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Sunday, May 25, 2014

SUNDAY REVIEW / ORIGINAL FICTION / THE STALK BROKER



EXCLUSIVE PREVIEW of San Diego DA investigator/writer Tom Basinski’s new novel now available on Kindle books, $2.99.  See end of preview for Amazon link.

This exclusive Pillar to Post preview consists of a creative prologue and the two opening chapters. Copyright @ 2014 by Tom Basinski

 PROLOGUE

Police Shoot Robbery Suspect
The Flint Journal First Edition, April 6
By Joseph N. York

Police shot an unidentified man
while serving an arrest warrant
for robbery in the 700 block
of E. Dayton early Thursday morning.
            The suspect was taken to Hurley
Medical Center with serious, but non-life-threatening
injuries. All four detectives were placed on
administrative leave pending an investigation.

***

I have a feeling this is only the start of it. I’m the cop who shot that guy. There’s a slight problem that will soon come to light. I feel like crap, on a couple of different levels. Oh well, I just have to ride this one out and hope for the best.

***
Wounded Robbery Suspect Identified
The Flint Journal First Edition, April 7
By Joseph N. York

La Shawn Watson, 21, is in
the Intensive Care Unit at Hurley Medical
Center under police guard. One or more
detectives shot Watson early Tuesday
morning while arresting him on a $200,000
warrant for multiple robberies. Surgeons
amputated what was left of Watson’s right
foot above the ankle. The four Flint detectives
are still on administrative leave. Deputy Chief
Rick Sorensen said an officer-involved
shooting investigation is underway.

***

You bet it is. And my ass is on the line. If ever there was a guy who deserved to be shot, it was LaShawn Watson. I’ve chased that prick for three years, and arrested him many times. I don’t feel good about shooting someone, but, at that moment, it had to be done. I wish things were different though.

***
Suspect Not Armed When Shot
The Flint Journal First Edition, April 8
By Joseph N. York

Flint Police released a preliminary
statement revealing that 21-year old
accused robber LaShawn Watson was
not armed when police shot him Tuesday.
Three detectives are back on the job while
one remains on administrative leave.
Chief of Police Demetrious Aloysius
Blaylock has asked the FBI and the
U.S. Attorney to take the case from
the Flint Police Internal Affairs Unit.

***
You know what that means. If the feds are involved it means a local head will roll, especially if the head is white, which mine is, and the guy I shot is black, which Watson is. Even though Watson was not armed, the informant who told me where I could find him also told me Watson kept a .357 in the drawer of his night stand, which is exactly where his right hand was when I gave him a Remington blast of double-ought buck. The .357 was Watson’s trademark. Other street hoods go for the fancy Glocks and Sig Sauers. Watson’s baby was his “three fi’ se’m. Know I’ sayin?”

***

Ryback Named As Shooter
The Flint Journal First Edition, April 9
By Joseph N. York

The Flint Journal learned yesterday that 17-year
veteran Detective Sergeant Ed Ryback was the
shooter of 21-year old La Shawn Watson, the
unarmed robbery suspect. Watson has been
released from the Intensive Care Unit, but remains
under police guard at Hurley Medical Center.
Surgeons removed what was left of Watson’s
foot above the right ankle.
            Flint Police refused to name the shooter,
but confidential sources revealed Ryback’s
identity. The other detectives, Preston Love,
Linda Gradenski, and LeRoy Gomez have
returned to duty.
            Ryback had been on administrative leave. That
designation was changed to “suspended
without pay” late yesterday.
            The FBI, now handling the investigation,
has refused any comment. Ryback is a highly
decorated veteran. Several African-American
activists said they hope Ryback will be held to
answer for shooting an unarmed black man.
            “We’re tired of being treated like this,”
said Harry Cleveland, president of the
Flint Urban League. “We would like to see
that officer convicted.”

***
Okay, so much for due process and presumption of innocence. How interesting that Mr. Cleveland wants a conviction of a cop now, but he’s always looking for acquittals when someone of his race beats on a police officer, or worse. By the way, I’m Ed Ryback.
            I’m feeling unsettled about this. First, I don’t enjoy shooting anyone, even if it’s LaShawn Watson. Second, it troubles me that Watson was unarmed. The thing that bothers me the most is the informant who told me where he was and where he kept his gun, is no longer around. I mean I can’t find her. On the one hand, I want her to come forward and tell why she told me about Watson and his gun. More importantly, I want her to come forward so I know she’s all right. Watson wouldn’t think twice about giving her a proper burial, even before she was dead. That’s the kind of guy Watson is.

***

Ryback Still On Job
The Flint Journal First Edition, April 10
By Joseph N. York

Criminal defense attorney Rolly O’Neill
successfully filed an emergency appeal
returning suspended Homicide Detective
Sergeant Ed Ryback to work.
             “The city didn’t follow due process,” said
O’Neill after the hearing before Judge Richard
Gains. “Everyone is entitled to due process.
The police have to follow the rules when
they investigate crimes and they have to follow
rules when disciplining their own officers.”    
            O’Neill would not say whether he was
representing Ryback if federal criminal charges are filed.
            Police Chief Demetrious Aloysius Blaylock
said he was “outraged” at the subsequent ruling.
            “How can I clean up my department when
the courts won’t let me?” asked Blaylock.
Other detectives on the department were
glad to have him back, although none would
make a statement. Ryback had no comment.
            Flint Urban League president Harry Cleveland
urged the black population of Flint to “…watch
your backs.”

***
             
Thank God for Rolly O’Neill. He called me out of the blue when someone, probably Preston Love, my partner and best friend, told him about my situation. I’ve known O’Neill for years. He works for what we call “the dark side,” meaning he’s a defense attorney. But, he’s always fair. If we haven’t proved the case, Rolly’s client gets off. If we have proved it, the client goes to jail. If you go up against Rolly, you better be prepared, because he is.
              Did you get a load of my chief? It’s comforting to know your own chief wants a hunk of your ass. Flint is in such a racial mess I don’t know if it will ever get out. The only thing I can do is to continue to do my job, one case at a time. I work all my cases the same no matter if the people involved are black, white, Hispanic, Muslim, Asian, rich or poor. I don’t care if they belong to the Urban League or the Turban League. We’re dealing with human beings here, and I’m fair to everyone, or at least I try to be.
              This sucks having an attorney force your boss to put you back on the job.

***

U.S. Attorney Files Charges
The Flint Journal First Edition, April 21
By Joseph N. York

Assistant U.S. Attorney Andrew Newman
announced that federal charges of assault
under the color of authority and criminal
violation of civil rights have been filed
against Flint Detective Sergeant Ed Ryback.
             “We believe the shooting of the unarmed man
will support the charges we have filed.
I believe young African Americans have
suffered enough at the hands of the police,”
said Newman.
            Ryback will be arraigned Monday at 9:00 a.m.
in federal court.      
            Harry Cleveland, president of the Flint Urban
League, said, “It’s about damn time somebody’s
going to pay for shooting one of our young men.”
            Attorney Rolly O’Neill, who successfully
won reinstatement for Ryback after he was
suspended without pay, is representing Ryback
on the criminal charges. Ryback was not
available for comment. He remains on the job.

***
 Ain’t that swell? Usually it takes a year or so for them to decide to prosecute a cop. They got right on this one. I bust my ass for 17 years. The chief and that clown from the Urban League want to make a political example out of me. LaShawn Watson is a no-good street thug. In spite of being shot, he received a sentence of 35-50 years in prison for the multiple robbery charges we arrested him for on the warrant. His defense attorney tried to elicit sympathy for him when he was on trial. The fact that he beat and terrorized his victims didn’t get past the jury. You would think the politicians could find a better example of an African American than Watson who was wronged by the police.
              What I’m really concerned about is that the informant is still missing. She’s a good kid, even though she’s a prostitute. Her family still hasn’t filed a missing person report, which makes me think she’s missing voluntarily. If she isn’t missing voluntarily, I am worried.

***

Shooting Victim Testifies In Cop’s Trial
The Flint Journal First Edition October 1
By Joseph N. York

Convicted robber LaShawn Watson, 21,
testified as a witness for the prosecution in the
federal trial of Flint Homicide Detective Ed Ryback.
The officer is facing charges of assault under the
color of authority and violation of civil rights.
            Andrew Newman, assistant U.S. Attorney, questioned
Watson after the crutch-bearing man in jail clothing
hobbled to the witness stand. Watson is serving 35-50
years for the string of robberies. Watson winced
in pain when he bumped the stub of his leg against
a table. Surgeons amputated his foot above the
ankle after Ryback shot him during the arrest.
No gun was found near Watson.
            Watson testified he reached into his nightstand
for a flashlight when Flint police stormed his
apartment in the pre-dawn hours last April.
            Defense attorney Rolly O’Neill asked Watson
why he reached for a flashlight even though
three of the four police officers had high-powered lights.
            Watson said, “I don’t know. I guess I just like
my own flashlight.” Earlier, Sergeant Preston
Love testified for the defense that no flashlight
was ever found. When questioned about that,
Watson testified a flashlight was there, but police
disposed of it to protect Ryback.
            O’Neill systematically went through Watson’s
4-page criminal record, citing each conviction
in detail. Watson could not remember most of
his crimes, saying he pleaded guilty because
his court-appointed attorney told him to.
            In a hearing out of the presence of the jury,
Ryback testified that an informant told him
where Watson kept the gun. Because Ryback
would not name the informant, and make the
informant available to testify, Ryback may not
use that testimony in front of the jury.

The case should go to the jury Thursday.

***

 It has been six months and I’m glad the case is finally going. Waiting hasn’t been fun. I think Rolly scored some good points. Why would Watson reach for a flashlight when none was there? I’ll tell you why: Because there was a gun in the drawer, that’s why. That “wincing in pain” thing when he bumped his stump was a crock too. I know it broke my heart. One more thing: Why the hell did the newspaper refer to that crook Watson as a “victim?” Pisses me off, that’s what.
              Everything’s happening at once. We are in trial now on a serial killer who fatally stabbed and slashed five massage parlor workers over a two-year period. Wouldn’t it be weird if both juries came back on the same day?

***

Ryback Convicted of Shooting
Unarmed Man
The Flint Journal First Edition, October 8

By Joseph N. York

A federal jury deliberated five hours before
finding Detective Sergeant Ed Ryback guilty
of assault under the color of authority and
violation of civil rights in the shooting of
unarmed LaShawn Watson last April.
            Judge Henry Levine ruled against the request
of assistant U.S. Attorney Andrew Newman to
have Ryback taken into custody. Levine allowed
Ryback to remain free on his own recognizance.
The judge scheduled sentencing for November 17.
            Ryback was summoned from state court to hear
his verdict in federal court. Ryback had been the
lead investigator in the trial of Travis Puterman,
accused of fatally stabbing and slashing five
massage parlor workers over a three-year period.
            Ironically, the jury had just convicted Puterman
when Ryback had to leave to hear his own verdict.
            Flint Urban League President Harry Cleveland
called the verdict a “breath of fresh air” but blasted
Levine for allowing Ryback to remain free.
            “I tell you, no one’s safe with that man out there,”
Cleveland said.
            Chief of Police Demetrious Aloysius Blaylock
fired Ryback immediately. Blaylock had suspended
Ryback when he was indicted, but did not follow
proper suspension procedure. Ryback has been
working until the verdict. “This time it’s gonna
stick,” Blaylock said after the verdict.
            Neither defense attorney Rolly O’Neill nor Ryback
had any comment.

***
            
Serial Killer Convicted
Flint Journal First Edition October 8
Joseph N. York

Flint’s only serial killer in modern times was convicted
Of the murders of five Korean massage parlor workers
            Over the past three years. Convicted killer Travis Puterman
sat stoic as the verdicts were read. He smiled and shrugged at
his defense attorney, Tim Manford. Manford had no comment
at the end of the proceedings.

            The 8-man 4-woman jury deliberated for a little over three hours.

            Prosecutor Debra Day was happy, but subdued at the verdict.
“We are glad this menace is off the streets. Our police department
did a good job of never giving up and tracking Puterman down.”

            In an unrelated development, lead investigator Sergeant Ed Ryback
was summoned to federal court just after Puterman’s verdicts were read.
            Ryback learned he had been convicted by a federal jury for assault
under the color of authority and violation of civil rights for shooting
an unarmed robbery suspect. He was allowed to remain free, although
Police Chief Demetrious Blaylock fired Ryback immediately.

Chapter 1

Those newspaper articles accurately summarize the events. The Flint Journal reporter, Joe York, has been a mainstay around the police department for years and he knows the score. Yes, I shot an unarmed man. But, a very reliable informant told me he had a .357 in his nightstand where he was reaching. Like I mentioned, the informant has vanished and I’m really concerned for her. Another person I’m concerned about is me. It looks like I’m going to federal prison. While the federal lockup is better than the state facilities, I’m not looking forward to going.
              I didn’t have any choice. The night of “two verdicts” was party night at Ed Ryback’s house on Lake Fenton. It wasn’t like we celebrated the conviction of the serial killer. We didn’t. I never celebrated the conviction of a killer, no matter how bad he was. The reason is that for every murder conviction there is at least one victim, and often many family members. In this case there were five victims who wouldn’t be around to celebrate anything ever again. We were glad the person responsible had to pay. But, there was no cause to celebrate.
              Sometimes our team and the prosecutor would get together to unwind and have a few drinks while hashing over the case. I’ve seen cops and attorneys drink into the wee hours of the morning, making jokes and toasting the defendant who was on his way to prison. I never did. I’ve done a lot of wrong in my life. But, I believe it’s wrong to celebrate any aspect of a homicide.
              Detective Linda Gradenski and her husband Virgil showed up with a washtub-sized bowl of salad mixings. They also brought a 12-pack of my favorite beer. That’s whatever kind of beer fits in a 12-pack.
              Preston Love, my homicide partner and best friend, and Melanie Hamilton, his girlfriend from the Probation Department, showed up with three large pizzas. They also brought a 12-pack of my favorite beer.
              LeRoy and Maria Gomez arrived with bottles of wine and loaves of French bread, butter, and fresh garlic, along with parsley and Parmesan cheese. These people really know how to drown a guy’s sorrows.
              My girlfriend, assistant county prosecutor Debra Day, arrived with two 12-packs of my favorite bottled beer. She doesn’t like to drink from cans.
              We sat around looking like the depressed cast from some yuppie sitcom. In spite of the food and friends I was the only one who was making any light conversation. I tried to steer the talk to Debra’s verdict on the massage parlor killer she had just convicted. We all had been in the trenches on this case. We suffered as a family. I wanted us to share as a family, but they only wanted to talk about how I got screwed by the very system I worked for.
                                                      
***
What’re you going to do during the appeal?” asked Virgil Gradenski, Linda’s husband. Virg is a former Catholic priest who now does maintenance work for the elementary school district. He has a master’s degree in philosophy and a doctorate in counseling, but found there wasn’t much of a market for philosophers when he took off his Roman collar. Virg had been through enough counseling when he decided to leave the priesthood so he refused to put up a counseling shingle. Fixing things for the schools suited him fine. He is writing a book about mandatory celibacy that would never be endorsed by the Catholic Church. He is against celibacy, by the way, and so is his wife.
              “I hoped the Chief would allow me to work the desk to keep some money coming in,” I said. “There are jobs I could do without carrying a gun.” Virgil knew what it was like to be abandoned by the people you need the most.
              Detective Sergeant Linda Gradenski is a sweetheart. She’s one of those rare women who can survive and flourish in a male-dominated profession. Some women cops are stone-cold feminists without a sense of humor who run the gender flag up the pole every morning and never take it down until the end of the day, if at all. Linda commands respect without wearing a tattoo on her forehead that says, “I am woman, hear me roar” or some such bullshit. Linda’s pretty, and funny, and can dish it out as well as take it, a must on our team.
              I have worked with LeRoy Gomez nearly my entire career. He’s a slight guy with muscles. He’s quick, both on his feet, and with his mind. He plays guard on our championship three-on-three basketball team. LeRoy is the object of 90% of our jokes. My favorite is when Preston asked him about his name. “Hey LeRoy, what’s up with your parents naming you ‘LeRoy?’ Couldn’t they decide if you were a spic, or a spook?”
              My best friend, Preston Love, stands six-feet-five and weighs about 230 mostly solid pounds. An All-Big-10 linebacker, he had graduated from Michigan State University, one of the players who actually earned a diploma. Preston favored fine clothing and always looked great when we were called out on a case, no matter what time it was.
              “That Blaylock thinks all the brothers will be rootin’ for him now,” he said. “He’s wrong. All the brothers on the department know what kind of guy you are, Ed. If the politicians think things gonna get better in Flint because you got convicted, they’re nuts.”
              Preston Love is probably harder on errant blacks than any of us. I shot LaShawn Watson because I thought he was going for a gun. Rolly tried to convince the jury if I had waited for Watson to pull his hand out of the drawer it would have been too late for me. If Preston had been the “point” that night going through door with the shotgun, he would have been the one to shoot Watson. I wonder what the jury would have done to Preston.
              Another question the jury apparently ignored was: If a cop is pointing a shotgun at you, saying “Freeze!” why would you lunge for an empty drawer unless you thought something might be in it, and I don’t mean a flashlight?
              The fact that LaShawn’s girlfriend, and my informant, Lindsey Williams, vanished right away bothered me almost as much as the thought of me going to prison. Ten years ago we never lost witnesses. Now, if the stakes are high enough for the defendant, every now and then a crucial witness ends up in an alley, full of bullet holes, stab wounds, or a cord around the neck. Life is tougher nowadays for informants, and cheaper too.
              That night at my house on the lake all those present made a pact that they’d stick with me and help out, no matter what. It was a real “love fest” with my team pledging to remain as my support system. We all had been through so much together.
              After the others left, Debra stayed on and helped me put a few things away. Virg and Preston had done all the dishes so there wasn’t much to do. Debra straightened up the shelf and wiped everything down.
              I sat on a stool in the kitchen and she leaned in on me with her back against me. My arms were around her thin waist and I could smell the freshness of her shiny black hair.
              “You’ll get through this, Ed.”
              “I hope so. I sure hope we can find Lindsey Williams, or somebody can prove jury misconduct.”
              “Something good’ll happen.”
              “I hope so.” I pulled her in closer. She turned and rubbed my shoulders.
              “Ed, I shouldn’t have said, ‘you’ll get through this.’ I should have said, ‘we’ll get through this.’ I’ll be here for the duration.”
              “Thanks, Deb. We’ve always been good together. Maybe this test will take us to a more committed level.”
              “I don’t know about you,” she said. “I know it will for me.”
              There is a difference, however, between promises made on an autumn moonlit night on a beautiful lake with a few beers or glasses of wine in you, and the stark reality of everyday life.

Chapter 2
Reality hit home Monday morning when I went to the dilapidated police station on East Fifth Street carrying two large empty cardboard boxes. Almost everyone in the Detective Bureau was gone. Preston, LeRoy, and Linda had rolled out on a homicide the night before and were still at the crime scene. Chief Blaylock had replaced me with an up-and-coming recently promoted black detective sergeant. He was nice kid, would fit in well, and do a good job. He was no “climber” in a negative sense. He was smart, punctual, organized, and a decent guy. He was all of that, and I was history.
              No one came around to talk while I was putting things in the boxes or tossing other things in the wastebasket. A couple of burglary detectives peeked in, but hustled down the hall out of sight when they saw me. Word of my firing had spread throughout the department like a wind-blown forest fire.
              When I finished with the last piece of the memorabilia of my career I went into the unisex bathroom to wash my hands. The faucet still dripped. It dripped when I joined the detective bureau seven years ago, and it still dripped today.
              I thought about looking in on Chief Blaylock but thought better of it. I’d probably punch him in his fat face. I thought of going to see Deputy Chief Rick Sorensen. He hadn’t called me, nor come by. I thought he was a friend. At least the homicide team would stay by me along with Rolly O’Neill. It’s tough when one of your strongest allies is a low-scum defense attorney.

***

After leaving the station with my career stuffed into two boxes I drove two blocks to Rolly’s office. Over the years Rolly defended some pretty high rollers both here in Flint and in Detroit. He made enough good scores and turned them into a profitable business. Rolly’s initial retainer proposal was the kind that made you gulp, until you considered the alternative. The word on the street was that if you had any possibility of getting off, Rolly was the one who could do it. Yet, Rolly’s reputation with the Prosecutor’s Office was that he was a straight shooter who didn’t pull cheap tricks. He merely made the prosecutor prove the case beyond a reasonable doubt.
              After waiting a short time Rolly’s secretary told me I could go in. “Before we talk about appeals,” I said. “I want you to know I appreciate the job you did during the trial, and defending me for free doesn’t carry over to the appeal. I’ll pay you for the appeal. One thing though: What do we have to appeal besides ‘Ineffective Assistance of Counsel’?”
              “Thanks for the compliment, Ed, you ass. I took your case for free for a few reasons. First, I can write it off on my income tax as pro bono work. Second, it looks good on my bar resume. Third, and you may be so cynical you might not believe it, but I have trouble remembering if I’ve ever worked for a truly innocent man.” He paused a beat. “Although I’ve had a lot of ‘em ruled ‘not guilty.’
              “I’ll get a law student clerk to do legal research for me. My thought right now is we might have a shot at jury misconduct. I’d start with the old white lady and find out if any of the blacks demonstrated any kind of prejudice or heavy handedness toward her during the deliberations, or at any time.             
              “The only thing that’ll really work, in my opinion, is we must find Lindsey Williams. If we find her and get an affidavit from her saying she told you LaShawn always had his gun near him, and it was there when she left, it might give you a new trial. Maybe she took the gun with her because she didn’t want Watson to shoot one of you.”
              “Who’s going to do the footwork on this?”
              “Bill DuVall does a lot of my investigations for me,” Rolly said, rubbing his temples with his forefingers. I’ll see what he can come up with.”
              Bill DuVall was a former Flint cop who retired after 25 years. Bill was a big nothing when I knew him, and I don’t think he improved much after retirement. Lucky me.
***

I had to get a plan in place on how best to use the 45 days before sentencing. I couldn’t count on Bill DuVall to find Lindsey Williams. I couldn’t count on Bill DuVall to find his ass with both hands. Neither could I expect DuVall to coax one of the jurors to admit that one or more of them called me a “blue-eyed devil” during deliberations. Things did not look good.
              I had to find Lindsey Williams myself.
              She was a 16year old “wild child” when I met her nine years ago. From the way she dressed, and where she hung out, I knew she turned tricks. She never used drugs that I knew of, nor did any other crimes either. I was always nice to her. Sometimes just being nice is enough to get someone on your side. When I was in patrol, every now and then Lindsey would give me a name of a crook I would turn over to the detectives that helped them solve a case. I never involved Lindsey by using her name. The detectives never knew who she was. But, because of the information I sent them, they thought I was some kind of super cop.
              Lindsey once turned a case where two guys hijacked a tractor-trailer truck full of name brand sneakers worth several hundred thousand dollars. I told the detective lieutenant where the abandoned truck was and the house where most of the shoes were. He said he couldn’t get a search warrant for the house unless I named the informant. He threatened me with a suspension unless I told him who gave me the information. In a display of guts, if not stupidity, I told him to go to hell and take his best shot at getting me suspended, lieutenant or not. Those guys only wanted to use Lindsey for this case and throw her aside. They didn’t care if the crooks learned who she was or what they did to her after they found out who she was. She kept giving me good information because I kept her confidential.
              I contacted my patrol sergeant, filling him in on my experience with the lieutenant, but never naming Lindsey. My sergeant winced, but backed me up. He said to keep on going with the case until it was over, or until my leads dried up. I believed he had my back, and he did.
              I drove to the house Lindsey told me about. Stacked on the front porch were several hundred boxes of shoes. I called for backup and surrounded the house.
              Without using Lindsey’s name I wrote out an affidavit saying the stolen truck was two blocks away, there were a few thousand stolen shoes outstanding, and there were a few hundred shoe boxes on the front porch of a certain house on East Patterson Street. I wrote in the affidavit that, based on my training and experience, I believed there were several hundred more stolen sneaks inside the house. It was my first search warrant affidavit, but I kept it simple. I think that well-used phrase was directly meant for me: “Keep it simple, stupid.”
              The judge on call that night agreed with me and authorized a search warrant. It’s tough to flush all those stolen shoes down a toilet like one might do with a few grams of cocaine. So, there they were, all those shoes, piled all over the house, waiting to be sold at a nickel on the dollar.
              The burglary lieutenant hated me until the day he retired because he could have done the same thing I did. He was either too lazy or too stupid. He never spoke to me the rest of the time he was with the department. I knew I’d be there longer than he so I didn’t care. We both knew I outdid him and I was only a patrolman. He never messed with me after that day. I’d see him in the elevator and I’d stare him down even when he was with his captain and lieutenant buddies. He would never even look me in the eye.
              If Lindsey was standing with two or three other hookers on Saginaw Street and I stopped to get their names, Lindsey would give me some verbal flap to make the other girls think she didn’t like me.
              “Hey Ryback, ain’ chew got nun bettah do ‘an botha us girls?”
              I’d smile at them, take their names and run them for warrants. I was always nice to the hookers, even when I was arresting them. Every now and then one of them would give me some information, but not to the extent Lindsey did. I wondered where Lindsey Williams was now. My future depended on it. They don’t like cops in prison, in case I forgot to tell you.

***
My immediate future depended on not getting my house repossessed. My car was paid for. I have a pickup truck that’s also paid for. I don’t have jet skis, snowmobiles, recent ex-wives, or other stuff that keeps guys poor. My golf clubs are 20 years old and I hit X-Out golf balls that go for about five bucks a dozen before I hit them in the woods or water. I paddle around Lake Fenton, but the kayak only cost $800 and was paid for at the time of purchase.
              My wife divorced me 16 years ago when I wouldn’t quit the police department. It might be nice to have her around now because she’s some kind of big shot on the Flint Board of Education.  Police work was the crux of our problem. She wanted me to quit being a cop and become a schoolteacher, like her. She stayed on in the teaching profession, married and divorced one more time, and earned a doctorate in education. She knocked down a pretty paycheck that I would have liked to draw from.


End of “Stalk Broker” Preview by Tom Basinski
To purchase the rest of the novel on Kindle go to: http://www.amazon.com/The-Stalk-Broker-police-stalker-ebook/dp/B00K02LGEC


Tom Basinski is also the author of two non-fiction police action books:

“No Good Deed” 
http://www.amazon.com/Good-Deed-Berkley-True-Crime/dp/0425209601

“Cross Country Evil”
http://www.amazon.com/Cross-Country-Evil-Berkley-True-Crime/dp/0425224899



THE STALK BROKER

EXCLUSIVE PREVIEW of San Diego DA investigator/writer Tom Basinski’s new novel now available on Kindle books, $2.99.  See end of preview for Amazon link.

This exclusive Pillar to Post preview consists of a creative prologue and the two opening chapters. Copyright @ 2014 by Tom Basinski


Police Shoot Robbery Suspect
The Flint Journal First Edition, April 6
By Joseph N. York

Police shot an unidentified man
while serving an arrest warrant
for robbery in the 700 block
of E. Dayton early Thursday morning.
            The suspect was taken to Hurley
Medical Center with serious, but non-life-threatening
injuries. All four detectives were placed on
administrative leave pending an investigation.

***

I have a feeling this is only the start of it. I’m the cop who shot that guy. There’s a slight problem that will soon come to light. I feel like crap, on a couple of different levels. Oh well, I just have to ride this one out and hope for the best.

***
Wounded Robbery Suspect Identified
The Flint Journal First Edition, April 7
By Joseph N. York

La Shawn Watson, 21, is in
the Intensive Care Unit at Hurley Medical
Center under police guard. One or more
detectives shot Watson early Tuesday
morning while arresting him on a $200,000
warrant for multiple robberies. Surgeons
amputated what was left of Watson’s right
foot above the ankle. The four Flint detectives
are still on administrative leave. Deputy Chief
Rick Sorensen said an officer-involved
shooting investigation is underway.

***

You bet it is. And my ass is on the line. If ever there was a guy who deserved to be shot, it was LaShawn Watson. I’ve chased that prick for three years, and arrested him many times. I don’t feel good about shooting someone, but, at that moment, it had to be done. I wish things were different though.

***
Suspect Not Armed When Shot
The Flint Journal First Edition, April 8
By Joseph N. York

Flint Police released a preliminary
statement revealing that 21-year old
accused robber LaShawn Watson was
not armed when police shot him Tuesday.
Three detectives are back on the job while
one remains on administrative leave.
Chief of Police Demetrious Aloysius
Blaylock has asked the FBI and the
U.S. Attorney to take the case from
the Flint Police Internal Affairs Unit.

***
You know what that means. If the feds are involved it means a local head will roll, especially if the head is white, which mine is, and the guy I shot is black, which Watson is. Even though Watson was not armed, the informant who told me where I could find him also told me Watson kept a .357 in the drawer of his night stand, which is exactly where his right hand was when I gave him a Remington blast of double-ought buck. The .357 was Watson’s trademark. Other street hoods go for the fancy Glocks and Sig Sauers. Watson’s baby was his “three fi’ se’m. Know I’ sayin?”

***

Ryback Named As Shooter
The Flint Journal First Edition, April 9
By Joseph N. York

The Flint Journal learned yesterday that 17-year
veteran Detective Sergeant Ed Ryback was the
shooter of 21-year old La Shawn Watson, the
unarmed robbery suspect. Watson has been
released from the Intensive Care Unit, but remains
under police guard at Hurley Medical Center.
Surgeons removed what was left of Watson’s
foot above the right ankle.
            Flint Police refused to name the shooter,
but confidential sources revealed Ryback’s
identity. The other detectives, Preston Love,
Linda Gradenski, and LeRoy Gomez have
returned to duty.
            Ryback had been on administrative leave. That
designation was changed to “suspended
without pay” late yesterday.
            The FBI, now handling the investigation,
has refused any comment. Ryback is a highly
decorated veteran. Several African-American
activists said they hope Ryback will be held to
answer for shooting an unarmed black man.
            “We’re tired of being treated like this,”
said Harry Cleveland, president of the
Flint Urban League. “We would like to see
that officer convicted.”

***
Okay, so much for due process and presumption of innocence. How interesting that Mr. Cleveland wants a conviction of a cop now, but he’s always looking for acquittals when someone of his race beats on a police officer, or worse. By the way, I’m Ed Ryback.
            I’m feeling unsettled about this. First, I don’t enjoy shooting anyone, even if it’s LaShawn Watson. Second, it troubles me that Watson was unarmed. The thing that bothers me the most is the informant who told me where he was and where he kept his gun, is no longer around. I mean I can’t find her. On the one hand, I want her to come forward and tell why she told me about Watson and his gun. More importantly, I want her to come forward so I know she’s all right. Watson wouldn’t think twice about giving her a proper burial, even before she was dead. That’s the kind of guy Watson is.

***

Ryback Still On Job
The Flint Journal First Edition, April 10
By Joseph N. York

Criminal defense attorney Rolly O’Neill
successfully filed an emergency appeal
returning suspended Homicide Detective
Sergeant Ed Ryback to work.
             “The city didn’t follow due process,” said
O’Neill after the hearing before Judge Richard
Gains. “Everyone is entitled to due process.
The police have to follow the rules when
they investigate crimes and they have to follow
rules when disciplining their own officers.”    
            O’Neill would not say whether he was
representing Ryback if federal criminal charges are filed.
            Police Chief Demetrious Aloysius Blaylock
said he was “outraged” at the subsequent ruling.
            “How can I clean up my department when
the courts won’t let me?” asked Blaylock.
Other detectives on the department were
glad to have him back, although none would
make a statement. Ryback had no comment.
            Flint Urban League president Harry Cleveland
urged the black population of Flint to “…watch
your backs.”

***
             
Thank God for Rolly O’Neill. He called me out of the blue when someone, probably Preston Love, my partner and best friend, told him about my situation. I’ve known O’Neill for years. He works for what we call “the dark side,” meaning he’s a defense attorney. But, he’s always fair. If we haven’t proved the case, Rolly’s client gets off. If we have proved it, the client goes to jail. If you go up against Rolly, you better be prepared, because he is.
              Did you get a load of my chief? It’s comforting to know your own chief wants a hunk of your ass. Flint is in such a racial mess I don’t know if it will ever get out. The only thing I can do is to continue to do my job, one case at a time. I work all my cases the same no matter if the people involved are black, white, Hispanic, Muslim, Asian, rich or poor. I don’t care if they belong to the Urban League or the Turban League. We’re dealing with human beings here, and I’m fair to everyone, or at least I try to be.
              This sucks having an attorney force your boss to put you back on the job.

***

U.S. Attorney Files Charges
The Flint Journal First Edition, April 21
By Joseph N. York

Assistant U.S. Attorney Andrew Newman
announced that federal charges of assault
under the color of authority and criminal
violation of civil rights have been filed
against Flint Detective Sergeant Ed Ryback.
             “We believe the shooting of the unarmed man
will support the charges we have filed.
I believe young African Americans have
suffered enough at the hands of the police,”
said Newman.
            Ryback will be arraigned Monday at 9:00 a.m.
in federal court.      
            Harry Cleveland, president of the Flint Urban
League, said, “It’s about damn time somebody’s
going to pay for shooting one of our young men.”
            Attorney Rolly O’Neill, who successfully
won reinstatement for Ryback after he was
suspended without pay, is representing Ryback
on the criminal charges. Ryback was not
available for comment. He remains on the job.

***
 Ain’t that swell? Usually it takes a year or so for them to decide to prosecute a cop. They got right on this one. I bust my ass for 17 years. The chief and that clown from the Urban League want to make a political example out of me. LaShawn Watson is a no-good street thug. In spite of being shot, he received a sentence of 35-50 years in prison for the multiple robbery charges we arrested him for on the warrant. His defense attorney tried to elicit sympathy for him when he was on trial. The fact that he beat and terrorized his victims didn’t get past the jury. You would think the politicians could find a better example of an African American than Watson who was wronged by the police.
              What I’m really concerned about is that the informant is still missing. She’s a good kid, even though she’s a prostitute. Her family still hasn’t filed a missing person report, which makes me think she’s missing voluntarily. If she isn’t missing voluntarily, I am worried.

***

Shooting Victim Testifies In Cop’s Trial
The Flint Journal First Edition October 1
By Joseph N. York

Convicted robber LaShawn Watson, 21,
testified as a witness for the prosecution in the
federal trial of Flint Homicide Detective Ed Ryback.
The officer is facing charges of assault under the
color of authority and violation of civil rights.
            Andrew Newman, assistant U.S. Attorney, questioned
Watson after the crutch-bearing man in jail clothing
hobbled to the witness stand. Watson is serving 35-50
years for the string of robberies. Watson winced
in pain when he bumped the stub of his leg against
a table. Surgeons amputated his foot above the
ankle after Ryback shot him during the arrest.
No gun was found near Watson.
            Watson testified he reached into his nightstand
for a flashlight when Flint police stormed his
apartment in the pre-dawn hours last April.
            Defense attorney Rolly O’Neill asked Watson
why he reached for a flashlight even though
three of the four police officers had high-powered lights.
            Watson said, “I don’t know. I guess I just like
my own flashlight.” Earlier, Sergeant Preston
Love testified for the defense that no flashlight
was ever found. When questioned about that,
Watson testified a flashlight was there, but police
disposed of it to protect Ryback.
            O’Neill systematically went through Watson’s
4-page criminal record, citing each conviction
in detail. Watson could not remember most of
his crimes, saying he pleaded guilty because
his court-appointed attorney told him to.
            In a hearing out of the presence of the jury,
Ryback testified that an informant told him
where Watson kept the gun. Because Ryback
would not name the informant, and make the
informant available to testify, Ryback may not
use that testimony in front of the jury.

The case should go to the jury Thursday.

***

 It has been six months and I’m glad the case is finally going. Waiting hasn’t been fun. I think Rolly scored some good points. Why would Watson reach for a flashlight when none was there? I’ll tell you why: Because there was a gun in the drawer, that’s why. That “wincing in pain” thing when he bumped his stump was a crock too. I know it broke my heart. One more thing: Why the hell did the newspaper refer to that crook Watson as a “victim?” Pisses me off, that’s what.
              Everything’s happening at once. We are in trial now on a serial killer who fatally stabbed and slashed five massage parlor workers over a two-year period. Wouldn’t it be weird if both juries came back on the same day?

***

Ryback Convicted of Shooting
Unarmed Man
The Flint Journal First Edition, October 8

By Joseph N. York

A federal jury deliberated five hours before
finding Detective Sergeant Ed Ryback guilty
of assault under the color of authority and
violation of civil rights in the shooting of
unarmed LaShawn Watson last April.
            Judge Henry Levine ruled against the request
of assistant U.S. Attorney Andrew Newman to
have Ryback taken into custody. Levine allowed
Ryback to remain free on his own recognizance.
The judge scheduled sentencing for November 17.
            Ryback was summoned from state court to hear
his verdict in federal court. Ryback had been the
lead investigator in the trial of Travis Puterman,
accused of fatally stabbing and slashing five
massage parlor workers over a three-year period.
            Ironically, the jury had just convicted Puterman
when Ryback had to leave to hear his own verdict.
            Flint Urban League President Harry Cleveland
called the verdict a “breath of fresh air” but blasted
Levine for allowing Ryback to remain free.
            “I tell you, no one’s safe with that man out there,”
Cleveland said.
            Chief of Police Demetrious Aloysius Blaylock
fired Ryback immediately. Blaylock had suspended
Ryback when he was indicted, but did not follow
proper suspension procedure. Ryback has been
working until the verdict. “This time it’s gonna
stick,” Blaylock said after the verdict.
            Neither defense attorney Rolly O’Neill nor Ryback
had any comment.

***
            
Serial Killer Convicted
Flint Journal First Edition October 8
Joseph N. York

Flint’s only serial killer in modern times was convicted
Of the murders of five Korean massage parlor workers
            Over the past three years. Convicted killer Travis Puterman
sat stoic as the verdicts were read. He smiled and shrugged at
his defense attorney, Tim Manford. Manford had no comment
at the end of the proceedings.

            The 8-man 4-woman jury deliberated for a little over three hours.

            Prosecutor Debra Day was happy, but subdued at the verdict.
“We are glad this menace is off the streets. Our police department
did a good job of never giving up and tracking Puterman down.”

            In an unrelated development, lead investigator Sergeant Ed Ryback
was summoned to federal court just after Puterman’s verdicts were read.
            Ryback learned he had been convicted by a federal jury for assault
under the color of authority and violation of civil rights for shooting
an unarmed robbery suspect. He was allowed to remain free, although
Police Chief Demetrious Blaylock fired Ryback immediately.

Chapter 1

Those newspaper articles accurately summarize the events. The Flint Journal reporter, Joe York, has been a mainstay around the police department for years and he knows the score. Yes, I shot an unarmed man. But, a very reliable informant told me he had a .357 in his nightstand where he was reaching. Like I mentioned, the informant has vanished and I’m really concerned for her. Another person I’m concerned about is me. It looks like I’m going to federal prison. While the federal lockup is better than the state facilities, I’m not looking forward to going.
              I didn’t have any choice. The night of “two verdicts” was party night at Ed Ryback’s house on Lake Fenton. It wasn’t like we celebrated the conviction of the serial killer. We didn’t. I never celebrated the conviction of a killer, no matter how bad he was. The reason is that for every murder conviction there is at least one victim, and often many family members. In this case there were five victims who wouldn’t be around to celebrate anything ever again. We were glad the person responsible had to pay. But, there was no cause to celebrate.
              Sometimes our team and the prosecutor would get together to unwind and have a few drinks while hashing over the case. I’ve seen cops and attorneys drink into the wee hours of the morning, making jokes and toasting the defendant who was on his way to prison. I never did. I’ve done a lot of wrong in my life. But, I believe it’s wrong to celebrate any aspect of a homicide.
              Detective Linda Gradenski and her husband Virgil showed up with a washtub-sized bowl of salad mixings. They also brought a 12-pack of my favorite beer. That’s whatever kind of beer fits in a 12-pack.
              Preston Love, my homicide partner and best friend, and Melanie Hamilton, his girlfriend from the Probation Department, showed up with three large pizzas. They also brought a 12-pack of my favorite beer.
              LeRoy and Maria Gomez arrived with bottles of wine and loaves of French bread, butter, and fresh garlic, along with parsley and Parmesan cheese. These people really know how to drown a guy’s sorrows.
              My girlfriend, assistant county prosecutor Debra Day, arrived with two 12-packs of my favorite bottled beer. She doesn’t like to drink from cans.
              We sat around looking like the depressed cast from some yuppie sitcom. In spite of the food and friends I was the only one who was making any light conversation. I tried to steer the talk to Debra’s verdict on the massage parlor killer she had just convicted. We all had been in the trenches on this case. We suffered as a family. I wanted us to share as a family, but they only wanted to talk about how I got screwed by the very system I worked for.
                                                      
***
What’re you going to do during the appeal?” asked Virgil Gradenski, Linda’s husband. Virg is a former Catholic priest who now does maintenance work for the elementary school district. He has a master’s degree in philosophy and a doctorate in counseling, but found there wasn’t much of a market for philosophers when he took off his Roman collar. Virg had been through enough counseling when he decided to leave the priesthood so he refused to put up a counseling shingle. Fixing things for the schools suited him fine. He is writing a book about mandatory celibacy that would never be endorsed by the Catholic Church. He is against celibacy, by the way, and so is his wife.
              “I hoped the Chief would allow me to work the desk to keep some money coming in,” I said. “There are jobs I could do without carrying a gun.” Virgil knew what it was like to be abandoned by the people you need the most.
              Detective Sergeant Linda Gradenski is a sweetheart. She’s one of those rare women who can survive and flourish in a male-dominated profession. Some women cops are stone-cold feminists without a sense of humor who run the gender flag up the pole every morning and never take it down until the end of the day, if at all. Linda commands respect without wearing a tattoo on her forehead that says, “I am woman, hear me roar” or some such bullshit. Linda’s pretty, and funny, and can dish it out as well as take it, a must on our team.
              I have worked with LeRoy Gomez nearly my entire career. He’s a slight guy with muscles. He’s quick, both on his feet, and with his mind. He plays guard on our championship three-on-three basketball team. LeRoy is the object of 90% of our jokes. My favorite is when Preston asked him about his name. “Hey LeRoy, what’s up with your parents naming you ‘LeRoy?’ Couldn’t they decide if you were a spic, or a spook?”
              My best friend, Preston Love, stands six-feet-five and weighs about 230 mostly solid pounds. An All-Big-10 linebacker, he had graduated from Michigan State University, one of the players who actually earned a diploma. Preston favored fine clothing and always looked great when we were called out on a case, no matter what time it was.
              “That Blaylock thinks all the brothers will be rootin’ for him now,” he said. “He’s wrong. All the brothers on the department know what kind of guy you are, Ed. If the politicians think things gonna get better in Flint because you got convicted, they’re nuts.”
              Preston Love is probably harder on errant blacks than any of us. I shot LaShawn Watson because I thought he was going for a gun. Rolly tried to convince the jury if I had waited for Watson to pull his hand out of the drawer it would have been too late for me. If Preston had been the “point” that night going through door with the shotgun, he would have been the one to shoot Watson. I wonder what the jury would have done to Preston.
              Another question the jury apparently ignored was: If a cop is pointing a shotgun at you, saying “Freeze!” why would you lunge for an empty drawer unless you thought something might be in it, and I don’t mean a flashlight?
              The fact that LaShawn’s girlfriend, and my informant, Lindsey Williams, vanished right away bothered me almost as much as the thought of me going to prison. Ten years ago we never lost witnesses. Now, if the stakes are high enough for the defendant, every now and then a crucial witness ends up in an alley, full of bullet holes, stab wounds, or a cord around the neck. Life is tougher nowadays for informants, and cheaper too.
              That night at my house on the lake all those present made a pact that they’d stick with me and help out, no matter what. It was a real “love fest” with my team pledging to remain as my support system. We all had been through so much together.
              After the others left, Debra stayed on and helped me put a few things away. Virg and Preston had done all the dishes so there wasn’t much to do. Debra straightened up the shelf and wiped everything down.
              I sat on a stool in the kitchen and she leaned in on me with her back against me. My arms were around her thin waist and I could smell the freshness of her shiny black hair.
              “You’ll get through this, Ed.”
              “I hope so. I sure hope we can find Lindsey Williams, or somebody can prove jury misconduct.”
              “Something good’ll happen.”
              “I hope so.” I pulled her in closer. She turned and rubbed my shoulders.
              “Ed, I shouldn’t have said, ‘you’ll get through this.’ I should have said, ‘we’ll get through this.’ I’ll be here for the duration.”
              “Thanks, Deb. We’ve always been good together. Maybe this test will take us to a more committed level.”
              “I don’t know about you,” she said. “I know it will for me.”
              There is a difference, however, between promises made on an autumn moonlit night on a beautiful lake with a few beers or glasses of wine in you, and the stark reality of everyday life.

Chapter 2
Reality hit home Monday morning when I went to the dilapidated police station on East Fifth Street carrying two large empty cardboard boxes. Almost everyone in the Detective Bureau was gone. Preston, LeRoy, and Linda had rolled out on a homicide the night before and were still at the crime scene. Chief Blaylock had replaced me with an up-and-coming recently promoted black detective sergeant. He was nice kid, would fit in well, and do a good job. He was no “climber” in a negative sense. He was smart, punctual, organized, and a decent guy. He was all of that, and I was history.
              No one came around to talk while I was putting things in the boxes or tossing other things in the wastebasket. A couple of burglary detectives peeked in, but hustled down the hall out of sight when they saw me. Word of my firing had spread throughout the department like a wind-blown forest fire.
              When I finished with the last piece of the memorabilia of my career I went into the unisex bathroom to wash my hands. The faucet still dripped. It dripped when I joined the detective bureau seven years ago, and it still dripped today.
              I thought about looking in on Chief Blaylock but thought better of it. I’d probably punch him in his fat face. I thought of going to see Deputy Chief Rick Sorensen. He hadn’t called me, nor come by. I thought he was a friend. At least the homicide team would stay by me along with Rolly O’Neill. It’s tough when one of your strongest allies is a low-scum defense attorney.

***

After leaving the station with my career stuffed into two boxes I drove two blocks to Rolly’s office. Over the years Rolly defended some pretty high rollers both here in Flint and in Detroit. He made enough good scores and turned them into a profitable business. Rolly’s initial retainer proposal was the kind that made you gulp, until you considered the alternative. The word on the street was that if you had any possibility of getting off, Rolly was the one who could do it. Yet, Rolly’s reputation with the Prosecutor’s Office was that he was a straight shooter who didn’t pull cheap tricks. He merely made the prosecutor prove the case beyond a reasonable doubt.
              After waiting a short time Rolly’s secretary told me I could go in. “Before we talk about appeals,” I said. “I want you to know I appreciate the job you did during the trial, and defending me for free doesn’t carry over to the appeal. I’ll pay you for the appeal. One thing though: What do we have to appeal besides ‘Ineffective Assistance of Counsel’?”
              “Thanks for the compliment, Ed, you ass. I took your case for free for a few reasons. First, I can write it off on my income tax as pro bono work. Second, it looks good on my bar resume. Third, and you may be so cynical you might not believe it, but I have trouble remembering if I’ve ever worked for a truly innocent man.” He paused a beat. “Although I’ve had a lot of ‘em ruled ‘not guilty.’
              “I’ll get a law student clerk to do legal research for me. My thought right now is we might have a shot at jury misconduct. I’d start with the old white lady and find out if any of the blacks demonstrated any kind of prejudice or heavy handedness toward her during the deliberations, or at any time.             
              “The only thing that’ll really work, in my opinion, is we must find Lindsey Williams. If we find her and get an affidavit from her saying she told you LaShawn always had his gun near him, and it was there when she left, it might give you a new trial. Maybe she took the gun with her because she didn’t want Watson to shoot one of you.”
              “Who’s going to do the footwork on this?”
              “Bill DuVall does a lot of my investigations for me,” Rolly said, rubbing his temples with his forefingers. I’ll see what he can come up with.”
              Bill DuVall was a former Flint cop who retired after 25 years. Bill was a big nothing when I knew him, and I don’t think he improved much after retirement. Lucky me.
***

I had to get a plan in place on how best to use the 45 days before sentencing. I couldn’t count on Bill DuVall to find Lindsey Williams. I couldn’t count on Bill DuVall to find his ass with both hands. Neither could I expect DuVall to coax one of the jurors to admit that one or more of them called me a “blue-eyed devil” during deliberations. Things did not look good.
              I had to find Lindsey Williams myself.
              She was a 16year old “wild child” when I met her nine years ago. From the way she dressed, and where she hung out, I knew she turned tricks. She never used drugs that I knew of, nor did any other crimes either. I was always nice to her. Sometimes just being nice is enough to get someone on your side. When I was in patrol, every now and then Lindsey would give me a name of a crook I would turn over to the detectives that helped them solve a case. I never involved Lindsey by using her name. The detectives never knew who she was. But, because of the information I sent them, they thought I was some kind of super cop.
              Lindsey once turned a case where two guys hijacked a tractor-trailer truck full of name brand sneakers worth several hundred thousand dollars. I told the detective lieutenant where the abandoned truck was and the house where most of the shoes were. He said he couldn’t get a search warrant for the house unless I named the informant. He threatened me with a suspension unless I told him who gave me the information. In a display of guts, if not stupidity, I told him to go to hell and take his best shot at getting me suspended, lieutenant or not. Those guys only wanted to use Lindsey for this case and throw her aside. They didn’t care if the crooks learned who she was or what they did to her after they found out who she was. She kept giving me good information because I kept her confidential.
              I contacted my patrol sergeant, filling him in on my experience with the lieutenant, but never naming Lindsey. My sergeant winced, but backed me up. He said to keep on going with the case until it was over, or until my leads dried up. I believed he had my back, and he did.
              I drove to the house Lindsey told me about. Stacked on the front porch were several hundred boxes of shoes. I called for backup and surrounded the house.
              Without using Lindsey’s name I wrote out an affidavit saying the stolen truck was two blocks away, there were a few thousand stolen shoes outstanding, and there were a few hundred shoe boxes on the front porch of a certain house on East Patterson Street. I wrote in the affidavit that, based on my training and experience, I believed there were several hundred more stolen sneaks inside the house. It was my first search warrant affidavit, but I kept it simple. I think that well-used phrase was directly meant for me: “Keep it simple, stupid.”
              The judge on call that night agreed with me and authorized a search warrant. It’s tough to flush all those stolen shoes down a toilet like one might do with a few grams of cocaine. So, there they were, all those shoes, piled all over the house, waiting to be sold at a nickel on the dollar.
              The burglary lieutenant hated me until the day he retired because he could have done the same thing I did. He was either too lazy or too stupid. He never spoke to me the rest of the time he was with the department. I knew I’d be there longer than he so I didn’t care. We both knew I outdid him and I was only a patrolman. He never messed with me after that day. I’d see him in the elevator and I’d stare him down even when he was with his captain and lieutenant buddies. He would never even look me in the eye.
              If Lindsey was standing with two or three other hookers on Saginaw Street and I stopped to get their names, Lindsey would give me some verbal flap to make the other girls think she didn’t like me.
              “Hey Ryback, ain’ chew got nun bettah do ‘an botha us girls?”
              I’d smile at them, take their names and run them for warrants. I was always nice to the hookers, even when I was arresting them. Every now and then one of them would give me some information, but not to the extent Lindsey did. I wondered where Lindsey Williams was now. My future depended on it. They don’t like cops in prison, in case I forgot to tell you.

***
My immediate future depended on not getting my house repossessed. My car was paid for. I have a pickup truck that’s also paid for. I don’t have jet skis, snowmobiles, recent ex-wives, or other stuff that keeps guys poor. My golf clubs are 20 years old and I hit X-Out golf balls that go for about five bucks a dozen before I hit them in the woods or water. I paddle around Lake Fenton, but the kayak only cost $800 and was paid for at the time of purchase.
              My wife divorced me 16 years ago when I wouldn’t quit the police department. It might be nice to have her around now because she’s some kind of big shot on the Flint Board of Education.  Police work was the crux of our problem. She wanted me to quit being a cop and become a schoolteacher, like her. She stayed on in the teaching profession, married and divorced one more time, and earned a doctorate in education. She knocked down a pretty paycheck that I would have liked to draw from.


End of “Stalk Broker” Preview by Tom Basinski
To purchase the rest of the novel on Kindle go to: http://www.amazon.com/The-Stalk-Broker-police-stalker-ebook/dp/B00K02LGEC


Tom Basinski is also the author of two non-fiction police action books:

“No Good Deed” 
http://www.amazon.com/Good-Deed-Berkley-True-Crime/dp/0425209601

“Cross Country Evil”
http://www.amazon.com/Cross-Country-Evil-Berkley-True-Crime/dp/0425224899




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