Chapter 153: Challenging Authority
Theodore requested that Lawyer Taylor and Lawyer Whitman accompany them to the crime scene. Help reconstruct the events of that night.
The Deputy Police Chief considered for a moment, then agreed.
Both lawyers, drowning in paperwork for weeks, nearly cheered aloud.
They took a patrol car and led Theodore's Chevrolet toward the scene.
The location was complicated. A four-way intersection, downtown. The convenience store from the briefing sat prominently at the corner, impossible to miss.
Taylor and Whitman were regulars. Hell, every patrol officer in the Fourth Precinct treated the place as a supply depot.
Like Felton PD, Fourth Precinct officers worked fixed patrol routes. This store sat dead center in the patrol area, perfect positioning to radiate coverage across their entire sector.
The crossroads location meant developed infrastructure and easy response times for calls.
Officers habitually circled back here between rounds, grabbed a breather. Ducked inside for coffee, a sandwich, something to keep them upright through the shift. Winters, they'd warm up by the register. Heavy rain or worse, they'd shelter inside until the storm passed.
When Theodore's group arrived, a patrol car idled at the curb. Passenger door hanging open, middle-aged officer behind the wheel.
The officer hit the horn, leaned out, and hollered greetings at Taylor and Whitman. Clearly old friends.
Even cracked a joke, had they finished their paperwork yet?
Taylor pointed over his shoulder.
The officer squinted past him. Saw nothing.
Taylor explained the situation quickly.
The officer clapped his arm, hit the horn again, shouted toward the store: "Goddamn it! You giving birth in there?!"
A stocky lawyer emerged carrying coffee and cinnamon rolls, spotted Taylor, and looked genuinely startled. Hugged both men, then complained to his partner: "Thank Christ! Thought the Soviets invaded and dragged you off!"
The middle-aged officer took the coffee and gulped it down. "Yeah, thanks for letting me taste freedom one last time before the gulags!"
The stocky lawyer rolled his eyes.
The radio crackled with a robbery two blocks over.
The stocky officer waved, jumped in, and peeled out.
Taylor and Whitman stood watching the cruiser disappear, envy plain on their faces.
A few minutes later, the Chevrolet finally arrived.
Bernie driving.
Billy Hawke climbed out and draped an arm over Bernie's shoulders. "Buddy, hand over the keys. Let me drive from now on."
Bernie remembered his expression during the ride and shook his head firmly.
Billy Hawke kept pushing. "Trust me, I'm an excellent driver."
Bernie just shook his head, quickened his pace, and caught up to Theodore.
Billy Hawke watched them walk side by side, thought about the two trips—Justice Building to Fourth Precinct, Fourth Precinct to here—and shook his head.
Whitman and Taylor led them to the store entrance, then walked a short distance east. Stopped.
This was where they'd parked that night.
Not directly in front of the store, but close enough.
Theodore stood still, scanned the area.
Open terrain at the crossroads. No utility poles, no billboards blocking sightlines. Clear views in every direction.
Across the street: a bar, doors closed, not yet open for business.
Diagonal: a secondhand thrift store, similar to the Northwest District gun market Lawyer Ronald had shown them, except three times the size.
Next to the convenience store: a restaurant and an unmarked shop, no sign, also closed.
Whitman walked Theodore through that night's sequence.
He and Taylor were old partners, took turns buying coffee. April 1st was Taylor's turn.
Whitman had been driving. After completing their patrol loop, they'd returned here, parked. Taylor got out first, went inside for coffee.
Whitman felt hungry suddenly.
Glanced outside—empty street. The car sat right at the curb, maybe twenty feet away. He didn't kill the engine, didn't remove the keys. Just climbed out, walked into the store.
Taylor, getting coffee, looked surprised to see him. Glanced outside—car still sitting there, untouched.
One grabbed coffee, the other took cinnamon rolls. Headed to the register.
When they walked back outside, the car was gone.
Bernie asked: "Why didn't you use the walkie-talkie?"
Standard procedure in situations like this—radio it in immediately.
Whitman had clearly wrestled with this question. Shook his head, bitter smile. "I don't know what I was thinking. Didn't radio Taylor, just walked inside myself."
Silence.
Taylor clapped his partner's shoulder. Small comfort.
Theodore glanced at both men, walked toward the convenience store. He wanted to hear what the clerk had to say.
Inside, the store was empty. The clerk leaned against the counter, radio playing.
Call-in show. The caller debating with the host whether America had already lost the Cold War, when the Soviet invasion would begin.
The clerk stared at the radio like it might explode. Like Red Army soldiers might crawl out of the speaker at any moment.
Bernie rapped the counter, flashed his credentials.
The clerk snapped off the radio, straightened up fast.
His eyes landed on Whitman and Taylor.
Seeing them arrive with the FBI, remembering what he'd just heard on the radio—his face went pale.
He asked Bernie nervously: "Have the Soviets invaded?"
Bernie, about to verify the clerk's statement, looked simultaneously amused and irritated. "The Soviets won't invade for another hundred years. Relax."
Coming from an FBI lawyer, the words carried weight.
The clerk exhaled slightly. "I thought the Soviets had invaded."
Billy Hawke: "If they invaded, what would you do?"
The clerk's lips moved. Sheepish smile.
Awkward silence.
Theodore requested the duty log, confirmed the clerk had been working the night of April 1st.
The clerk recalled haltingly, stuttering through that night's events. Nothing different from what they'd already learned.
He hadn't seen who drove off with the cruiser—Whitman and Taylor had been crowding the register, completely blocking his view.
After leaving the store, Theodore's group headed for the abandonment site.
Whitman radioed the Maryland State Police. After explaining the situation, they met a trooper at the state line.
The abandonment location: end of a deserted dirt road.
The state trooper helped with a one-to-one reconstruction.
He used Whitman's current cruiser as a stand-in for the stolen vehicle, parked it at the road's terminus.
Front end angled toward the woods, front wheels stuck in a ditch. Both doors hanging open. Keys still in the ignition.
The trooper, displaying a sense of humor, finally grabbed a bottle, placed it under the passenger seat. Pretending it was the cola bottle from the report.
Theodore stood beside the car, looked around. Nothing but trees in every direction.
He asked the trooper about the surrounding area.
South through the woods: Anacostia River. North through the woods, over a small rise: residential community. Closest one to this location.
Theodore asked if they'd searched both directions.
Silence from the trooper.
This case hadn't been taken seriously from the start. Current circumstances made it even harder to justify resources.
The trooper seemed genuinely puzzled why Theodore was pushing this. If not for a colleague's screwup, this case wouldn't even exist.
The trooper wasn't alone in his confusion. Whitman and Taylor shared the same doubts.
Theodore just shook his head, turned toward the Chevrolet.
He didn't request a search of the woods.
Two weeks had passed. Rain in between. Even if the car thief had left traces, weather would've erased them.
Back at the Fourth Precinct, the Deputy Police Chief inquired about investigation results.
Upon learning they'd made no progress, he showed an expression of "just as I expected."
He remained silent a moment, then called his assistant. Had the assistant bring in a lawyer named Patrick O'Malley.
O'Malley was built like Bernie—broad, square-jawed, ruddy nose, gray-blue eyes. His left shoulder tilted when he walked, old injury maybe.
The Deputy Chief told Theodore that O'Malley would liaison with them specifically, assist in their investigation.
After showing them to a conference room, the Deputy Chief left.
Brief silence descended.
O'Malley broke it. Asked Theodore directly why he was taking this case so seriously.
Waste of energy, he said. Waste of resources.
Bernie and Billy Hawke were stunned.
They hadn't expected this seemingly dull man to be so blunt.
Theodore liked blunt.
He set down the evidence report, asked O'Malley: "How many stolen police car cases have you encountered?"
O'Malley shook his head.
Never. Not one.
Theodore looked at Billy Hawke—remembering his Marine Corps background—then turned to Bernie.
Bernie thought hard, expression turning serious. "One."
Billy Hawke chimed in: "Also one. Camp Lejeune. Thief stole equipment from the base."
Theodore ignored him, continued: "Police naturally represent authority."
"When an officer puts on the badge, wears the uniform, begins patrol—he represents justice."
"Thieves fear anyone in a police uniform. Criminals run when they see the police."
"What they fear isn't the individual. They fear the authority and justice that uniform represents. They fear law and rules."
Theodore brought the conversation back to the case: "In this case, the car thief chose a police car as his target. That carries enormous risk. The consequences of getting caught stealing an ordinary vehicle versus a police car? Completely different."
O'Malley and Bernie both nodded.
All parties treating this case casually now—that was about no significant losses, feeling continued investigation would waste manpower.
Didn't mean they had no feelings about the car thief.
If they caught him now, he wouldn't have an easy time.
If he had an easy time, every lawyer in the Fourth Precinct would be uncomfortable.
"Despite this risk, the car thief still chose a police car."
"After taking that enormous risk, the car thief didn't sell the vehicle or dispose of it through other channels. He drove it less than five miles, abandoned it in a desolate location."
"The car thief didn't steal for economic gain. Not for transportation convenience or any other practical purpose."
"He had no purpose at all."
"The car thief's only purpose in stealing this police car was to steal a police car."
O'Malley looked confused.
He interrupted Theodore's analysis: "According to your logic, the car thief didn't need to steal the car at all. The stolen police car was useless to him."
"If it was useless, why steal it?"
He suspected Theodore didn't know what he was talking about.
By Theodore's analysis, the car thief had no motive.
Without motive, where was the crime?
This conclusion was completely inconsistent with the facts.
Theodore shook his head. "The stolen police car was meaningless to him."
"But the act of stealing the police car held great significance."
"What the car thief wanted wasn't the police car itself. He wanted the act of being able to steal the police car."
"This is a challenge to law and order."
"That's why the car thief merely drove the car less than five miles before abandoning it. Didn't do anything to the vehicle itself."
O'Malley kept shaking his head. Still didn't understand.
Bernie frowned, asked Theodore: "You're saying the car thief stole the police car just to satisfy his need to challenge the police?"
He looked confused. "Why would he do that?"
Theodore returned a puzzled look. "To challenge authority."
O'Malley just kept shaking his head. He completely didn't understand what Theodore was saying.
Theodore ignored him, continued: "A glass cola bottle was left in the police car—"
Bernie: "Is that an identifying mark?"
Theodore paused, shook his head. "Possibly. Or the perpetrator was too nervous, accidentally dropped it."
He looked at O'Malley. "Have there been any similar cases recently in the Fourth Precinct patrol area? Targeting police officers?"
O'Malley asked: "You mean attacks on police officers?"
[End of Chapter]
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