Mitch

I sat in Ken Bardwell’s office again, staring at his yellow walls and cheap paintings while I waited for our third visit to start. I didn’t like being here. I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t forced. But—and I’d never admit this to Stan or Ken—it ended up being better than I thought. Ken was a decent guy. He understood the job. And he didn’t have the habit of answering my questions with questions all the time. Even so, if five more minutes went by I’d be out of here. But just as I was about to say the hell with it and charge back out into the hall, the door opened and Bardwell walked in, his nose buried in my file folder.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said.

I put up a hand. “No problem. Probably part of my assessment, right? See how long you can jerk me around before I storm out of here?”

He laughed. Shaking his head, he sat in the chair opposite me and tossed the file on the end table between us. “Not a bad idea. How close did you come?”

“Within about twenty seconds,” I said.

“Well, I’m glad you stayed. We can mark that as progress. And thanks for coming in on short notice.”

“Let’s not pretend I had a choice.”

Bardwell raised a brow. “We back to that again? Careful, Gates, you might hurt all two of my feelings.”

I picked a stone out of the tread of my shoe and then put my palm up in surrender. “Just telling it like it is.”

Ken nodded. “Yeah? You want to tell me how shitty your week has been? Cuz if we’re having a contest, I’m going to win.”

I leaned back in my chair and rested my ankle over my knee. While Ken took a pen and pad off the table, I waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t though. He just slid his reading glasses up his nose and tapped the pen against the pad.

“You just gonna leave that there?” I asked. “Tell me, Ken Bardwell, PhD, what desk-jockey tragedy happened to you this week?”

I meant it as a joke. Sort of. Ken gave me a sideways smirk and shook his head. “I speak from experience. As much as I understand what you go through, my current job does occasionally suck beyond explanation.”

“Try me.”

Ken put his pen down. He raised a brow and looked me up and down. “PTSD and anger management. That’s what I specialize in. Military vets, police, and fire. They’re not all as well adjusted as you, my friend. Sometimes it’s fatal.”

My heart dropped. I felt like an ass. The question formed in my head, a sarcastic comeback about what could possibly be the worst thing about what he did. Then I knew. Just like he said. Not all guys like me survived. They cracked up. They hurt themselves.

“Fuck,” I said, drawing it out like the word had two syllables.

“Exactly. Fuck. So cheer me up, Gates. Tell me what’s going on with you this week. I got an email the other day inviting me to the police memorial at the end of the month. They’re doing something special for Brian Macavoy. Has that been on your mind?”

My throat felt tight. My last night with Stella replayed in my mind. I’d almost committed the cardinal sin. God, I’d wanted to. It had taken everything in me to pull myself away and stop kissing her. The way Ken Bardwell looked at me now, I could almost believe Brian’s ghost had put the question into his head.

“Not really,” I lied.

Ken put his pad and pen down on the floor and sat back hard. “Don’t bullshit me. I told you. I know how close you were. Other than that brief ten-second Q and A the first time you came in here, you don’t talk about Brian.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Isn’t there? Come on, man. I also know how that piece-of-shit Judge Pierce fits into all of this. You know I was there? At the trial, I mean.”

I hadn’t known that. My body went stiff. The man was bound and determined to pick at this particular scab.

“I’d just retired and was finishing up my doctorate. I was interning actually. A call went out. They wanted a show of support from some of the other departments. Toledo sent about a half a dozen guys. Mostly retirees. I was one of them.”

I just nodded, not knowing what to say.

“That prick fucked up. Gave the jury an out so they could convict that punk who shot him of a lesser charge. When’s he up for parole?”

I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. He’s not getting out.”

“Probably not. But you guys are going to have to go through this every few years at his parole hearings, aren’t you? Brian’s family too? Reliving it with victim impact statements and all that horror. It takes a toll. Keeps it fresh when maybe it’s best if everyone moves on. But you can’t because the worst thing that could happen is some bleeding-heart parole board thinks he’s worthy of freedom.”

Rage bubbled up inside of me. The kind that made me want to smash something. God help me, I tried to remember some of the things Ken told me to try at our previous sessions. But just then, nothing came to me.

“He’s not getting out.”

“What are you prepared to do about it?”

“Fuck you, Ken,” I said, half meaning it. “Don’t pick at this. I mean it.”

“Why not?”

I pounded a fist against my thigh. “I’m not fucking kidding.”

“Mitch, this is a safe place. Remember? And I know you hate it. You don’t think I’m a bad guy. But you hate the idea of this. We’ve been through three sessions. You have five more. You’re hoping to just check off the boxes on your list. But what about trying something risky and bold? What about trying to do real work here? And I’m sorry if I’m coming at you hard. I don’t think you’re a bad guy either. And I sure as hell don’t want to get another phone call like I did last night about another guy kind of like you. So what do you say? Give me a try. You can say anything you want. Hell, if you want to break some shit, I’ve got a few lamps I don’t really like. But one of your biggest problems is trying to shove shit down and pretend it isn’t there. Every time the subject of Brian comes up, you go cold.”

“Not every fucking thing needs to be dissected over and over again. Shit. That’s the problem with everyone today. Nobody wants to just let it go.”

Ken laughed. “You think not talking about this is letting it go? That hate’s eating you up inside. And it’s understandable. Justifiable even. But Brian’s killer is behind bars. You’re probably right. He’s never getting out. He’s a cop killer. Parole board’s not going to forget that. Not next year. Not in ten years. Not while Brian Macavoy’s father is still alive.”

I hadn’t meant to get into any of this. Later I might replay it and realize how good Ken was at what he did. He got me to talk just like some punk suspect he’d probably worked over back in homicide. Or maybe it was just that I knew there really wasn’t anyone else I could bring this up with. Whatever it was, the words just kind of spilled out of me.

“It was my fault.”

“What was?”

“Brian.”

“What do you mean?”

I sighed and dropped my head. “It should have been my call. We were both working the streets that night. He was pissed at me for … shit … I don’t even remember now. Brian was, God, how can I even say this now?”

“Say what?”

“He shouldn’t have been out there. He shouldn’t have been the one to take that domestic violence call. It was mine to take. I was closer.”

“So why didn’t you?”

I stood up. Every nerve ending in me seemed ready to catch fire. I couldn’t sit still, so I paced. “He wasn’t prepared. There’d been talk in the department about bringing me up into the detective bureau.”

“And Brian didn’t like that?”

“No. No. He didn’t. We did everything together. He was the one who actually convinced me to go into the Police Academy with him. It was his dream, not mine. And it just didn’t go the way he thought it would.”

“You were first in your class,” Ken said.

I punched the back of the chair, nearly toppling it over. “Fuck.”

“You were a better cop than Brian was.” He phrased it as a statement, not a question.

“Fuck you, Ken.” He just smiled back, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’ve read the reports, Mitch. The minute I found out they were sending you to me. I remember you. I told you I was in the courtroom for a lot of that trial. You were the closest friend he had. And none if it matters now, but Brian Macavoy was sloppy that night, wasn’t he? He didn’t wait for his partner. He tried to be a hotshot and it got him killed. Didn’t it?”

Hot tears burned behind my eyes. My whole body shook as I gripped the back of my chair. I hadn’t said it. Never let myself even form the word in my mind before. But it was the truth. I dropped my head and nodded.

“It’s okay, Mitch.”

“It really fucking isn’t.”

“So what, Macavoy jumped your call. Got himself into a situation he shouldn’t have been in and made a mistake. He didn’t deserve to die over it. Let’s not forget who the villain in this story is, Mitch. You didn’t pull the trigger.”

“I might as well have,” I shouted. “Jesus. He pissed me off. He always thought the rules didn’t apply to him. That he could take shortcuts. He did it with me. He did it with the job. He did it with Stella. But I loved him. He was my brother. And it fucking hurts.”

Ken nodded. He rose slowly from his chair and slid his hands into his pockets as he came toward me. I bent over, resting my forearms on my chair back. Ken leaned down so we were eye level.

“Yeah. It fucking hurts. You got that right, brother. But it isn’t on you. And nobody else got hurt. Be grateful for that.”

I stood up and came around the chair again, sitting down on it so hard it nearly tipped backward. Ken stood for a minute, hands still in his pockets. Then he let out a sigh and took his seat across from me again.

“Grateful. There’s a fucking word.”

“And I meant it. He had a partner that night. It wasn’t you. If Brian’s head wasn’t in the game, he could have gotten somebody else killed. That didn’t happen. So that at least is a blessing.”

I didn’t answer. My insides felt like they’d been scooped out and filled with ice.

“And what about Stella?”

I didn’t move. Didn’t dare breathe. I couldn’t do this. Couldn’t give voice to the urges I felt. It would be the last betrayal. But Ken didn’t let up.

“Stella Terry. His wife?”

“Fiancé.”

“And she’s back in town. You mentioned that the other week. How’s she handling all these memories?”

“I think our time’s up, isn’t it?”

Ken nodded and shot me that half smirk again. “Saved by the bell, are you?”

“Something like that.”

“Okay. This was good enough, Mitch. You know that, right? It’s going to keep hurting like hell for a while. I won’t kid you about that. But eventually you’re going to have to quit beating yourself up for something that wasn’t your fault. You were a better cop than Brian was. Maybe you were a better man too. It doesn’t mean you didn’t love him. And it doesn’t mean you have to keep holding the door for him, you know?”

“Yeah. I get it, Ken.”

“Good. And I hope you really do. For now though, same time next week?”

Nodding, I stood up. I hesitated as I got to the door. I knew Ken would call this a breakthrough. It didn’t feel like it. It felt like hell.

* * *

When I got back to the Public Safety Building, I had a crowd waiting for me in the conference room across from my computer lab. Stan Lewandowski, a couple of my guys, and two special agents from the FBI I worked with on occasion. Each of them had stern faces and gave off a vibe that didn’t feel like good news. A part of me just wanted to turn the fuck around and pretend I got lost on the way. My nerves still felt raw after my session with Bardwell. I’d been looking for a nice, quiet afternoon in the cave of my lab reading printouts of the latest forensics on a couple of phone dumps I had cooking. No such luck.

“Come on in, Mitch,” Stan said, holding the conference room door open for me.

I took the open seat across from Stan and held my palms up in a questioning gesture. “Can we make whatever this is quick? I’ve got a drawer full of phones to do before I can get out of here tonight.” It was more than that. Still keyed up from my session with Ken, I figured it was better the less contact I had with other people.

“It’s about Stella’s case,” Stan said, never one to beat around the bush. Heat flared in my chest. The grave faces around me took on a new meaning.

“Is she all right? Fuck. Stan. What’s going on?”

Stan waved me off. “Relax. She’s fine. Let’s let Agent Caulkins fill you in.”

Steve Caulkins was a decent, stand-up guy. We’d worked a few cases together when the feds needed local backup. He reached across the table and shook my hand as if we’d never met before. I said he was a decent guy, I didn’t say he wasn’t weird. Caulkins had a buzz cut and square face. In fact, everything about him was square. His shape, his shoulders, his personality.

“Let me get right to it,” Caulkins said. Another reason I liked the guy. He understood the value of other people’s time. “We understand a friend of yours has gotten caught up in a mistaken identity case.”

“You could say that.”

“Well, we have reason to believe Stella Terry’s case is part of a larger issue we have going on. We’d like to bring as few people in on this as possible. And I need to be straight with you. It’s against my better judgment for you to be one of them.”

“Well, thanks for that, Steve.”

Caulkins put up his hands. “Don’t misunderstand me. It’s not about the work you do. It’s because of your relationship with the victim.”

My back stiffened and Stan shot me a cautioning look. It was in me to protest that Stella and I didn’t have a relationship. At the last second I realized how shifty that might sound.

“We’re noticing a new, disturbing pattern to incidents like these. Identity theft on steroids, if you’d like. Nationwide, we’ve got reports like Miss Terry’s. People finding out they have criminal backgrounds and warrants that don’t really belong to them.”

“Okay. So you have a theory about how this is happening?”

“We do. And it’s part of an ongoing investigation. Until recently, we hadn’t been aware of how large the scope is.”

“Okay. So you’re here to start another task force? Good. Because I want in.”

“Just hear me out.”

“Steve, Stan, I mean it. You wouldn’t be here fifteen feet from my office if you didn’t need my help. So where are we?”

Stan held his chin in his palm; lines creased his forehead as he waited for Steve Caulkins to finish.

“We have reason to believe this particular scam has connections to the Russian mob.”

“Yeah.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I’m not surprised. It would have been my first guess. They’re one of the biggest players in the identity theft racket. So, they’re getting more sophisticated. This isn’t just credit card scamming.”

“No. No, it’s not. This is identity switch. Bad guy buys good guy’s squeaky clean record. Poof. Bad guy’s warrants go away and all the rest of it. Good guy gets left holding the bag and trying to undo it. By the time they’re able to, if they even have the financial resources and sophistication to figure it out, the bad guys are long gone.”

“And how do you think this is happening?”

Stan shifted in his seat. He dropped his hand to the table. “You’re not going to like it. Hell, I don’t like it.”

“But?”

“But,” Stan said. “Take Stella’s case, for example. She fills out a Northpointe Public School background clearance application. They take her prints, her social security number, driver’s license. The whole bit. Then her shit gets swapped with someone else’s.”

“Jesus,” I said. “You’re telling me you think this is happening on the inside? Through the State Police?”

Caulkins nodded. I tasted bile. Shit. Now I understood the grim faces. This thing was going to be part task force, part rat squad.

“We do,” Caulkins said. “We don’t have it nailed down yet. But make no mistake. If what’s happening is what we think is happening, you’ve got some dirty cops on the inside making the swap.”

“You don’t have to be involved with this if you don’t want to,” Stan said. I knew how distasteful he felt the whole thing was too. Cops bringing down cops was a dirty business. The worst. No one knew that more than Stan Lewandowski. He’d inherited a department with crooked command. It had taken him two years and made him a lot of enemies, but he and this department were still standing. Getting involved with this mess might ruin him for good.

“What about Stella?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” Caulkins answered.

“I mean, you can wipe this clean for her, can’t you?”

Caulkins shook his head. “Not easily, no. And it’s probably better if we don’t get involved with individual victims. If there’s a hub here at the outpost in Northpointe, we need to lay low so as not to tip anyone off. Plus, Miss Terry will have to deal with the individual jurisdictions where her record needs purging. I can give you a few names of people who can make that easier for her. But it’s better if our fingerprints stay off this, so to speak.”

I nodded. He made sense. I understood that from a logical perspective. But right now, my baser instincts kicked in. The victim in question was Stella. My Stella. No, I reminded myself. Not mine. Never mine.

“But Mitch,” Caulkins said. “There’s something else you need to be aware of.”

“Why do I have the feeling it’s not something I’ll like.”

“It might get worse for Miss Terry before it gets better.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the cases we’ve seen, it’s been a one-for-one identity swap. Like I said, those charges and warrants are real. It’s just her name and information that’s been swapped in for the real culprit’s.”

“Okay?”

Caulkins took a pause, waiting for me to catch up. “Well, obviously, your bad guy isn’t going to bother buying a new identity unless he’s got some dangerous baggage connected to the old one. Unfortunately, there have been some cases where that baggage follows the victims.”

He didn’t have to say the rest. It settled over me like ice. It meant that whatever trouble was meant to follow the scumbag who stole her identity might land on Stella’s fucking doorstep. It meant she might be in real danger.