Viggo's Break - Chapter 8.2 - Comparing mouths and playing dolls (seven years ago)

Viggo, a disgraced cop, spent several years in jail for a crime he didn't commit. Here is part of the reason why.

To know more, read Chapter 8.1.

The man was very carefully erecting a Lego wall. He put down the tweezers he yielded with surprising deftness, then wiped the excess glue from the bricks he had just added.

“Playing dolls?” she asked.

Viggo jumped and almost put a finger through the delicate wall.

“Damn it! Don't you fucking…”

Nyssa was startled as well. She didn’t think she had never heard Viggo swear. He was blushing too, like she had surprised him doing something shameful.

Suspicious now, she got over her bewilderment to study attentively his dollhouse. It looked like a warehouse. Pink trucks were parked in the loading area. Pallets of goods piled up in the storage area. The small office and living areas were only half built. The layout was really nothing remarkable but, considering the favor Peter Carlsen had asked of her, she knew exactly what she was looking at.

“Thank God you're a better cop than you're a scale modeler,” she said. “That wall should be at least one inch further back.”

Shock shattered his guarded expression. He glanced down at the scale model, then his narrow-eyed gaze rose to her face again. “You sure about that?”

She snorted. “You might carry a gun and know how to use it, but crime-scenes are my scene. Deal with it.” A change of mood seemed warranted, so she grinned with all the innocence she could feign, “I come bearing gifts. Gazelle horns – my neighbor baked another batch –” She reached into her bag. “– and every file we've got on the Virgile Mercantile shoot-out.”

He snatched the files from her hand and started reading. He didn't even thank her. She decided to make him apologize later. Let him read for now. She went over his model, correcting little mistakes here and there. There weren't many: she envied his memory.

“The trucks are about the right dimensions,” she noted, “although I wouldn't have gone for a Barbie pink myself.”

He grumbled something that ended with, “…my choice,” without even bothering to look up.

“So, what does Angela think you're doing, exactly?”

Now, he looked up, storm clouds in his eyes. “What did she tell you?”

“That you were playing mad scientist in the garage.”

He grunted. “She thinks I'm building her a small robot. I asked her not to barge in – it’s supposed to be a surprise.”

Nyssa hesitated – she was the very last person who should hand over romantic advice. She still tried, because she cared, “She wasn't pleased.”

He threw the files down with obvious irritation. “Angela hasn't been pleased with much since we bought this house.”

She looked around, puzzled. There was nothing wrong with the house in question, she thought. She liked the safe, white-collar suburb, the sizable backyard. The bungalow was plenty large, with a garage in a separate structure and a basement where Viggo planned to put the den and a guest room. On the main-floor were the kitchen, living-room, office and a bathroom. Nyssa hadn't been invited on the upper-floor since the master bedroom and bathroom had been completed but she knew they were huge.

It was perfect to start a family. It was also the best a cop could afford. Of course, Angela was old money, this was probably a little cozier than her usual.

“I know,” Viggo growled.

“What do you know?” Nyssa asked, eyebrows raised.

“I know exactly what you're thinking, and you're right. It's not what she's used to.”

“Hm,” she answered noncommittally. “Didn't you choose the house together?”

“Yes,” he admitted grudgingly. “But I don't think it was real to her until she moved in. She had to scrap lots of her stuff. She didn't complain but it's been hard on her.”

“Hm.”

He smiled, at last. “Speak up your mind, Malik. I don't bite.”

“Not that I know of.” She winked, and the prude of a man blushed. She chuckled. But it was a serious matter and, so, her tone became serious as well, “Angela is great. She won’t blame you because you give her the best you can afford. Maybe she finds the place a little…snug, but she'll get used to it. Just involve her in the decisions. Ask her to decorate or something.” She made a funny face. “I hate to break it to you, Carlsen, but you're not renown for your good taste. Half the furniture in the living room is mismatched.”

He shrugged off the slight good-naturedly. “When did you become such an expert on relationships?”

“I'm not, but I'm an expert on you both and I love you guys. I would hate for something as stupid as the size of a house to ruin your relationship. In fact, you know what? I’m going to keep interfering.”

He ducked his head, swearing under his breath.

“Why are you still looking into the shoot-out? I understand that getting shot was traumatic, but the investigation is closed. Even Internal Affairs is done with the case. So, what's still bugging you? And why are you hiding it from Angela?”

He started arranging the files in a careful pile. From Russ's descriptions, this was a classic move in the Iceberg's interrogation playbook. It suited his cautious, detail-oriented personality. Nyssa wasn't one to get bored with unanswered questions, however – science was a hard mistress. She waited until he finally sighed and relented, “It's dangerous, Nyssa. Let it be. That's why I’d rather keep it from Angie and you. Just forget about it.”

“It being the dollhouse or the case-files?” she asked.

He rolled his eyes at her hounding. “Both.”

“That's just not going to happen.”

His fingers sank in his ash blond hair. Then, incongruously, he smiled. “I had a feeling you’d say that, but I had to offer you an out.”

“I know.”

She waited, knowing that more would be forthcoming now. He didn't disappoint. He pulled them each paint-spattered stools.

“Something's been bothering me.”

“About the shoot-out?” she asked.

“Among other things.” He tapped the hood of one of the trucks. “I've been thinking about it, dreaming about it. It just feels off.”

“So, you've decided to model it?”

He nodded.

She was unfazed. “It's smart. You use dolls and stuff with witnesses, don’t you?”

“Yes. I hoped…I don't know.”

Sure, he knew but he wasn't sharing. Yet.

She took the files and opened them, checking their handiwork. Their model seemed to be perfectly accurate. She peered into the cardboard box tucked under the table. Making an amused sound, she fished out a handful of plastic figures.

“Did you rob a toy store or something?”

“I helped my mother empty her attic.” He blushed. “I figured this would be useful. One day.”

This man was going to dote on his kids something fierce.

“Okay,” she said. “I'll play with you.”

He grinned. Whatever he said, he had been hoping for her help. “Ground rules first.”

“I'm listening.”

And while she was listening, she started arranging the figures. She selected two policemen to represent Russ and Viggo – one was blond, and she suspected that it was a woman, and one was dark-haired. It would make telling them apart easier.

“It doesn't leave this room,” he told her. “Angela can't know. Russ can't know. Levowsky can't know. Nobody can know.”

He had his game face on, it wasn’t up for debate.

“Why?” she challenged.

She chose a couple of pitchforks-waving peasants to represent the bad guys. She tried to put them in position using the crime scene pictures.

“Told you. It could be dangerous.”

A little exasperated now, she put the plastic peasants down. “How do you go from an inconstancy in one intervention to a top-secret dollhouse?” He paused thoughtfully, and she decided to make herself a little obnoxious, “That's my ground rule, Carlsen. No holding back on each other.”

“Fine. You won't understand unless I give you some background. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

She was itching to hear it, but she had to be cautious. Working for a police-department had at least taught her that much. “Does it pertain to an ongoing investigation?”

“No. It's just water cooler gossip at this point.”

“Oh. Do tell. Please.” She loved gossip and Viggo didn't provide much. “You've aroused my curiosity.”

“Remember the big holdup, last Summer?”

“First National, right?”

She hadn't been called on that scene but footage of the holdup and of the subsequent shoot-out had been playing 24/7 for weeks after the robbery

He nodded. “Yes. There's a persistent rumor that four hundred grands have gone missing.”

Her mouth fell open. “What kind of bills, do you know?”

“Twenty dollars.”

“Shit. That's like…” She had worked a series of drug busts that week and she had counted hundreds of bills. “It's like, more than forty pounds. That much money doesn't just vanish!”

“You're right. We lost track of the robbers for a couple of hours after the holdup. It's likely that they gave the money to an accomplice during that lapse of time. It's making everybody paranoiac.”

She frowned. “I don't know much about the case. What makes it so special?”

“Well, someone from the SFPD required information from the bank about their security one month before the robbery and, if that wasn't suspicious enough, the robbers waltzed through the police roadblocks. Either they had the devil's own luck, or someone’s on the take.”

“So, you think they paid a cop four hundred grands to walk them through the robbery?” she summarized.

“That’s the rumor. Unfortunately, the robbers were shot during their arrest, so they won't contribute much on the subject.”

They were silent for a while.

“I think I see where you're going with that.” In answer to his inquisitive glance, she remarked, “CSI people have got their own water coolers.”

“What did you hear?”

“That criminals seem to be consistently ahead of the SFPD, these days.” Later, she would wonder why he had waltzed her to that admission. “Do you really think it's true? Do you really think someone in the SFPD is on the take?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I've been suspecting it for months now, ever since our drug busts started falling through when they shouldn't. I've been nosing around. I tried to keep track of the ops, of who is in the loop. I also checked call logs, email addresses and everything I could think of.”

“On your own?”

“No. Russ's been helping – he thinks I'm crazy, but he's been helping. And Defoe, and Reims too.”

Nyssa smiled to herself. Therein, she thought, lied the difference between Peter Carlsen and Russel Pierce. They were both extremely smart and tough underneath an almost laid-back exterior, but Viggo's sense of responsibility motivated him to tackle problems as they came up, even when they weren't strictly his. Russ, on the other hand, was a bit of a glory hound. He didn't mind the laurels, but he did mind the grunt work and had to be talked into involving himself. They were a good pair.

“Then, there was the shoot-out.”

“What about the shoot-out?” He shook his head helplessly. “Okay, let's find out.”

She grabbed the police car and thrust it at him.

“We were driving an unmarked car,” he pointed out.

“The tiny policemen don't fit in the normal one – and it's a red convertible.”

“Hand it over there. Let's stick as close to the truth as we can.”

“You're really just secretly lusting after red convertibles.”

He didn't even crack a smile at that. He just took the convertible and slammed it down in the tiny gray Lego back-street.

“You were parked out front.”

“No, we weren't. We parked right there. One of the SWAT guys moved our car to make room for the ambulance.”

“There's no mention of that in the files. Are you sure?” she asked.

“Of course, I'm sure. I might let Russ drive, but it doesn't make me blind or stupid.”

She grabbed his sleeve and tugged resolutely on it. Once. Twice. Thrice. Until he finally met her eyes, paying attention – at last.

“I never said you were stupid. I'm only trying to be accurate.”

“Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I get a headache just from thinking about it.”

She frowned at him, worried. He was a little too pale and fidgety. Not quite Viggo anymore. “Maybe we should leave it alone.”

“No way.” He rubbed his temples. “We didn't want to alert them before SWAT showed up. But we decided not to wait around in the end: the longer we delayed, the more chances that they would get reinforcements or get rid of evidence. We used to plan our ops better, but we don't dare to take our time anymore. Because of the mole. We parked around back because we knew they had a lookout out front. There. In the building opposite to the warehouse. Second floor.”

“No lookout around back?”

“No. I guess they didn't think they needed one. Half a dozen truckers back there at all time.”

“And that didn't bother you?”

“No. We were watching them, we had seen the truckers leave earlier that day.”

He positioned his tiny policemen on each side of the back-door. Nyssa flipped through the file until she found pictures of the back-door. It was heavy: five inches of rusty metal with a metal shutter over the peephole.

“That camera worked?” she asked.

“No.”

“Okay. How did you break in?”

“Russ,” Viggo said with a rueful smile. “He works magic on locks.”

“What did you find inside?”

“Just the trucks. We couldn't see anyone. We announced ourselves. Nothing. I had a bad feeling, but Russ went in, so I had to follow him – to cover him, you know.”

She swore inwardly. She could picture it. Viggo was the good student, he worked doggedly. Russ was the hothead. Viggo pushed the policemen deeper in the warehouse.

“We were about here. Yes, right here – I had just checked under the cab – when the door slammed closed. I turned that way, but I only saw a shadow running away. Then…” His voice shook. “They turned on the lights. I reacted without thinking. I dived under the truck. I could hear gunfire. It was like fireworks. They were crackling all around me. I played possum.”

Nyssa stared at the felled policeman under the truck. She felt like screaming. She knew enough about ricochets to know that he was damn lucky not to have gotten killed. The world would be so much poorer for his loss.

To keep her mind off it, she tapped the other policeman on the head. “What about Russ?”

“I don't know. My focus wasn't on him.”

“Oh, Viggo…”

“Please, don't.” He shook himself. “Don't get emotional on me.”

She sniffed. “Fine.”

“I would have asked one of the others if I thought they could keep…cool-headed.”

“Damn.” She let out a bitter chuckle. “Talk about a back-handed compliment.”

He touched her hand, very gently. “I know you care.” She sniffed again. “But you're a scientist. Try for some objectivity, please. I need your objectivity.”

She peered into his eyes and she found them dark with pain and…fear. Viggo was afraid. It was such a strange idea. Peter Carlsen, afraid? She couldn't fathom that. But he was afraid, and he needed her there, to hold his hand, quietly and unemotionally.

“Okay,” she said simply. “Let's do this thing.”

He grunted, then in his normal, even tone of voice, asked, “What do the files say about Russ?”

She glanced down and reported, “He said he managed to duck behind a truck. Since they were firing from the mezzanine, they couldn't get a bead on him.”

“Sounds about right. I've got better reflexes, but Russ is like a wolf, I swear. My father adopted a wolfhound when I was a kid. Skylark, which is a stupid name for a wolfhound. Skylark moved that way. He was right under your nose, and you didn't see him move. Russ can do something similar. It's almost like he can teleport himself.”

To keep her hands busy, she lined up the peasants on the mezzanine and imagined them holding semi-automatics instead of pitchforks. It made for a grim picture. “It was a trap.”

He nodded. “It most certainly was.”

“How did they know you were coming?”

“Look at the forensic report on the guys' cells.”

She did but there were pages and pages. “What am I looking for, exactly?”

He took the papers from her and pointed at a line. “There. A call came in around one. Right after it did, this guy called in two of the other shooters and the truckers were sent back home.”

“Who placed this call?”

“No idea. It came from a disposable phone.”

The mole.

“Who knew you were coming?”

“Any number of people.” His lips thinned. “Russ can’t keep his mouth shut.”

Nyssa decided to forge on, since that line of questioning wasn’t going anywhere, “What happened next?”

“They must have thought we were dead, since we weren’t firing back. I heard someone order them to finish us off. There was a thump on my left and another one on my right. Two guys had come down from the mezzanine. I shot them in the ankles, then in the head.”

And those had been nice shots too. Five bullets, not one more, and the bad guys had been out for the count, their brains spattered all over the floor. Viggo was one hell of a marksman.

“They started spraying us again. I knew that, eventually, I would eat a ricochet or something. I rolled out from under the truck.”

“Where was Russ during all that?”

“Still on the other side of his truck trying to make his way to me, I guess, but…” He shrugged helplessly. “He's not bullet-proof either. I rolled out from under the truck and shot one of the last three shooters. It took the wind right out of their sails. One of them – a kid, really, took off running and the last guy followed. They disappeared in the storage area. They had busted the lights, somehow, and we couldn't see a thing in there.”

“Why did you follow them?”

“Because we’re cops, and we were supposed to arrest them?” he retorted. “We were okay, Russ had a cut on his cheek and it was bleeding a little. A bullet had grazed my forearm. Burnt it, felt more like it.” He pushed his tiny policeman self between two shelves. “We started searching the warehouse. I never saw the shooter.”

She blinked, and blinked, and blinked. The sheen of tears blurred her sight and the crime scene pictures. Viggo had been evacuated by the time the technicians had gotten around to taking them, leaving behind only his outline in chalk and blood.

“You were there,” she said.

She pushed the blond policeman a few steps further down the alley. She placed a tiny farmer at about the right angle.

“Russ was right behind me,” Viggo said. “He said the UNSUB stepped out in the alley – probably to finish me off. Maybe they didn't realize I wasn't alone. That's the wolf thing. I was a little out of it, but I do remember clearly how SWAT burst in right then. And Russ shot the dealer.”

Nyssa stared down at the scale model for the longest time. “Your dealer was a moron.”

His eyes twinkled, he knew what she meant. “How so?”

“He had a great vantage point and he sacrificed it – not once, but twice. First, he shot you. If he had waited just ten seconds, he would have had Russ in his sights as well. Then, he stepped out from behind the shelf. There too, if he had only waited…”

“We would be dead.”

While Nyssa and Viggo are still trying to get back on a comfortable footing, will Russ manage to wriggle his way into the manhunt for them? Read Chapter 9.1.