Patrick made his way to a nearby waiting room, got a cup of coffee from the vending machine, and sank wearily into a chair. The TV in the room was set to a local channel and showed aerial shots of the funeral procession, nearly a mile long, as it moved through downtown Sacramento toward City Cemetery. They also showed the Sacramento Peace Officers Memorial in Del Paso Heights, which was getting ready for its own memorial service for the three slain officers. The memorial was ringed by Ionic columns, with a tall stone obelisk in the center of the circle and bronze plaques of Sacramento’s slain officers on the outside of the circle. As the sun moved across the sky, the shadow created by the obelisk pointed at each officer’s plaque at the precise time he had died. Spotlights on the columns created the same effect at night.
Patrick had been to many formal military funerals. The last one, a secret service in the desert of central Nevada just four short months ago, had been for his friend and superior officer Lieutenant General Bradley James Elliott, who had been killed in a crash of his experimental EB-52 Megafortress bomber while on a top-secret strike mission inside the People’s Republic of China. The President of the United States and the president of the newly independent Republic of China on Taiwan attended that service. Brad Elliott was buried in a small graveyard in the Nevada desert near the secret base now named for him, a graveyard reserved for those who died while test-flying America’s newest and most top-secret warplanes.
But cop funerals were different. The police usually strive to stay low-key, even anonymous, on a day-to-day basis, but when a cop is killed the display of solidarity and strength is anything but low-key. Was this for the public’s benefit, their attempt to show the public that the police might be hurt but they weren’t defeated? For the law-enforcement community’s benefit, an attempt to rally their strength in the face of death? For the crooks’ benefit-again, demonstrating the sheer power, strength, and brotherhood of their adversaries? Patrick couldn’t begin to guess.
Hearing a commotion out in the corridor, Patrick got up and headed for the door. To his surprise, he saw Arthur Barona striding down the hallway with a knot of aides, cops, and reporters with microphones, tape recorders, and TV cameras following close behind. At the door to Paul’s room the cop on duty, who had been instructed just minutes earlier not to let anyone in, moved out of the way without a word. Barona and another cop with captain’s bars on his uniform, whom Patrick recognized as Thomas Chandler, walked right in.
“Hey!” Patrick shouted. “You can’t go in there!” Everyone ignored him. Enraged, he sped down the corridor, pushed past the cop on duty, and stormed inside. Barona was already seated beside Paul’s bed, holding his left hand. Paul was awake but clearly groggy-and when Patrick saw his eyes begin to roll up into his head in exhaustion, he exploded. “Hey, you motherfucker,” he snapped, “get the hell out of this room! The doctor ordered no visitors!”
Cameras and microphones swung in Patrick’s direction, and a couple of reporters fired questions at him while warily staying out of his reach. The cop on duty grabbed him from behind, pinning one arm behind him with a come-along grip, and pressing a finger into the mandibular nerve behind his jaw. Patrick yelled in pain. The cop had him but good-he could go in no direction except straight down at the floor, right in front of all the reporters and cameras.
“Hold it, Officer, hold it,” Barona said quickly. “Let him go. That’s Officer McLanahan’s brother.” Patrick fought to keep from swinging back at his attacker. The cameras and microphones were squarely on him now. Barona said, “I’m very sorry, Mr McLanahan, but the police force is at a very high state of readiness and alert, and anyone can be considered a threat. Now, what was it you had to say to me?”
“The doctor ordered uninterrupted rest, no visitors at all, for twenty-four hours. That order includes family, friends, and chiefs of police and reporters. Look at him. He’s totally wiped out. You should have checked with the doctor before barging in like this.”
Barona looked down at Paul as the cameras swung back toward him. He gave his hand a squeeze, patted him on the head, and nodded. “Let’s let this brave officer rest now, guys. Everyone outside.” He led the reporters out of the room, then stood in front of the door as if on guard himself. “That’s one tough rookie cop in there, folks,” he said to the reporters, who had arrayed themselves around him, with Paul visible over Barona’s shoulder through the windowed panel in the door. “He wounded three terrorists in the Sacramento Live! shootout before being gunned down himself. Seriously injured, he still had the toughness and spirit to get up out of that hospital bed and attend his partner’s funeral. That’s a Sacramento cop for you: the best of the best.” He turned toward the windowed panel, gave a thumbs-up, and said, “Get well soon, Officer McLanahan. We need more soldiers in blue like you out there protecting our streets.” As he averted his head as if hiding a tear, his aides used the moment to end the photo opportunity, and the reporters were quickly hustled toward the elevators.
When they were well out of range, Barona said to Patrick, “My staff should have checked first.” He shot a sideways glance at Tom Chandler, as if silently blaming him. Chandler extended a hand, and Patrick took it reluctantly. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, Mr McLanahan,” Chandler said, “and I’m sorry for what’s happened. I promise you we’ll find out who did this.”
Patrick didn’t think any more of either apology than he did of the grandstanding in Paul’s room, but he let it slide. “No problem,” he said, and turned to Barona-“Paul’s doing okay. He’s tough.”-only to find he had already turned to speak with his aides. He took a step toward him and the aides noticed. “Excuse me, Chief Barona. I was wondering if I could speak with you for a moment?”
Barona wiped the instant look of irritation off his face-he didn’t want to seem impatient with any member of a cop’s family. “Of course, Mr McLanahan,” he answered. They stepped away, far enough to feel as if they were carrying out a private discussion, but near enough to be overheard. Chandler joined them. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I was wondering if you could give me any more details of the incident in which Paul was hurt,” Patrick asked. “Any details about the robbers, where they came from, where they went, who they are-anything that might help to explain how something like this could happen here in Sacramento.”
“It’s not just in Sacramento, Mr McLanahan,” Barona responded. “It’s a nationwide problem. The increase in crime, in gang violence, in the use of assault weapons, in the brazenness of the criminal element-it’s happening all over the country.”
Christ, a political statement at a time like this. Patrick felt that flush of anger again. “I understand, Chief, but about the robbers-are you saying they were gang members? As in Crips or Bloods? What kind of gangs? Do you know specifically who did this?”
“We don’t have that information yet, Mr McLanahan,” Barona said with an edge of impatience. “My deputy in charge of public affairs will provide that information when it becomes available. If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’d better get back to my office so I can organize the hunt for those bastards that attacked your son…”
“My brother,” Patrick corrected him curtly. “Listen, Chief Barona, I want to help with the investigation. From what the press and the speakers at the memorial service said, they were heavily armed military types. I can help track them down and fight them. I’d like to speak with you and your investigators about ways I can help…”
Barona again glanced at Chandler, as if asking, Why in hell are you allowing weirdos like this near me? “What is it you do, Mr McLanahan?” he said.