Marge Buchanan, the union rep, was awaiting Angie beside the MVPD station doors, under the roof out of the rain, right behind the carved totem pole that served as an emblematic support column.
“Thanks for coming,” Angie said tersely, walking right past the woman. She yanked open the glass door. She wasn’t up to meeting Buchanan’s eyes right now—this woman who’d so generously and attentively sat with her through the initial IIO interrogations, who’d advised her not to exercise her right to silence in this case, who’d helped with a lawyer. Angie wasn’t so sure now that not exercising her charter right to silence had been the correct move. Because in answering questions, she’d exposed the fact that she’d had some kind of blackout during her violent shooting of Spencer Addams—she could not recall firing her weapon so many times, nor why she had done so. All she could remember was seeing that little halo of pink behind Addams—that luminous little ghost girl in a pink dress that she’d been hallucinating. And she’d snapped. All she’d wanted to do was get the ghost kid away from Addams. Save her. Of course she hadn’t confessed that part. She’d only told the IIO investigators she could not recall firing any shots after the first one. Either they’d believed this, or they might have concluded she was lying. Neither option was good.
Angie held the door open for the rep, still not making eye contact. The older woman entered the building and stopped in front of Angie, finally forcing Angie to look into her face.
“I know this is hard. Any questions before we go up?” Buchanan said.
“Probably after,” said Angie. “Depending on the ruling.” Her plan was to hear Vedder out, say little. And deal with the facts once she had them.
The older woman managed to keep pace with Angie’s clipped stride as Angie led the way upstairs to Vedder’s office, which looked out onto the sex crimes bullpen and her own desk. As they went Angie got a whiff of the woman’s hairspray—her coif was fixed in a solid steel-gray helmet around her head. Buchanan had been a cop back in the day. Is that what Angie would say about herself? I was a cop once, back in the day . . .
Once upstairs Angie strode swiftly past the bullpen, spine erect, chin up. She’d donned a black tailored leather blazer over slim black jeans. She wore her best boots, which had a slight heel. Hair washed and sleek down her back. She knew she looked her best. She might be a loser, but she was not going to dress like one.
Dundurn and Smith were at their desks. For the past six years, Angie had been one of the sixteen detectives in sex crimes. They were divided into teams of four. She and Holgersen were one team in her unit of four. Dundurn and Smith were the other pair. Along with a training officer, a ViCLAS coordinator, an analyst, and two project assistants, they all worked under Sergeant Matt Vedder.
Smith glanced up from his paperwork as she passed. Surprise cut through his features. “Pallorino?” He started to get to his feet. Dundurn glanced up from his paperwork, his butt-ugly brown suit jacket hanging on his chair behind him. Angie felt a clutch in her throat—she never thought she’d see the day she missed those two assholes and that stinking jacket of Dundurn’s. She gave them both a curt nod, adjusted the hem of her blazer, and kept on going. She knocked on Vedder’s glass door. He had the blinds down. Not good.
“Enter!” came his voice.
Angie braced, then opened the door. Vedder was seated behind his desk. To his left sat Inspector Martin Flint.
“Sir, Inspector,” she said. “You know Marge Buchanan?”
They nodded their greetings, and Vedder gestured toward the two vacant chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”
Angie met Vedder’s eyes before doing so. They were expressionless. His features flat. Not good. Really not good. Slowly, she lowered herself into a chair. Buchanan seated herself in the remaining chair.
“How have you been, Pallorino?” Vedder said.
She dropped her gaze to his hand. It rested flat atop some folders. She recognized the IIO logo on the topmost one.
“Awaiting the decision.” She titled her chin toward the folders. “If we could cut to the chase, sir—what’s the final word from the IIO?” She felt the scrutiny of Flint intense upon her, but she refused to look his way. This was it—she could feel it. Thick in the air. The end.
“For the record,” Vedder said, “the purpose of the IIO investigation was to determine whether the subject officer—which is you, Pallorino—referred to as the SO in this report, may have committed any offenses during the fatal shooting of the affected person—Spencer Addams, referred as the AP in the report—on Monday, December eighteen, in mountainous wilderness west of the old railway trestle bridge over Skookum Gorge. I’ve made copies of the ruling for both you and Buchanan.”
He slid two files across his desk. Buchanan reached for hers. Angie just glared at the cover of her own copy, her face going hot.
“As you know, this report will be posted on the IIO website, and it will be accessible to media.”
Blood started to boom in her ears. She felt dizzy. She couldn’t sit still. She needed to get out of here, stat. She cleared her throat. “Bottom line, sir—can you please give me the bottom line?”
He held her gaze. “Based on his review of all the evidence collected during the course of the investigation, and based on the law as it applies, the chief civilian director of the IIO has determined there were significant issues and concerns regarding the SO’s tactics, primarily relating to a direct disregard of the orders of superiors, excessive use of force, a troubling gap in memory, and what was determined to be probable evidence of rage, or at the least loss of professional control.” Vedder continued to hold Angie’s gaze. “The autopsy of the AP and ballistics results from the scene are consistent with the SO having shot eight rounds into Addams’s face, chest, and neck. Apart from the one bullet deemed to have been fired from a distance of about twenty feet, and another from about six feet, the others were all fired into the AP at close range while he lay prone on the ground.”
Angie swallowed but refused to blink. A bead of sweat pearled between her breasts and began to dribble down under her bra strap.
“However, given the exigent circumstances, the CCD believes that it cannot be said that your failures rise to a level such that consideration of criminal charges is warranted.”
Relief punched her sternum so hard it stole her ability to breathe. She cast a quick glance at Buchanan, who gave a small smile and a nod.