Bone by Bone by Carol O'Connell Page A

out of that file—Swahn’s no fool. He had two college degrees when most kids were still in high school. Then he picked up another one while he was waiting to turn twenty-one. That’s when he joined the LAPD. All his life that genius kid only wanted to be a cop.”
    The sheriff turned to his passenger, no doubt waiting for the obvious question. But Oren was the judge’s apprentice, and he knew better than to show any interest.
    Another mile down another road, the sheriff wearied of the apathy. “It took me years to get the whole story. I went to a few police conventions down in Los Angeles. Had to get stinking drunk with cops before they’d talk to me. And I bought a lot of beer for Swahn’s ex-partner, Jay Murray. The guy left the force—kicked out—so it took me a while to find him. Murray told me he called in sick the night his partner got ambushed on patrol. After another six-pack, he told me he wasn’t sick at all. Interesting, huh?”
    Oren could see where this story was going, but he said nothing to move it along. He only had to wait for the sheriff to fill the holes in his one-way conversation.
    “This happened back in the eighties. The bad old days of the LAPD. You know—anything goes, cowboy cops. Lots of shoot-outs. They didn’t wanna swap body fluids with a gay AIDS carrier. That was the rumor on William Swahn.” Sheriff Babitt squinted into the light of the afternoon sun slanting through the trees.
    “So Swahn’s riding solo that night, and the dispatcher sends him out on a domestic dispute. Well, it’s a bad area. He calls in for backup—but nobody shows. The kid goes in alone.” The sheriff shrugged. “A rookie mistake. The next time Swahn called for help that night, he was hurt bad. Officer down—that should’ve brought out every patrol car on the planet. Not one cop came to help him.” He gave his passenger a sidelong glance, but got no payoff from the younger man, who showed more interest in the road rolling by his window. “Son, I know what you’re thinking.”
    Oren doubted that. He was wondering if any part of this story was backed up with proof, anything in the way of physical evidence or facts.
    “Back in the eighties,” said the sheriff, “AIDS was a death sentence. And all these years later, Swahn seems healthy enough—except for a bad limp. According to the police report, he walked in on a drug deal in progress, and took a bullet in the leg. Hardly made a blip on the evening news. The department press release left out what was done to his face. And here’s the kicker—I heard that drug dealer hacked off Swahn’s balls.”
    Not likely.
    Oren had interfaced with many police departments on joint investigations where the Army had an interest. In or out of the military, drug dealers had never been prone to starting cop wars in any era. Nothing about this story rang true. Too many rumors passed for fact, and way too many police officers were involved to keep any gory details out of the newspapers. “This isn’t right.”
    “That’s what I say,” said the sheriff. “And it’s the cover-up that proves the crime.”
    Oren shook his head, though the other man probably took this gesture for shock and awe instead of disbelief.
    “Here’s another thing you might find interesting,” said Sheriff Babitt. “William Swahn sued the LAPD, and it was settled out of court for a pile of money. I know he paid cash for his house. And I got a niece in State Revenue—she tells me Swahn gets a real nice income from his investments. But you won’t find the settlement in the public record. It was handled real quiet with nondisclosure agreements. That proves the cops were in on it.”
    No, it did not.
    However, Oren had no plans to point out flaws in logic and reason. The man beside him had won his first election with the bare minimum of requirements for the job. Apparently, the sheriff’s skill set had not improved any.
    “I’ve got no idea who outed Swahn.” Cable Babitt made