believe me, as a father, I get it," Kowalski said, his voice dropping to an urgent murmur. "But the law doesn't care about your anger. Julian Vance funds the municipal police foundation. He bought the new tactical cruisers for our precinct last Christmas. If I don't bring you in, my captain will suspend me by five o'clock and send a tactical entry team to kick down your door in Oakridge."
I looked Kowalski in the eye. I didn't see malice in him; I saw cowardice. The quiet, institutional cowardice of men who trade their dignity for a state pension.
"Give me three hours," I said.
"I can't do that," Kowalski answered.
"You can," I said, stepping half an inch closer. "Because if you try to put cuffs on me in this hospital hallway, in front of my daughter's room, you're going to have to use those service pistols. And you know what the press does with two white shirts shooting a decorated combat veteran outside an emergency ward while his beaten daughter lies inside?"
Kowalski’s throat moved as he swallowed hard. He looked at his rookie partner, who had gone completely pale.
"Three hours, Marcus," Kowalski said through gritted teeth. "Not a minute more. At seven o'clock, the warrant goes live on the state wire. If you're not at the fourth precinct desk by then, we come to your house with a ram."
"Seven o'clock," I agreed.
I watched them turn and head for the elevators. As soon as the steel doors closed, I pulled my old flip-phone from my jacket pocket.
May you like
There was only one number saved in the speed dial that didn't belong to Eleanor, Evelyn, or the hardware store.
A number I hadn't dialed since a funeral at Arlington eight years ago.