Benefit of the Doubt: A Novel (11 page)

Alex kissed her father wistfully on the cheek, thinking again of the strength he once possessed. She lingered another moment before leaving him alone in the afternoon sunlight, trapped in the prison of a broken body and a mind cursed with memories of the man he used to be.

THIRTEEN

The muscle car caught six inches of air as it hauled into the lot crowded with black-and-whites. Half a dozen cops looked up at the sound of the downshifting engine, but their faces registered only mild annoyance. Everyone had grown familiar with the car and its driver’s antics. McKenzie swung hard into an open spot, almost clipping a motorcycle cop, who made an abrupt fishtail stop to avoid the collision. The helmet head gave a blast of his siren and extended the middle finger of a leather-gloved hand.

McKenzie gave a dismissive wave. What some traffic cop might think of him didn’t matter a damn bit. McKenzie tapped his jacket pocket. It was time for his regular meeting with the boss.

McKenzie strutted through the building and headed straight to the chief’s office, a swagger in his step. He entered the executive suites and passed the desk of Bernice Erickson. When she picked up the phone as if she intended to inform the chief of his arrival, McKenzie waved her off.

“Don’t bother, sweetie, he’s expecting me.”

Bernice scowled at the term but put the phone down and returned to her work. McKenzie smiled with the knowledge that only certain individuals enjoyed unfettered access to the standoffish new chief, and he was one of them. As was customary with the man, the door to Jorgensen’s office was closed. McKenzie gave a light knock then went in, reclosing the door behind him.

Jorgensen was enjoying his rise to power with a fat Cuban Punch Corona. The chief motioned to a box of twenty-five on his desk. McKenzie made his selection, then rolled the cigar under his nose for a moment before leaning in and allowing Jorgensen to blaze him up. Lars Norgaard’s long-standing enforcement of a smoke-free environment was gone; the two men sat in silence, enjoying the elite cigars.

Walter Jorgensen had been with Newberg PD as long as old man Norgaard himself. The two crusty old vets had come up through the ranks together, rivals of a sort. Where Lars Norgaard might bend a rule or two in order to catch a crook, McKenzie knew that Jorgensen was more about looking out for his own self-interest. That was why McKenzie had fallen in with Jorgensen at the start of his own career, recognizing it was Jorgensen that would get him what he wanted.

Over the years, there had even been rumor of some major confiscated dealer swag that had somehow disappeared off the department evidence logs. Jorgensen had never been in the middle of any inquiries, but you could always find him on the edges.

When Norgaard and Jorgensen competed for the job of chief of police and Norgaard won, it was assumed Jorgensen would follow the law enforcement tradition that ensured smooth operations and retire. Instead, Jorgensen not only remained, but Norgaard surprised everyone by naming Jorgensen his number two in a public gesture of conciliation.

Over time, an uneasy tension had developed between the two men. The day Norgaard stroked out, Jorgensen wasted no time in taking over department operations. Now, with his hands firmly on the department controls, Jorgensen and McKenzie had established what Jorgensen liked to call a “mutually beneficial arrangement.” When Jorgensen finally spoke, the office was blue with smoke.

“Sawyer dropped by this morning. Gotta give him credit, the boy’s got a sac. Struts right into
my
office with no more than a by-your-leave. Had some wild-ass idea about moving all you dicks around to new assignments. Your name came up. He’s thinking you’ve been in the dope game long enough. He also tells me you pretty much went off on his ass in his office. Says you were insubordinate as hell. He figures on doing something about it. He seemed pretty fired up.”

McKenzie felt gut punched. This was not what he had expected and he jumped to defend himself.

“Look, Chief, there’s no need to—”

“Take it easy, Detective.” Jorgensen raised his hand, then gave McKenzie a long, assessing look through the clouds. The chief took a hard pull on his Cuban, then went on. “I gave it some thought, but it seems to me you got a good handle on things. I told Sawyer to make whatever other changes he wanted, but I didn’t see any reason to pull you off the narc detail. You’re safe. For now. Far as any issues of improper conduct, consider yourself admonished.”

Jorgensen paused to work the cigar, leaving the scent of wet leather in the air. McKenzie waited for the other shoe to drop. At some point it always did. Sure enough, Jorgensen wasn’t done.

“Of course, you know I worked a bit of narcotics in my day. I’ve got a pretty good understanding of how a narc needs to be given a great deal of independence. Can’t be tied down with a bunch of rules and regulations. You need to be able to motivate all those fine citizens who want to be sure that Newberg’s contribution to the war on drugs is effectively waged … properly financed, if you know what I mean. How are things going in that area, Detective?”

McKenzie stared back, not surprised. Jorgensen never just came out with it. He always watched every word, but McKenzie understood. He pulled a thick envelope from his inside jacket pocket and tossed it onto the chief’s desk.

“Just so happens some business-minded folks approached me today. Told me they wanted to make a contribution to the department’s scholarship fund. You’re still handling that program, right, Chief?”

Jorgensen didn’t flinch, just stared back. He shifted in his Italian leather chair and propped his Bruno Magli shoes on the mahogany desk he had bought a month after taking over from Norgaard. For a large man—McKenzie figured him to be all of two eighty—Jorgensen carried himself with ease. He never wore the official blue uniform that Norgaard had been famous for, preferring conservative designer suits tailored for his large frame. Today he wore a starched white button-down shirt and a pin-striped charcoal gray vest; a SIG Sauer 9mm was neatly tucked against his body in a custom-made leather shoulder rig. His deep burgundy tie was finished with a perfect Windsor. Jorgensen picked up the envelope and took a look inside, nodding his massive bald head as he fingered through the cash. The envelope disappeared into a desk drawer.

“I’ll see to it, Doyle. You be sure to extend the thanks of the department.” Jorgensen gave McKenzie a sharp stare. “But this seems a little thin. You might want to shake that tree a little harder next time around.”

McKenzie nodded in acknowledgment. Jorgensen had a real impact on the bottom line, but McKenzie told himself it was worth it. Now that he was finally out from under Norgaard’s microscope, he could get down to some serious earning. Better yet, he could tell Sawyer to go fuck himself. Yep. Under the new administration, business was good.

Jorgensen sat up, his body language making it clear he was changing the subject. “We need to talk.”

McKenzie picked up on the serious tone and immediately thought of the incident with Tyrone. Jorgensen couldn’t know about that, could he? The guy had his finger on the pulse, for sure, but there was no way he could be up on that.

“Bill Petite’s been hooked for murder up in Hayward. You know about the case?”

“Bill Petite? Name rings a bell, Chief, but I can’t say as I can place it right offhand. Who is he?”

Jorgensen sounded less than pleased. “So you’re telling me you haven’t heard anything about it? I would think that as the department narcotics detective, you would stay up on major cases.”

“Damn, Chief,” McKenzie said, hating that he was already on the defensive, “Hayward is three hundred miles from here. Why would I know about the local stuff up there? I got plenty to work on right here in Newberg, you know what I mean?” He shot a look to the desk drawer, trying to remind Jorgensen of his primary concerns.

Jorgensen ignored him and began to lay things out. “Bill Petite served three terms as the district attorney of Florence County. He left the DA’s office quite a few years back, relocated to Hayward, and went into private practice. Specialized in personal injury and medical malpractice. A real ambulance chaser. It’s been seven or eight years. He made himself a fortune torturing doctors, cops, anyone with deep pockets.”

At McKenzie’s blank look of ignorance, Jorgensen appeared frustrated but went on. “Petite had a lady friend on the side. Couple of months ago, it got ugly. Seems he shot her in her own kitchen. Shot her dead.” Jorgensen’s tone changed as he looked hard at McKenzie. “At least that’s how it would appear to the uninformed populace.”

“You never know about a man, Chief. I don’t suppose he did us all a favor and killed another lawyer, did he?” McKenzie tried to humor the man. “You know what it’s called when one lawyer kills another lawyer?”

Jorgensen said nothing, just looked at McKenzie and waited.

“A good start.” McKenzie laughed, pleased at his own stale joke. Jorgensen didn’t even twitch a lip in laughter.

“You probably don’t know about Lipinski either, is that right?”

McKenzie cocked his head. “Henry Lipinski? What about him?”

Oh, yeah. McKenzie knew Lipinski. The man was a law enforcement legend. Lipinski had spent more than thirty years as the elected sheriff of Florence County, along the Wisconsin-Michigan border, well known as an outdoorsman’s paradise. The Nicolet National Forest covered over a million acres of unspoiled beauty, attracting tens of thousands of hunters, campers, and other visitors every year. Less famously but more important in the law enforcement world, the Nicolet Forest was also home to the most expansive and profitable marijuana crops in the entire Midwest. With fewer than five thousand permanent souls in the entire county, a grow could cover hundreds of acres and go undetected for a generation.

But nothing got past Sheriff Henry Lipinski. Rumor was no plant ever grew to be more than six inches tall without Lipinski’s consent. Lipinski was said to have ruled over one of the largest marijuana empires in all of rural America. College students throughout Wisconsin, Minnesota, Michigan, and beyond had a greatly enhanced scholastic experience because of his organization and distribution skills. Lipinski eventually retired and laundered all his ill-gotten earnings through a used car dealership with outlets in sixteen counties. Word was he had walked away from all the shady stuff and gone legit. To McKenzie, Lipinski was a real law enforcement success story.

“He’s sitting in Chippewa County lockup,” Jorgensen said. “Got hooked up over the weekend for distribution of kiddie porn. Word has it the Feds are on the case. They’ll be picking him up next week. He’s looking at twenty-five years minimum.”

“Shit,” McKenzie said. “That’ll be a hard row for a career cop. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to carry that water. But I gotta tell ya, that guy always struck me as a bit of a pervert.”

Jorgensen disagreed. “I don’t see it. He’s about as dense as a block of wood, but I can’t figure Henry getting off on kids.”

McKenzie shifted in his seat, his mind now turning. “Okay, boss. Two players from Florence hit the pit. You got my attention. What are you worried about?”

The look from Jorgensen was less than complimentary. “Jesus, Detective. Allow me to spell it out for you.”

Jorgensen tossed a yellowed folder across the desk, a Newberg PD arrest report with a date that went back seventeen years. McKenzie recognized the neat block handwriting as that of his former chief, and sure enough Lars Norgaard’s name appeared as the arresting officer. McKenzie looked at the subject block of the report. In bold, black ink the name jumped out: Harlan Lee.

Jorgensen offered an explanation.

“Harlan Lee killed a man back seventeen, eighteen years ago, some beef he had with a rival dope dealer. Lee had a big grow up in Florence. Cultivated a good bit of the ganja with his old man. I gotta admit the Lees grew some high-quality shit. But then again, the Lees had a habit of being a bit standoffish. Never did come under the protection of any sort of collective.”

Jorgensen seemed lost in thought for a moment, then went on. “Anyway, the murder case was out of Florence, but Lee got arrested right here in Newberg. It was Norgaard who caught him with a stolen gun on a traffic stop. Turned out to be the murder weapon. Course, that led to a search warrant of the old homestead up in Florence. Everything fell into place after that. Lars was just a young buck at the time, but I gotta tell ya, he put together a hell of case. Lee was screwed and he knew it. He plead out and Petite hammered him with twenty-five to life.”

McKenzie still couldn’t put it together. He shrugged sheepishly, inviting Jorgensen to continue. The big man stood up and paced the office as he continued.

“Lee was released three months ago. I put in a call to my contact up in Florence County, Scott Jamison. He stepped in as sheriff when Lipinski went off to be a used car rock star. Jamison tells me Lee never reported for parole. He’s not at the old homestead. It’s still sitting empty like it has been since his old man kicked off about ten or twelve years ago.”

“So what are you thinking?” McKenzie regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, and the chief’s booming voice rained down.

“I’ll be goddamned, McKenzie. I thought you were a pretty sharp fella, but I’m starting to think you’re just some special kind of stupid. One of them there idiot savants or some shit.”

Jorgensen waited, allowing McKenzie to respond. When the detective sat quietly, the chief went on.

“Seems like the Lee boy might have gotten some wild hair up his ass. Didn’t think much of having to pay for his crime. Seeing that there is a local connection, I want to be sure none of his bullshit rains down on Newberg. That sort of thing has a tendency to draw a lot of attention. No good for business. You hear what I’m saying?”

“I hear ya, boss.”

“Get up to Chippewa. Have a talk with Lipinski before anyone else puts this together. See if he’s been in contact with Lee. Remind his dumb bumpkin ass this is why you don’t just get to walk away.”

“You got it, Chief.” McKenzie did his best to portray confidence. “Anything Henry knows about this Harlan Lee fella, I’ll get it.”