The police chief Nat wrote so scathingly about was never my chief.
Police Chief Nelson Rogers became acting chief when my chief got caught taking kickbacks from local restaurants to turn a blind eye to illegal aliens they employed as cooks, waiters and such. He also ran protection for the alien women who got sold off for sex duties at local spas. He also provided protection for the massive gambling trade he knew about and profited from.
I never forgave him his transgressions if only because his removal allowed Rogers to rise in the ranks to chief – a man who had been a kiss-ass deputy chief with high hopes and an intense dislike for me while I still was in the department.
Rogers took credit for bringing down the former chief, although, in fact, he like many of the lower ranking officers, had padded their own income by shaking down the alien workers, and turned states evidence against the other cops when he himself got busted.
He was also savvy in the use of the internal affairs office to gather dirt only any potential rivals in the department, using this to black mail everybody, including members of the city council.
But I was largely gone by the time all this shit in the fan, not because of graft – which I never engaged in – but for other reasons.
Rogers agreed to see me, but from his dour expression, he showed he was no more happy about our contact that I was.
Despite his having a weasel personality, Rogers avoided the curse of most bureaucrats, keeping himself in shape with many hours at the local gym – his muscles bulged out from under his slightly too tight uniform. He had excelled to some degree as a golden glove boxer, something I had no intention to test, though I knew much of this would pass as he became more entrenched in his job, and eventually, he would follow in the staggering footsteps of other bureaucrats and grow comfortable and fat.
He had dark, narrow, and at this moment, angry eyes, glaring at me as I eased into the chair on the far side of his desk, his thin lips pressed tight as if containing his rage.
“You’re not blaming me for what Nat wrote about you, are you?” I asked, after a brief greeting.
“Why not? He was your friend, and you don’t like me any better than he did,” Rogers said, although there was something odd in his tone of voice. His thick fingers nervously tapped the surface of his desk.
“Besides you, is there anybody you know who would want to see him dead?” I asked.
“I’m not sure I like what you’re insinuating,” Rogers said, his fingers still tapping the deck.
“I’m not insinuating anything,” I said, “unless, of course, you think Nat died of something other than natural causes.”
Rogers nearly choked as something akin to panic rippled in his eyes.
“The coroner’s report attributed the death to a possible heart attack,” Rogers croaked, refusing to look directly at me, but off to the side at the wall full of photos of him posing with local dignitaries.
“Yes,” most likely he did, although I’m not sure what might have inspired it,” I said. “What the report did not say is where he died, and that he didn’t die alone.”
“What?” Roger blurted as he choked again.
“There was a woman with him. A very beautiful woman.”
“What the hell are you saying?” Rogers asked, perspiring heavily.
“I’m saying I think you know who that woman is.”
“This is preposterous. How would I know?”
“Furthermore, I suspect you introduced them, or at least, know how they met.”
“You’re fucking crazy,” Rogers shouted, his cheeks growing redder despite the deep tan.
“Perhaps I am,” I said. “But I’m not wrong about this. There are other people mixed up in this, other people you know intimately.”
Rage replaced outrage as Roger’s predominant expression. He glared at me and might even have done something violent if he imagined he might get away with it.
“Stop playing games with me and get to the point?” he finally said, when he had taken in a deep enough breath. “What evidence do you have the connects me with Nat’s death and this mysterious girl?”
“Paul Columbo,” I said.
Rage and outrage vanished completely as his face grew pale.
“You have no proof of anything,” he said after a long delay.
“I have security camera footage.”
“Of what?”
“Of the girl calling Columbo after Nat died in her arms, and Columbo riding to her rescue.”
“That doesn’t’ connect me to anything.”
“Where Columbo goes, you’re not far behind.”
Calmer, but not calm, Rogers spoke almost without panic. “That might have been true once, but not anymore. If you’ll remember, I fired him.”
“You didn’t have a choice. He failed the psych test and lied about some of his activities. He claims he worked with the feds to get the old chief busted. But that was you all along, wasn’t it. Whatever he did for the feds, certainly let you inherit the job as chief.”
“He’s a damned liar,” Rogers said, clearly more in control of himself. “He only cooperated with the feds when they caught him shaking down the illegal workers. Whatever he gave the feds on the old chief wasn’t particularly useful. The feds already had the chief dead to rights.”
“Perhaps that’s all true,” I said. “But you’ve treated Columbo like a prince, and everybody knows it. If he hadn’t been stupid enough to draw Nazi symbols on the back of his promotional test sheet, you’d still be treating him like a prince.”
“All right, all right, I got the point,” Rogers said. “Just tell me what the fuck you want from me?”
“I want to know where Columbo is, and the girl.”
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