The Witch of Watergate Page 2

  There was one other woman in the room, a recent transferee from Burglary, a severe-looking black woman who in the week that she had been on the squad had, to Fiona’s knowledge, never smiled or made a single friendly gesture to any of the others. Her name was Charleen Evans.

  The air in the badly ventilated room was filled with smoke. Rules that applied in the civilian world were not applied here, not now in this atmosphere of siege and despair. The Eggplant puffed deeply on his panatela, expelling smoke through both nostrils like a raging dragon. His bloodshot eyes squinted through the smoke, scanning the somber faces in the room.

  “Last night makes the record,” he rasped hoarsely. “We’re numero-uno, number-one in the whole fucking country. We are the cutting edge of the scythe that is mowing down American society.” He had, Fiona noted, obviously been thinking deeply on the subject, searching for words that might describe his rage and convey it to the squad. “I am . . .” He paused and again scanned the faces in the room. His eyes were heavy-lidded, tired, pitying. “. . . I am disgusted by my fellow man. The conduct of these people defies rationalization.”

  He was conveying another message as well, especially to the blacks present. It was essential that he make the moral separation between the brothers, since it was, however it might be disguised, the good brothers ranged against the evil brothers. Fiona sensed the painfulness of his having to imply such a condition and she felt embarrassed for him and the others, especially since it had to be implied in front of her, a white woman, a minority in this place, further separated by privilege and class distinctions, a reality that she detested but could not deny.

  “Under ordinary circumstances,” he continued, his words cascading on a flume of smoke, “the performance of this division would be the envy of any department in the world. Wherever. Nairobi, Bombay, or Tuscaloosa. Our apprehension record is, bar none, the top of the line. We’re making our cases stick. You people . . . I’ll say this once . . . then forget where you heard it.” Small grunts of knowing snickers rippled through the room. “. . . Are the best homicide cops anywhere. The fucking best.” He drew in a deep puff, mostly to mask a surge of sentiment. Out of embarrassment few eyes confronted him directly at that moment. Then his voice boomed out. “But, ladies and gentlemen, we are shoveling shit against the tide. We are being overwhelmed by numbers. And we are manpower short by half. The bad guys are winning. For the moment. Maybe forever. Who knows. They tell us help is on the way.” He made it clear by facial gestures in what contempt he held that promise. “Nevertheless, our job is to plow ahead, and since we are captive to a frightened and demanding establishment and an outrageous media we must follow the priorities that they create.”

  She wasn’t sure what he was driving at, glancing at Taylor, the Eggplant’s number-two, for clarification. Taylor shrugged and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. He was white and near retirement, an old hand who had seen it all. To the Eggplant he was a point of reference between the old days and now.

  At that moment Cates came into the room. As always, he was immaculately groomed and attired, looking distinctly out of place in this company of mostly males of nondescript appearance.

  “Well, well, Sergeant Cates,” the Eggplant said, bringing the full force of his general animosity into specific focus on its unwitting target. Actually, having seen public humiliations done on numerous occasions by the Eggplant, Cates’ only defense was to lock himself behind a facade of scrupulous nonreaction. “We are talking here of priorities. Apparently your priorities are not consistent with the rest of the group.”

  “I’m awfully sorry, Captain . . .”

  “Sorry? Sorry, Sergeant Cates? We are all sorry. That is the subject of this meeting . . . sorriness. We are sorry for all the killings, sorry for all the havoc, all the dead cops, all the wasted lives. We are the collectors of human garbage, the harvesters of shit . . .” He paused, glared for a moment silently at Cates, then directed his attention back to the group as Cates dived for a chair behind a line of beefy cops.

  “Priorities are as follows. From here on in, we do it this way.” He counted off the order of battle on his fingers. “Gangs and drug-related. Double or triple teams if necessary. We have been assured uniform backup. Everyone on that beat in vests. Capish?”

  A wave of mumbling rippled through the room, quickly preempted by the Eggplant. “The domestic bloodbath is strictly in second place, along with naturals and suicides. Of course, we do them. Like always. But it will be strictly skeleton crews. The name of the game is drug-related, especially the gangs. And they’re armed and dangerous. The bitch is we’ve got to get enough to make the cases, get the bastards off the streets.”

  “Fat chance,” someone whispered behind Fiona, reflecting the general disillusionment with the criminal-justice system.

  “It’s not going to be business as usual,” the Eggplant continued. “There will be changes. New partnering and, what is worse, transient partnering. It flies in the face of the way we have operated for years. But we have no choice. Not now. We’re in the midst of one fucking dangerous trench war. For us it’s a prescription for disaster. Understaffed and overworked. In wars that’s when people die.” He paused and rolled his eyes. “Things could change . . . if help ever comes.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you, Captain?” one of the men asked. It was a question posed with deference by one of the less loquacious of the group, a detective named Harding who had recently been laterally transferred from Bunko.

  “There is value in hope, Harding,” the Eggplant shot back. He panned the group once again. “The fact is, make no mistakes about it, we are in heavy combat.”

  “For which we get no combat pay,” Harding muttered.

  “Nobody is twisting your arm, Officer,” the Eggplant retorted with a sneer. The man brooked nothing less than dedication.

  The remark prompted some to exchange glances, obviously seeking allies in anger. One of the men, Robinson, a black twenty-year veteran, flat nostrils quivering with indignation, took out his piece and put it on the table.

  “They got automatic widowmakers. We got peashooters.”

  “And I got three kids,” Alberts said. Like Taylor, he was one of the few white men still putting in his time.

  “We’re cops, not soldiers, Captain,” someone said, followed by a chorus of approvals.

  To Fiona there was another, more ominous implication. The notion of combat carried with it the idea of female inequality. Women, in the fighting services, were still barred from combat. It was a notion that carried over to the police, although it was not official policy. A not-so-subtle change was taking place. Things were going to get a lot more physical in the streets. As they, the men who ran things, saw it, being physical was still a man’s game.

  She detested the idea. From her perspective it was an erosion of her rights as a police officer. Besides, she could be as physical as any man.

  The Eggplant shook his head, still contemplating the piece being exhibited on the table.

  “We are the law,” he said quietly, raising his eyes to confront the man making the challenge. “The thin blue line.”

  The statement had all the drama of simple but powerful eloquence, and it quieted the recalcitrant rumbling. Robinson took his piece off the table and replaced it in his holster. Oddly, the gesture seemed one of satisfaction, as if the Eggplant’s remark had miraculously settled the question.

  Despite all the secret ridicule and mimicry, some deserved, Captain Luther Green did command respect. His ambition was naked, his ego at times overbearing, his Machiavellian manipulation and bluster often heavy-handed, but under fire and in the logic of police reasoning, he was always the consummate professional, a leader who had the true trust of his underlings. He knew his trade and he absolutely believed, a notion not without merit, that he would make the perfect Police Commissioner. It was a goal toward which all his waking energy was devoted.

  “The bottom line is that all assignments are being shuffled,” he conti
nued, now that he had recovered his sense of domination. “Those on drug-related are to continue. Most of you on domestics and naturals will be reassigned to drug-related.”

  “Cannon fodder,” a detective named Thompson blared. It was more an observation than a protest.

  “ ’Fraid so, boys,” the Eggplant said lugubriously, confirming her worst fears. So this was one for the boys, she thought, turning to exchange glances with Charleen Evans, who avoided looking at her. Her face seemed like sculptured granite, carved forever in a fixed, unblinking, unemotional, no-nonsense expression. Her transfer had, in fact, deprived Fiona of her position as the only female on the squad, although she retained the title as the only “white” female.

  During her week on the squad, Charleen Evans had barely acknowledged Fiona’s presence. Even the bonding possibilities of their meeting in the ladies’ room had not opened up any communication, merely the barest grunt of acknowledgment. Only the forceful sound of her ablutions in the closed toilet booth hinted that she did, after all, have human qualities.

  So far, Fiona had found no common ground between them, not even on the grounds of gender. To be fair, no opportunity had arisen for that kind of alliance. Until now.

  “We’re posting new assignments for most of you,” the Eggplant said. He stood up and stamped out his panatela in the overflowing ashtray in front of him, then moved out of the room to his office.

  Chairs squeaked on the scuffed wooden floor as the squad filed out. There were few smiles. One couldn’t, Fiona felt, quite characterize these meetings as pep rallies, but they did reinforce the sense of bonding and determination that was needed to continue their operations in the face of the new reality.

  “Looks like splitsville for us,” Cates said. Having been partnered with a woman, he, too, had understood the implications.

  “I’ll raise holy hell,” Fiona said, hissing through clenched teeth, anger pumping up her adrenaline. “My badge is like yours.” She slipped it out of her purse and showed it to him. “See any balls on it?”

  “Nobody wants it, Fi,” he muttered, keeping his voice down. “You heard him. Combat.”

  It was obvious that he did not like being a party to this particular confrontation.

  “Well, I want it on principle,” Fiona said.

  She debated whether or not to jump the gun on what she was dead certain was coming. She had not long to wait. With the exception of her and Evans the entire squad was assigned to drug-related homicide. She and Evans were to continue tracking naturals. This was a prime responsibility of Homicide, checking out every death in the District of Columbia, mostly a routine task, confirming death certificates, culling data from hospitals and funeral parlors, eye-balling suspicious corpses.

  “Hope you’re not going to take this, Evans,” Fiona said.

  “Take what?” Evans snapped, not looking at Fiona. Her inquiry seemed surly, her attitude standoffish and sour. Fiona was not sure whether this demeanor was actually meant for her or was simply Evans’ regular attitude.

  “This macho-pig bullshit,” Fiona said. “They start this separating crap, you know where it ends.”

  “They got two bathrooms, lady,” Evans said between tight lips. Although her skin was dark, like bittersweet chocolate, her features were delicate, more Caucasian than Negroid, and her hair was cut in a tight helmet of curly hair, peppered by premature grey. She seemed to be Fiona’s age, mid-thirtyish, but it was difficult to tell.

  Her clothes fit well on her long frame, a solid navy blue suit with a red kerchief carefully placed where her decolletage hinted at an ample bosom tightly in check. She wore tiny gold earrings but no rings or bracelets. Fiona had already noted that her legs were shapely and muscular and she was sure that under her clothes was a tight, muscular and well-exercised body.

  Everything about her—voice, speech and carriage—announced her formidability. Fiona speculated that she was the kind of castrating black woman that scared the shit out of black men. At least that was the persona that she presented.

  She had noted that the men on the squad treated her with deference, and she had been, up to then, paired with a grey-haired, soft-spoken, black homicide veteran affectionately nicknamed “Pop” Herman, who held a hard-won reputation as a man who could charm a rabid dog into submission.

  So far they had appeared to get along efficiently, if not warmly. To put it mildly, Charleen Evans could not strike anyone as warm and friendly.

  “It’s wrong, Evans,” Fiona persisted. “He’s deliberately putting us out of the mainstream.”

  “His prerogative,” Evans snapped.

  “I can handle myself, be as physical as any man,” Fiona said. She studied Evans with deliberation, her glance washing over her body. “And I have no doubts about you.”

  Charleen Evans barely moved a facial muscle. Fiona noted that her brown eyes were flecked with yellow.

  “Sorry, lady. We got different agendas,” she said firmly, turning away. She moved to her desk, sat down and reached for the phone. Fiona followed her and stood beside the desk. She was tempted to reach out to still the hand that was punching in numbers. Instinct told her to abort the gesture. The moat that Evans had constructed around herself brooked no contact.

  “They get away with this, other things will erode. We’ll have to reinvent the wheel, go back to the regs and the statutes. It’s fucking discrimination, Evans.” In trying to regulate the decibel level of her voice, Fiona’s words came out as a wet hiss.

  With careful deliberation, Charleen Evans replaced the telephone and stopped punching in numbers. She looked up at Fiona, her eyes narrowing, her stare intense.

  “Do you wish to discuss discrimination, Sergeant FitzGerald?” she said with contempt.

  “Well, well,” Fiona said. “One of those.”

  “Those? A black bitch, you mean.”

  “We are not dealing with race here, Mama. Only gender.” She watched the woman’s eyes glaze with growing anger. You test me, I’ll test you, bitch, Fiona decided.

  “Well, well,” Evans said, unsmiling. “One of those.”

  “Put away the pussy-whip, Evans. It won’t work on me. Be an ally or an enemy. That’s your choice. I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’ve told you my position and I intend to articulate it with or without you.”

  Fiona wanted to say more, but she held off and turned away instead. This was one tough, arrogant, fearsome black broad with a big chip on her shoulder and no visible softness. She felt her eyes burning into her as she moved toward the Captain’s office. Most of the others in the squad room had scrambled, gone into combat.

  The Eggplant was on the phone. He looked up when she came in and waved his hand to shoo her out.

  “I’ve got to see you, Captain.”

  “Later.”

  “It’s rather important,” she said, raising her voice.

  “Can’t you see I’m up to my ass?”

  “I want to lodge a protest,” she said, her voice cracking, suddenly conscious of a growing feeling of impotence. He barked into the phone. Had he heard? She wasn’t sure.

  “I’m not going away,” Fiona said, her feet feeling as if they were encased in cement.

  “Then stay,” he shouted. “Who gives a shit? I’ve got more crap on my plate than any homo sapiens can handle. Two more this morning. You got it. Drug-related. Gang motivated. What the fuck have you got on your mind?”

  “It’s important,” she mumbled, but her resolve was waning. She was losing heart, feeling compassion for his dilemma. Her own concerns seemed suddenly trivial.

  “Please, FitzGerald. I appeal to your better nature. Whatever it is, put it on ice. I promise we will discuss it. But not now. Not fucking now. I beg of you.”

  There was little she could do. She felt helpless, a sense of weakness. The timing for protest was all wrong. Turning, she went back to the squad room. Charleen Evans had surely heard everything. Was she gloating? She was speaking on the telephone and did not look up.

  Fiona sl
umped at her desk, slightly disoriented, nursing her wounds, trying to salvage some self-respect. Worse, she felt defeated by this woman. Yes, pussy-whipped by her aggressive self-assurance. Fiona’s antagonism should have been directed against the Eggplant, against the male macho bigotry. Instead, it seemed concentrated in her feelings toward Charleen Evans.

  Suddenly a file slapped the desk, startling her. She saw a shadow hover, then recede. She knew it was Charleen Evans and she fought the urge to look up, lock glances. She reached for the file, but did not open it. She knew what it was, the overnight list of hospital deaths. No, she decided, patting the file. She will not intimidate me. Finally, she looked up, turned and confronted Charleen Evans.

  She was talking into the phone, but her eyes lifted when she saw Fiona’s face. It was then that she raised her middle finger, punching the air. Fiona flushed and turned away. No split decision here. Fiona FitzGerald had lost the first round.

  3

  THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT, Fiona revolved like a top in her bed, ruffling the sheets with each crease feeling like a razor’s edge cutting into her flesh. She was fully conscious, as if unable to shake a caffeine high, but try as she might she could not find her lost courage.

  Reliving yesterday had all the earmarks of a nightmare. She had spent the day trying to sublimate her anger and humiliation, finding words she might have spoken, but didn’t. It only added to her misery to know how badly she had handled the situation.

  She had, she decided, been a fool not to insist on making her protest, despite the Eggplant’s problems, if only to put her complaint on the record. The record was essential. At the least she should have started to create a paper trail. In dealing with the bureaucracy a paper trail was essential.

  It was not trivial. It was a matter of bedrock principal.

  Through the slats of her drawn blinds, visible through the sheer curtains of her bedroom, she waited for the lightening of the world. Perhaps in the new day she would find her courage. She wished she had the arms of a male to comfort her in this moment of her lost confidence, an irony that was not lost on her. But she was currently undergoing a time of shortage in that regard, some of it self-generated.