Trust in the Fast Lane

Chapter 2: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

Chapter 2: Chicago Detective Michael Branham

After Marshall Sullivan left, I sat there at my desk, thinking. It had been a dicey unpopular move to call him from a local department point of view. Nobody wants the feds charging in, taking control and booting you out of your own case. But I had read the BOLO sheet on Ditweiller. Six murder charges and three more non-fatal shootings…This guy needed to be taken off the streets and I wasn’t sure I could do that on my own without collateral damage.

Having met Sullivan now, I felt better about my choice. He seemed genuinely interested in my input. There was the added bonus of him seeming to be a serious professional LEO, with a sense of humor. If we ended up spending twelve or more hours in a car together on the proposed stakeout, it would go smoother if he wasn’t an uptight asshole. Granted, we’d only spent five minutes in each other’s company so far, but I’d met my fair share of law enforcement people who I wanted to punch inside of sixty seconds. We tend to be an aggressive, opinionated lot.

From a purely physical point of view, Sullivan looked fit and solid, the sort of colleague you would want alongside you in a firefight. I’d been in a few shootouts. It was never like simulations. There was more adrenaline and more terror, too. Maybe it was because the bullets were real.

I finished up some paperwork on another case that was winding down, and didn’t see any use in going home before meeting him for dinner. By the time I looked at the clock on my computer screen, there was barely more than half an hour to go. I’d amble on over to the restaurant and grab a beer, and dawdle until Sullivan got there. The TV in the bar would almost undoubtedly be set to something sports related. As long as it wasn’t golf, I could stand to watch it for a while.

Tromping across the parking lot to my car, the wind howled an icy blast. One of these years, I’d spend a few weeks in the Bahamas in January, and escape the biting cold and snow of Chicago winters. The forecast for tomorrow included more of the white stuff. Thrilling.

I got to the barbecue place and went to the bar. Basketball was on TV. I ordered a beer and took a sip. In less than ten minutes, Sullivan settled on the stool beside me.

“Great minds think alike,” he said. He flagged the bar tender. “Double of Black Bush please.” As he waited for his drink, he swiveled to face me. “I’m guessing you came here straight from the precinct?”

“Yeah, I spent a while on paperwork.”

“The task that never ends.”

“And if we’re going to be out of the office all day tomorrow, I thought I’d try to catch up enough that I won’t be too buried when we’re done.”

The bar tender sat the glass down in front of Sullivan. “Thanks,” he said to the man, and lifted his glass in my direction. “Here’s to speedy apprehension of the bad guy.”

I clinked my glass against his.

* * * *

Mostly we talked shop over dinner. There’s no clean way to eat ribs. You always end up with sauce and grease all over your fingers. I wasn’t really sure what it was about watching him stick his fingers in his mouth that was oddly fascinating. Maybe it was about his enjoyment of the taste, or his lack of finesse.

“What time do you want me to come by the precinct in the morning?” he asked.

“How ‘bout eight? It’s going to take us close to ninety minutes to get out there.”

“Eight’s fine. How’d you end up cultivating a contact that far outside the city? Isn’t it outside of your jurisdiction?”

“I started out following one guy who led to another that led to yet another. And yeah, technically he’s too far out but I’m using him as a CI so there’s some grayness involved,” I admitted.

“That’s fine. Just curious.” Sullivan slouched back in his chair and stared at the table.

I assumed he was thinking.

“Wear your vest. Bring extra clips,” he said, meeting my eyes again. “I’m hoping for a quick and easy take down, but this guy is dangerous. He’s already killed six people.”

“I’m not a newbie. I’ve been on the job for over a decade.”

“Good. Ever shot anyone before?”

“Unfortunately, yes, I admitted.”

“Dead?”

“One…taking him out was a service to humanity and it was in the middle of a full on gang shoot out. There was another one…He survived, which is good, I think. You?”

“Five. Marshals seldom get sent after the harmless ones.”

For a moment I thought his expression made him look haunted. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“It happens now and then.”