Reversal. Chapter ten

Chapter ten

Richmond City Police Headquarters 09:00 hrs July 2nd

Lieutenant John Maynard sat on the opposite side of a desk facing his head of department, Frank Wellbeck; a thin, grey-haired man with circular black-rimmed glasses, wearing a blue-grey suit over a white, button-down shirt, and sporting a gaudy-looking, multi-coloured tie. After rubbing his eyes for the tenth time in half as many minutes, Maynard replaced his own glasses.

‘Look, Frank, you can’t suspend Wilson, not for this.’

‘Well what do you suggest I do, John? Offer him a fucking raise? Tell him there’s no hard feelings, all’s forgiven? Then let him sleep with my God-damn fucking wife?’

‘He’s done nothing wrong, Frank.’

‘Nothing wrong?’ he screamed, rising from his chair. ‘He tracked down three people, who, I might add, had nothing connecting them to those rapes, he somehow gained entry into their apartment, no doubt, illicitly, then shot two of them and forced a confession from the third by using a fucking Taser on his God-damn gonads. And if that’s not enough, the guy he fried just happens to be the nephew of Senator Edward Caine, who called me ten minutes ago to say he’s gonna have his over-priced team of shit-hot solicitors drag my ass over the coals if I don’t get Wilson off the streets, pronto.’ Pressing his palms on his desk, he leaned closer. ‘How fucking wrong does it have to get, John?’

Maynard lifted one of two folders from off the desk. ‘According to an eye-witness, a Mrs Clarissa Houseman who lives two doors down, Wilson was fired on as he stood outside their door in the hallway. That gave him just cause to return fire and enter without a warrant.’

He flicked over the page. ‘And, according to detective Wilson’s own report, the third perp, a nineteen-year-old by the name of Howard Caine,’ he said, looking over his glasses. ‘Was attempting to flee from a first-floor window when Wilson zapped him, unintentionally, in his groin. During which time, Mr Caine confessed that he and his two buddies were responsible for the rape of sixteen-year-old Maria Marsh who lives just below them, and three other recent sexual assaults we’re currently investigating.’

‘I already read that report, but this isn’t the first time Wilson's done something like this, is it?’

‘If you’re talking about the Hardman case, Wilson was acquitted on all charges and fully reinstated the same day.’

‘He’s still one volatile sonofabitch, John, a loose cannon that this department can do without,’ insisted Wellbeck, passing over the second folder.

‘What’s this?’

‘That’s what you’re going to give to Wilson.’

Maynard leafed through the folder, his eyes stopping briefly on different paragraphs as he scanned up and down the pages. Again he looked over his glasses.

‘You’re retiring him?’

‘Early retirement, he’s due to retire anyway at fifty-five, this package will give him full benefits eight years earlier.’

‘He won’t go for this.’

‘That’s not his choice.’

Maynard got to his feet. ‘Fine, and after I’ve given it to him, and then managed to pull it back out my ass, or even yours, what should I do with it?’

Wellbeck sat down, picked up the phone. ‘I need to call the senator back,’ he said, then casually waved a hand. ‘Close my door on your way out, huh!’

Across town, sitting at his usual table in “Nick’s Diner”, as he did each morning before arriving at the office, Mervyn Wilson sipped at his coffee between short bouts of twisting his wedding ring around on his finger, a habit he began two years previous. Thoughts of that night still tore shreds from his conscience, he should have stayed home, should have been with Stephanie. Friends said it wasn’t his fault, told him he wasn’t to blame, how the hell was he to know the stake-out was an elaborate set-up to get back at him? But nothing they said seemed lessen his pain, as far as he’s concerned, he should have known, and somewhere hidden in the deep recess of his mind, he’s half-convinced he did know.

Mervyn snapped forward two years when his pager gave out its shrill, triple bleat. He checked the small screen to see the numbers 911 displayed, John Maynard’s feeble attempt at humour.

Pulling out his cell phone, he called him. ‘Yeah, John, what’s up …? Right now …? No, just having a coffee,’ he said, stirring it noisily for effect. ‘Okay, be there in about an hour, got an errand to run first. Yeah, you too.’ He ended the call.

Leaving half his coffee and his customary one dollar tip, Mervyn stepped out raising a hand as a shield against the bright morning sun. As is the norm for that time of day, the amount traffic along West Broad Street turned one of the city’s busiest routes into a horn-honker’s paradise. No point in going for his car, the cemetery was only a ten minute walk anyway.