Chapter Nine: The Usual Suspects

Steve shifted in the chair across from the desk of Lieutenant James Simkins, Zone 5 Commander for the Corona Police Department. A no-nonsense man in his late fifties, Simkins had sent one of his deputies down to the records archive to pull the report on the drunk driving incident in question. But for Steve, having ridden for nearly two hours in the cramped confines of his father's car and now sitting in one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs that Simkins reserved for guests, he was starting to feel a quite a few uncomfortable twinges.

Noting a questioning look from his father, he smiled reassuringly, before asking Simkins another question. "Were you familiar with Ms McPherson and her family when they lived here in Corona?"

"I didn't know them, no. And like I said, I wasn't involved with the investigation. But when I caught wind of the trial going on in the city, I did a little research. The name sounded a familiar on account of another case. Turned out that I did have a run in with Ms McPherson when she was in high school. Seems she got mixed up with a rough bunch for a bit. Just kid stuff, really. But a couple of that crowd moved on to bigger and better things."

"You have any names?" Steve asked. "It's a long shot, but it's possible that I may have had a run in of my own with a couple of them."

Simkins gestured toward the fading marks on Steve's face. "I was wondering. I thought I remembered your name."

Steve gave a pained expression. "I'm the one."

Simkins didn't pursue the matter, but went back to business. "I can give you a few suggestions. There are a handful that I know that had moved into your neck of the woods last I heard. "

Simkins looked up as his deputy returned. "Thanks Bart. Could you get a couple other things for me, too." He threw a look Steve's direction. "We like to help our big city brethren as much as we can."

Steve chuckled as the words weren't meant unkindly. "Why do I get the feeling I might be owing you one someday?"

"One can never have too many friends, if you know what I mean," was the Sheriff's somewhat cryptic reply as he wrote something down for his deputy.

Steve took the file that had previously been brought into the room. He noted that some items had been taken out of the report. Most notably the name of the individual driving the other vehicle. He sighed in frustration. "The name isn't here." He closed the folder and pushed it across the desk toward the Sheriff.

Simkins took up the item, and glanced through it. "Oh, the records must have been cleaned up then. Sorry about that. Things did tend to get missed some of the times. This wasn't one of them. Maybe there is something else in there that you can use."

"Maybe." Steve took the folder back. "I already knew the records were sealed because the driver was a minor and because there were some mental health issues. I was hoping someone local might remember who the driver was, or that local records might have a little more."

"Mike Jaffey was one of the officers on the scene. He's moved on back east about ten years ago. I'm not even sure where to find him these days. And Joe Thurman, the other officer, is gone too. Got religion and went off to be a missionary. Sorry fellas."

Mark spoke up, after having remained silent for much of the discussion. "Lt. Simkins, is there anything at all that you can think of that will help us find this individual? It really is a matter of life and death. Since there were mental health issues, maybe you can direct us to the physician who might have been involved."

Simkins ran a hand along his jaw, pondering that one. "Well, there weren't too many psychiatrists who worked with the county back then. More than likely it was one of two who would have gotten assigned the case. Doc Stable died a bit back so he wouldn't be any help to you. But, if you're lucky, Dr Gibsen is the one you're looking for. He's got a practice in LA. Doctor Edward Gibsen. You might want to try him."

-- --

"How are you holding up?" Mark asked as he and Steve made their way out of the police department. It had taken Simkins thirty minutes to pull together the remaining information that they'd requested and had it all faxed off to Cheryl. In that time, he thought he could practically see the lines of exhaustion spreading themselves over his son's demeanor. Maybe this trip had been a little too much too soon.

"I'm fine," Steve responded as expected.

"Any pain?" Mark pressed.

Steve let out a longsuffering breath. "Yes, Dad. There is some pain. But I am on the mend, so stop worrying, okay?"

Mark was immediately reassured. "How about something to eat before we head back? It's just about lunchtime."

"How about that restaurant we passed on PCH? The Ketchup Stain. That sounds like fun."

Mark made a face. "Oh yeah. Sounds terrific. Let's eat there. " He then mumbled under his breath, "I was hoping you'd forgotten about that."

Steve laughed out loud, but before he could respond, his phone rang. He quickly answered it, surprised at the information he received before he hung up.

"You're not going to believe this." He said in his father's direction.

"What's that?" Mark looked across the top of the car at him.

"That was Cheryl. They've already picked up one of the hoodlums that Lt. Simkins told us about."

"What are we waiting for? Let's get back to LA."

-- -- -- -- --

Mark watched as Steve paused a moment before moving through the door into one of the precinct's interrogation rooms. It reminded him of watching him enter the same room months prior. This time, Steve was preparing himself to play the part that would be most effective in getting the bullish looking man sitting at the table to talk. That other time, he'd been steeling himself to face the person on the other side of the door. Steve had not wanted to believe that Amber was guilty, but bits of evidence had kept piling one upon the other until he had no choice. The case had been turned over to Dawson and Jenkins.

As the door closed behind his son, Mark followed his movements through the two-way glass. Cheryl was already inside with the man whose name was Dwayne Breckish. Mark was one for giving a person the benefit of the doubt, but he was certain that the giant of a man seated at the table had been involved in, or knew who was involved in the assault on his son.

Beady, close set eyes had flickered in recognition and meaty fists had clenched atop the metal table when Steve entered the room. Mark had noticed it, and he felt certain that Steve had as well judging from the slightest pause in his stride as he entered the room. His movements became predatory as he circled the table and the man. After a several long, tense moments, Steve braced both hands on the table and stared across at Breckish.

"Do you know who I am?" he demanded.

Breckish looked up at him, feigning a lack of concern. His fists clenched again. "I may have seen you somewhere. In the newspaper maybe."

Mark didn't believe that. And neither did Steve.

"I have a hard time imagining that you've ever even picked up a newspaper. You sure it wasn't someplace else? Someplace more recent?"

The clenching became rhythmic as he locked gazes with Steve as he spoke in what was obviously Cheryl's direction. "Why did he come in here? What's going on? I thought this was just for questioning?"

"Questions pertaining to why you ran when the officers stopped you in a routine traffic violation." Cheryl said from her position near the wall opposite the two-way glass.

"I was afraid," was the sarcastic response. "And I don't like cops. Especially ones who're trying to set me up."

"Do you own a restaurant Breckish?" Steve suddenly changed tactics. He could tell that the man hadn't seen that question coming. Confusion spread across his broad face for a moment before he answered.

"What are you getting at?"

"I was just wondering why a deposit slip with the name of a local restaurant would be found in your car?" Steve replied.

"What are you talking about?" Breckish was starting to look the tiniest bit worried. "There wasn't any deposit slip in my car. Not unless you planted it there."

"Where were you the night of October 30th, Mr. Breckish?" Cheryl moved away from the wall.

The man clammed up. "I'm not saying anything else until I speak to my lawyer."

"You do that," Steve said, and stalked out of the room. Before he moved through the door, he turned back. "But meanwhile, we're getting a warrant to search your apartment. You'd better hope you don't have anything to hide."

Cheryl followed him out of the room. "He knows something."

"I'm inclined to agree," Mark responded, watching at Steve leaned heavily against the wall alongside the door. "You shouldn't be here doing this," Mark felt the familiar worry rising. It had been a pretty long day for the both of them.

"I'm alright," Steve waved away his concern. "It's just been sort of a long day," he reiterated Mark's thought.

"Why don't you two head on home? I'll keep you updated on what we find."

"I want to go. I want to be there when you search his place. Something might look familiar to me that someone else might miss." Steve stood away from the wall, determined.

"Believe it or not Steve, the investigation will go on without your presence," Cheryl said dryly. "Besides, if his apartment is anything like his car, it'll take a while to go through everything anyway."

Steve looked like he might argue, but then gave in gracefully. Mark was beginning to worry about the easy surrender until he discovered that Steve had other avenues that he wanted to follow.

-- -- --

Dr. Edward Gibsen's office was a sprawling ranch style building in the western portion of Los Angeles county. The receptionist kept them waiting in the outer area for 20 minutes before Gibsen allowed them entry. He began with a brusque demand to know what was going on. Steve quickly explained the situation.

The burly, bearded man studied them for several long moments before responding. "I can't give you that information, I'm sorry. Not without a court order."

"Even if it is a matter of death for your former patient?" Mark inquired. "We believe that this woman will try to kill this individual. She's proven how creative she can be."

"That doesn't change anything," Gibsen returned. "My patients trust me. I'd like to think I earned it honestly. Until the letter of the law says I have to do otherwise. . . " He shrugged as he allowed the words to trail off.

"I believe in oaths and laws, too, Dr. Gibsen," Steve said. "I took an oath to protect and serve. How can I do that if I can't even warn a man that his life is in danger?"

"So much for your law," Gibsen replied sardonically. "Until you present a court order, your request is no more important than the one that I received from that reporter."

Steve sat up straighter. "You were contacted by a reporter trying to get information on this drunk driver? Male or female reporter?"

"Difficult to say," Gibsen replied. "I received the request via letter. The request was signed with two initials and a last name. I don't recall the last name or the two initials."

"Do you still have a copy of it?"

"I'm afraid not," Gibsen responded. "I wasn't planning to respond, so at the time I didn't see a reason to hold on to it."

"Did the letter ask specifically about the one case?"

"No. That might have raised my suspicions. The request was quite general. The author wanted to write about experiences of how lives of drunk drivers themselves were affected years later."

"In light of the letter, maybe it would be a good idea to tell us who the driver was." Steve said, knowing it was a long shot. Gibsen didn't seem the type to change his mind so easily. "This person found you, just like we did and is trying to get the information. The police department could protect him. At the very least he should be made aware of the danger."

"And I should simply give in to your request, Lt. Sloan, and reward my patient for all his diligence and hard work by betraying him? I think not. On the other hand, if the matter is as serious as you say, obtain the necessary legal documents and I will unhappily oblige you. But for now, if you gentleman have nothing further. . . "

Steve understood the message. Still, he reached into a pocket and retrieved a card. "In case you think of anything that may be of help," he said.

"Of course." Gibsen accepted the card and placed it in the center of his desk. "Good evening."