Lyn Gala

The Witness Wore a Puppy Tail, chapter four (Patreon)

Published:

2018-03-24 22:24:44

Imported:

2026-06

Tags:

puppy

Content

Captain Jenkins was working at an empty desk near the west wall of the squad room. Ken wasn’t sure what he had against his own office, but it made Ken’s entrance to the squad room a little too public. Ken took Robert’s arm and pointed him and his visitor’s pass and pointed them to the chair next to his desk.

“Do you want me to—”

“Sit,” Ken interrupted.

“Woof,” Robert said as he dropped into the visitor’s chair. On the other side of the squad room, Captain Jenkins had stood. One at a time, other detective’s heads slowly rose as they realized something was going on. Detectives were horrible gossips, and Ken was clearly providing fodder for the mill.

Captain Jenkins came out from behind the desk he’d claimed. The guys in the precinct had nicknamed the captain “Jack” because he reminded them of a Jack Russell Terrier. While he might be a good man, he was also a small, aggressive man who never seemed to run out of energy or stop moving. However he was utterly still as Ken crossed the field of desks. “We can talk in my office,” Jenkins said, his gaze darting over toward Millan.

Ken nodded and followed the captain, a sinking feeling in his guts. He had tried everything during the ride over, but Millan would not budge. As far as he was concerned, any interviews he’d conducted were protected by the first amendment. This was ending badly, and Ken didn’t see a way to fix any of it.

Jenkins sat at his round conference table. “What is he doing here?”

“He’s been investigating these suspects on his own.” Ken rested his hands on the back of one of the chairs, but he didn’t sit.

“What suspects? Do we have names?”

This is where the sit hit the fan. “No suspects yet, but apparently Millan knows the names of some of the earliest victims.”

“Rhoads?” Jenkins asked. That had been the first case to hit the precinct, and Ken had picked it up. He didn’t have a full-time partner since Buell had retired, so a simple assault was an easy one for him to take while he waited for the department to approve a new transfer or until someone got promoted up to detective. Ken believed Millan when he claimed to have found even earlier victims. The Rhoads assault had been too quick and too clean for a first time. Rhoads couldn’t even tell how many people had hit him because the first hit and knocked him face down into a pile of restaurant recyclables—plastic bags and cardboard and packing material.

“Millan found earlier victims that fit the profile. Some men at gay clubs report being jumped by three guys, but the attacks weren’t serious and the men didn’t report it.”

That had the captain’s full attention, and he picked up a pen and started twirling it nervously. “Who are these men?”

“That’s the rub. He won’t tell me. He says he can go with me and introduce me around to try and get these witnesses to talk to me, but he won’t give me their names.”

Again, Jenkins went still. He stared at Ken as though waiting for some second half to that statement, but Ken had run out of words. Jenkins finally asked in a deceptively quiet voice, “Since when do we let civilians run cases?”

“Sir, I can’t talk him into giving me the names. He says that as a journalist, he can’t compromise his sources.”

“Journalist? I thought he was a working boy.”

“Apparently the kinky bondage play is a side gig,” Ken said with a sigh. He had no idea how that even worked, but at this point, he didn’t care what Millan did to get his rocks off. He cared about his case. “He’s a journalism student at Loyola, and he’s using that to claim privilege.”

“And you’re buying it?” Jenkins’s tone made it perfectly clear that he considered Ken some sort of idiot.

“Sir, you’re the one who told me not to start a fight with him,” Ken reminded the captain.

“I didn’t want you giving him shit over being gay,” Jenkins said loudly. “Feel free to get pissed about him withholding evidence. Did you threaten to throw him in a jail cell?”

“A few times.” Ken was really starting to feel defensive. “He seemed to think that getting arrested for exercising his first amendment rights would look great on his resume.”

Jenkins ran a hand over his face. “Christ.”

“And when I threatened to search his computers and phones, he gave me this.” Ken handed over a small red notebook with a golf pencil tucked into the spiral binding. Apparently Millan was old school.

Captain Jenkins opened it and flipped several pages before looking up in confusion. “What is this?” His confusion was justified because Ken couldn’t make heads of tails out of the random numbers and words. Considering that in the military Ken had specialized in picking up signals in the field and had hung out with cryptographic experts for most of his tour in Africom, he would have called himself moderately good at codes. Millan had him beat.

“His list of witnesses, including when and where he interviewed them. He keeps it all in code.”

“Of course he does,” Jenkins threw the notebook down on the table, and Ken collected it again. “I am liking this kid less and less with every passing minute, and I didn’t like him much to begin with.”

Ken didn’t mention that Millan wanted Ken to lie to the captain. If he did, Jenkins would like Millan a whole lot less. As far as Ken was concerned, Millan was the only viable lead he had until Miss Comfrey woke and could give a statement. And even then, if she followed the same pattern as the other four victims, the blitz attack from the rear would have left her with few if any helpful insights. “If Millan is right about these earlier victims, that supports the pattern of escalation.” Ken rarely came so close to telling a commanding officer I told you so, but this time, he felt the need. This wasn’t an ordinary case.

Jenkins nodded. “Which makes it more important than ever that we find the three suspects. I can make obvious conclusions, detective.” He gave Ken a dirty look.

“Sorry, sir.”

“I understand your concerns. I did from the time you picked up the second assault case. I didn’t listen to your budding serial killer theory because you jumped to that conclusion far too early. I’ve seen good detectives make huge mistakes because they searched for patterns before collecting the data. I didn’t want you going down that path.” Jenkins stood and picked up his pen, shaking it as he stared out into the squad room.

“And now?”

Jenkins turned and looked at Ken. “If Ronald Comfrey didn’t have the best luck in the world, he’d be dead. His injuries are too severe for a casual mugging or beating, and the fact that the suspects didn’t stop until they were interrupted by the lamp crashing against the sidewalk speaks to their frame of mind. I’m having Washington and White jump in and help you track down those jacket markings while they wait for New York to send evidence over on their trafficking case.”

Ken appreciated the help, particularly when he had been reduced to searching school web pages and company logos trying to find that needle in the stack of other needles. However, Millan was still his best bet. He felt it in his gut. “Millan saved Comfrey’s life,” Ken said in defense of his obstreperous witness.

“That might be true, but it doesn’t give him a free pass to fuck with our evidence.” Jenkins tossed his pen at his desk before turning back to Ken. “Drop him in a holding cell while I call the DA’s office.”

“Sir? I thought you wanted to avoid confrontation.”

“Oh, I do. But we don’t always get what we want, do we?” Jenkins pressed his lips together in an angry line, and Ken knew he couldn’t defend Millan—not unless he wanted to make an enemy out of his boss. Ken knew how to walk away from a fight he couldn’t win.

“No sir.”

“Go. Get Millan through booking.” Jenkins headed for his desk phone.

“Yes, sir.” Ken headed out into the squad room, and several detectives had moved to in front of their desks. They leaned or stood in pairs talking or generally tried to put themselves in Ken’s path in case he felt like stopping for a chat. He didn’t.

Millan had such a hopeful look on his face that Ken felt like he was kicking a puppy. It was the big, sad eyes that did it. No man should have eyes that large or lashes that beautiful. Arresting him made Ken feel like a bully.

“So, what’s the plan?” Millan asked with a bit of a bounce.

“You’re going to booking.”

Millan bolted to his feet. “What? No way. No fucking way. I have the evidence that can help you.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem. You have the evidence, and you won’t hand it over.” Ken held out the notebook.

Millan snatched it. “Journalistic ethics. And when I’m done with this department, it’s going to be leveled. Flat. Gone. Blown away by the force of the first amendment bomb that’s going to go off at ground zero.”

Ken heard chairs screech across the tile floor as several detective stood at once. He caught Millan by the elbow and herded him toward the door. “You may want to rethink using bombing metaphors in a police station. We tend to frown on bomb threats.”

“Har, har. You know full well that I’m not talking literal bombs. I can do way more damage with a few phone calls,” Millan said loudly, and then they were in the corridor, the squad room door falling shut behind them. Ken could practically feel the danger level drop. No wonder so many cops hated Millan. But the hallway—as crowded as it was with people waiting on benches and cops hurrying from place to place and detectives and precinct support staff all going about their day—afforded a certain level of anonymity. At least until Millan started running his mouth again.

Ken detoured to the little used back stairs. “Are you going to confiscate my phone if I take it out?” Millan asked.

“Nope, but they will take it in booking, so call fast,” Ken advised him. He kept one hand on Millan’s arm as they headed downstairs to booking. Ken was a large man, and the military had given him broad shoulders and impressive muscles. He found that many people were intimidated by his physicality, but Millan inched closer rather than trying to get away.

“Huh. You are a series of endless surprises.”

“Oh, not as much as you are,” Ken said as he stopped at the ground floor landing. Millan was dialing, so he decided to give him time to make his phone call. Maybe if Ken stayed on his good side, he could still get the man to help him find those witnesses. Millan raised an eyebrow when Ken leaned against the brick wall.

Within a couple of seconds of him dialing, he someone answered. “Hey, Dad. I need you down at Precinct 37. I won’t give the cops my sources on a story I’m working on about a series of gay bashings, and so they arrested me.” Millan sounded entirely too cheerful about that. The only time Ken had ever called his parents from a police station, he’d been sixteen and the whole baseball team had been caught at a party with alcohol. Having to call his father had been way worse than getting cuffed and put in a police car. Millan was a different breed, though. He grinned as he listened to his father. After a minute or so, he said, “I have no idea.” He turned to Ken. “What are the charges?”

Ken shrugged. “I assume obstruction of justice.”

“You assume? You don’t know what you’re booking me on?”

“Captain Jenkins asked me to take you down to booking. He didn’t say what I should put on the paperwork.”

Millan threw one hand up in the air in a dramatic gesture that was a little lost since his father couldn’t see him. “Oh, this isn’t a complete travesty of justice. No, not at all. I can’t believe the police aren’t even bothering to make up some bullshit story.”

“Making up stories is more your forte,” Ken muttered.

Millan covered his phone with his hand and hissed, “Seriously? Bite me.” He listened and then said in a much more respectful tone, “Yes, Dad. I know. But he’s almost not an idiot, and I don’t think he would hit me for mouthing off.” He paused to listen. “You worry too much. He’s not going to hit me.”

Ken leaned closer to the phone and said loudly enough to be heard, “I would never hit him, and given some of the crap he’s said to my face, if I were prone to losing my temper, I already would have.”

Millan slowly smiled. After a couple of minutes, he elbowed Ken and said in a conspiratorial voice, “My Dad almost doesn’t hate you.”

“Considering I’m arresting his son, I’ll count that as a win.” When Millan senior went to sue the whole precinct, hopefully he would leave Ken out of it. Although lawyers still scared him less than reporters.

“You can’t arrest me if you don’t know what you’re charging me with. Dad, I’m going to call Professor Berhane, so I’ll talk to you when you get to the station.” Millan rolled his eyes. “Yes. Jesus. I’m a grown man. I can manage to get through booking without triggering any psychotic rages. I’ll talk to you soon.” Millan hit the disconnect button so fast that Ken was almost sure he had hung up on his father.

“Is he worried about you going psychotic or you driving the rest of us past our breaking points?”

“Who knows. Both, maybe.” Millan focused on his phone, thumbing through his contacts before he chose another one. At this rate, Millan’s father was going to show up before Ken got the son down to booking.

“Hurry up.”

Millan hand flapped at him. Before Ken could call out the lack of manners, Millan was talking. “Professor Berhane? It’s Robert Millan. I’ve been working on a story about a number of gay bashings in East Lakeview. I witnessed the latest attack last night, and I’ve been talking to people in the clubs—” He stopped suddenly and listened. After a few seconds, he said loudly, “The police have arrested me. They’re demanding I turn over my sources.”

“Demand is a strong word. I asked for them,” Ken said softly.

Millan glared at him. “I keep everything in code. There’s no way they’ll figure it out, but they did confiscate my notebook.” He paused, and Ken filled in imaginary conversation full of horror and outrage and articulate condemnation for jack-booted thugs. Ken had seen that phrase on one of the signs from Millan’s last protest against police violence. “I’m down at Precinct 37,” Millan told his professor. “Captain Jenkins ordered one of his detectives to book me. Here’s the irony. Detective Hoffman has no idea what he’s booking me for. I think he’s going for the ‘following orders’ defense on this one. I even offered to walk him around to the clubs I know and introduce him around, but he insists I should hand over all of my sources and sit back while he does God-knows what.” The horror in Millan’s voice was definitely qualifying for overacting.

“I plan to talk to them, not waterboard them.”

Millan ignored him. “Yes, sir. I won’t. There’s no way I’m giving them anyone’s name.” Millan patted the pocket where he had tucked his notebook full of contacts. Thank you.” With that Millan disconnected his phone and smirked at Ken.

“You just called a shit storm down on our heads, didn’t you?”

“Oh, hell yes. It’s going to be a grand show.”

Ken sighed. “I hate you a little.”

“Most of my friends do.”

Ken pulled the fire door open and caught Millan by the arm again. “I’m not one of your friends,” he said as he urged Millan into the busy corridor. Someone had done something unsanitary in the bathroom, and the stench was slowly drifting out into the crowd. Millan pulled the neck of his shirt up and covered his nose.

“You’re not acting like an enemy, so as long as you’re ethical, I think I’m going to leave you in the friend column.”

Ken hurried them both away from the offending odor. “That’s making me feel guilty about putting you in a jail cell.”

Millan’s smile was incandescent. “That’s a bonus.”

Chapter 5: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-5-17767577

Chapter 6: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-6-17772109

Chapter 7: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-7-17795246

Chapter 8: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-8-17856154

Chapter 9: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-9-17964838

Chapter 10: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-10-18290483

Chapter 11: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-11-18463879

Chapter 12: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-12-18561312

Chapter 13: https://www.patreon.com/posts/witness-wore-13-18583563