“Instead of just grieving over this terrible loss, I want each and every one of us to do what we can, starting right where Ben Weston left off. Maybe we can’t save every one of those boys, because, quite frankly, some of them don’t want to be saved. And I’m not talking about throwing money at the problem for more social workers or more jails or more drug treatment centers, either. I’m saying that if each of us goes out and takes one boy or one girl by the hand, takes the time to talk to them and lead them in another direction, we can make a difference. If we do, Ben and Shiree Weston, Bonnie and Doug Weston, and little Adam Jackson will not have died in vain.
“After this service, we will be going to the Mount Olivet Cemetery in Renton. Afterward, there will be a reception here, sponsored by the ladies of the church. I hope as many of you as possible will join us both at the cemetery and here later.
“And now, Lord, in closing, we ask Your blessing upon this day, upon the grieving family members, and upon this community, that we can somehow find a way to turn this tragedy into a blessing. Amen.”
A small army of men, none of them police officers, rose as one and moved forward to collect the coffins one by one. As they did so, the strains of “Amazing Grace” once more caught fire in the church. This time, it wasn’t just the choir singing, either. The whole congregation was, their voices raised in affirmation. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one shedding tears and singing at the same time.
It was that kind of funeral.
CHAPTER 25
The coffins were still being carried down the aisle when my pager went off, summoning me back from the stirring hymn and Ben Weston’s unfinished business to my own. I stifled the pager’s racket as soon as I could and glanced at the display that listed Tony Freeman’s extension at Seattle PD. Why was he there instead of at the funeral? I knew he had planned to attend.
“Freeman’s not here?” I asked sue in an undertone.
“I haven’t seen him.”
“Call him back on the double,” I whispered, “and use a pay phone, not a radio. Find out what he wants, and tell him I’ve got another name for him to add to the list-Deddens, Gary Deddens from Patrol. Got that?”
Sue nodded, but she didn’t move. None of the rest of the congregation had, and I knew she was questioning the propriety of our leaving during the recessional.
“Go now,” I urged, “while we can still get out. Meet me out front as soon as you can. We’ve got work to do.”
I had finally managed to spot Gary Deddens sitting near the end of the third row of uniformed officers. He was far closer to the door than we were, and I knew that the slightest delay in our getting out would mean losing him and also losing the opportunity to send a chilling message to any other crooks still left in the group. I wanted to serve notice that we were closing in on them; I wanted to force them into making some kind of strategic blunder.
Shaking her head in disapproval, Sue nonetheless started for the side aisle, leading the way and excusing us to the people whose feet we had to step over in the process. In the vestibule, she asked directions to the nearest phone while I took up a station outside the door just as the last coffin emerged followed by Emma Jackson and Harmon and Junior Weston. They disappeared into the waiting limo while the rest of the people began to trickle out of the church into the courtyard. I looked around, trying to catch sight of Ron Peters and Knuckles Russell, but they were nowhere to be seen.
Sue erupted through the doors and looked around anxiously until she caught sight of me. “How’d you do that?” she demanded.
“Do what?”
“Come up with Gary Deddens’s name. Freeman says you’re right. Kyle Lehman’s copy of Ben’s deleted files finally turned up on Tony’s desk. He says we’ve got probable cause. He wants us to take Deddens into custody and bring him down for questioning right away.”
“But wait a minute,” I objected. “I’ve got to be here in case…”
“Captain Freeman is sending a squad car for us and for Deddens both,” she replied. “He wants the two of us there. He was very specific about that.”
Just then the first batch of uniformed officers emerged into the fitful sunlight, where they joined the growing crowd milling around the limo and the collection of hearses. I turned my attention on the officers, scanning faces, hoping to see that of Gary Deddens. I examined each one, some of them familiar and some not, and wondered how far the cancer of corruption had spread and how many more officers were involved in the protection racket. The possibility made me sick.
“There he is,” Sue whispered. “He’s just now shaking hands with Reverend Walters.”
“Who’s going to do it?” I asked. “You or me?”
“I will,” she volunteered over her shoulder. “You watch for trouble.”
Making an arrest of any kind in a crowd situation is always a hairy, volatile proposition. Protecting the lives of innocent civilians must always be the primary consideration for the police officers involved.
Already Sue was moving purposefully toward the door, pulling Flex-cufs rather than a weapon from her blazer pocket. I followed, closing the distance between us so that I was only a step or two behind her when she reached the place where an unsuspecting Gary Deddens stood chatting casually with several of his fellow officers.
Sue stopped directly in front of him. He was saying something to the others, but he paused and half smiled a greeting. “How’s it going, Sue?” he said.
“You’re under arrest,” she returned.
He stepped away from her, but his back was to the wall of the church, and he couldn’t go far. “Come on, Sue, that’s not funny. Don’t even joke about something like that.”
Around us the crowd fell strangely silent.
“It’s no joke. Face the wall, hands on the back of your head, feet apart. I’m placing you under arrest in connection with the murder of Officer Benjamin Weston.”
Surprise and shock registered on the faces of the men who, moments before, had been chatting amiably with Gary Deddens. Now they melted away from him, opening a circle where the three of us stood in isolation.
“There’s got to be some mistake,” Deddens said, his eyes darting questioningly from Sue to me. “This is crazy.”
“No mistake,” Sue insisted. “Turn around.”
For an electric moment, he stood glaring and belligerent. Time seemed to stretch into an eternity before finally, with a casual shrug, he started to turn. As deftly as any professional pickpocket, Sue unfastened his holster and removed his automatic which she handed over to me. Behind us the wailing siren of the arriving squad car squawked once and was quickly stifled.
Sue had successfully negotiated the first danger-cornering Deddens and capturing his weapon without anyone being hurt-but the incident was far from over. There was another danger as well, and every cop in the courtyard knew it. As the news of what had happened spread through the crowd, every police officer present realized that outrage over the multiple murders was an open, sucking wound in Seattle’s African-American community. I think we all feared that once the grieving people from the funeral realized what was going on, they themselves might very well evolve into a dangerous and potentially lethal mob.
The danger in mobs is that they have no brain and no conscience. They are immune to innocence and equally blind to justice and guilt. You can’t talk to them or reason with them. If the searing spark of vengeance is once allowed to erupt into flame, there’s no stopping it until the glut of violence has run full course. If the people in the courtyard perceived Gary Deddens to be Ben Weston’s killer, if their rage was allowed to get out of hand, they might very well turn on the killer and on whoever was with him as well-Sue Danielson and me included.