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WHITE OUT
A Penns River Crime Novel
Dana King
PRAISE FOR WHITE OUT
“In his latest Penns River crime novel—White Out—talented author Dana King reminds us again that in those small towns and cities, sneeringly called ‘flyover country,’ the problems and challenges of the outside world often come to play a deadly visit. In White Out, a shooting involving a Black officer and a seemingly unarmed white supremacist sets off the proverbial spark that threatens to become an inferno. With protestors and counter-protestors arriving, along with the news media and agitators, the strained police department desperately works to keep the peace as an approaching snowstorm and a casino poker tournament complicates matters even further. A gritty crime novel that deserves wide attention.” —Brendan DuBois, award-winning and New York Times bestselling author
“It’s been a long time since I read a book that pulled me along as urgently as Dana King’s latest Penns River novel White Out. King writes about his cops and their town with the kind of real affection that has you not just wanting, but needing, to know what happens to them next—and there’s plenty happening in this fast moving, deftly written thriller. Highly recommended.” —J.D. Rhoades, bestselling author of the Jack Keller series and the Cade and Clayborne historical thrillers
“We’ve all heard the stories of White cops shooting and killing unarmed Black men. But what happens when the scenario flips? In White Out, Dana King kills in this gripping behind-the-badge drama. One cop I know wonders how Dana is able to get it so right.” —John DeDakis, Novelist, Writing Coach, and former Senior Copy Editor for CNN’s “The Situation Room with Wolf Blitzer”
PRAISE FOR THE PENNS RIVER CRIME SERIES
“King has created vividly drawn characters, a plot the late Elmore Leonard would appreciate, and dialogue that hits all the right notes. Let’s hope Grind Joint is the first in a new series chronicling life and crime in the Alleghenies.” —Booklist
“Dana King’s Resurrection Mall is a patchwork of desperation from a depressed river town written with genuine style and grit.” —Reed Farrell Coleman, New York Times bestselling author
“Dana King's Ten-Seven is a propulsive mystery thriller that showcases his ear for dialogue, penchant for wry humor, and mastery of the police procedural.” —Eryk Pruitt, Anthony Award-nominated author of What We Reckon
“An extraordinary voice. A mix of Pelecanos, Leonard and Wambaugh.” —Colin Campbell, author of the Jim Grant novels, for Pushing Water
“Dana King’s Leaving the Scene is a slow burn that will leave you wanting more. A great read!” —Bruce Robert Coffin, bestselling author of the Detective Byron mysteries
Copyright © 2022 by Dana King
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by Dana King
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
White Out
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by the Author
Preview from Deep Purple Cover by Joel W. Barrows
Preview from The Neon Lights Are Veins by Nolan Knight
Preview from Scar Tissue by Jeffery Hess
To The Beloved Spouse.
Really, all these books are for you.
It’s time I said so.
1.
Stan “Stush” Napierkowski sipped the head from a frosted mug of beer. “That Beattie kid can wrestle, can’t he? Makes me wonder what Dan Gable must’ve been like in high school.”
Ben “Doc” Dougherty cradled his mug in his hands, feet on an ottoman. “He’s the goods. I need a video of that reversal move he likes. Must’ve seen it thirty times and I still can’t figure how he gets his hand around. Can do it either way, too. I gotta have slow motion.”
“His uncle—you know Tom Yockey, don’t you?—says Oklahoma State is after him hard.”
“Don’t even talk like that. I want him to go to Penn State. Be worth the trip to Happy Valley a couple times a year just to see him.” Doc looked around Stush’s basement as if searching for something. “Is it cold down here or is it just me?”
“I forgot to turn the space heater on before I left. Give it another few minutes.”
“There’s no heat down here?”
“Never has been. You must be getting old if you just now noticed it.” Doc shot him a look. “This was unfinished when the furnace went in. I had no idea we’d have such luxury here someday.”
Stush’s idea of luxury was a recliner on either side of a seven-foot couch facing a fifty-inch television. Behind the seats a small dry bar and refrigerator with a beer tap built in. The space was also the only way into Helen Napierkowski’s laundry room, which diminished the ambiance on wash days. “We’re getting a new furnace in the spring when prices go down. Gonna have them put a vent right there,” he pointed, “so’s Helen stays warm while she’s folding laundry. Should heat this whole area.”
“Honest to God? You lived here how long?”
Stush did math in his head. “Thirty-four years. No, thirty-five. We burned the mortgage around the time you made detective.”
“And no heat in the cellar all that time.”
“I’d of done it sooner if I knew how miserable you were every time you came over.”
They sat in companionable silence. Penns River was still a township when Doc’s father and Stush began their friendship. Doc passed up several lucrative opportunities so he could come home and work for his “Uncle Stush” when he was chief of police. Retired over six months, Stush was still getting the hang of it. “How are things at the house? That new kid, Boston. How’s he settling in?”
“Trevor Boston’s not close to being the new kid anymore. No offense, but I was shocked to see how many guys only hung around because of you. Retirement paperwork’s piling up on Sullivan’s desk like he’s quality control at a paper factory. Four gone already and three more on the way that I know of. Long as I worked with these guys, I had no idea how long some of them had been around.”
“I wouldn’t think Sully’d be that hard to work for.”
“He’s not. It’s the job. I guess a lot of people either didn’t notice how it’s changed, or were willing to overlook it so long as you were around. Add that to Sully’s difference in command style and guys who had the time in are bailing.”
Stush stared into his mug. “You sound like you’re about half ready to bail.”
“Not me. I’m management now. Remember?”
Stush pretended to laugh. “How’re those sergeant stripes fitting you?”
“Kind of tight.” A pause. “To be fair, I understand why Sully promoted me. And I guess I was the logical choice, considering the options. I still don’t like it.”
“It’ll grow on you. Now what about Boston?”
“He’s coming along. Mike Zywiciel does some mentoring. Sends him on calls with Sisler when he can.”
“Sisler’s about as excitable as a toad.”
“That’s the plan. Take some of the edges off.”
“Is it working?”
Doc rolled his neck. “It’s a work in progress, but yeah. Generally. Nancy Snyder told me he took a shit ton of abuse at a domestic a couple weeks ago and defused the situation without any help from her.”
“What happened?”
“Some jagov husband kept Trevor standing on the porch freezing his balls off instead of letting him in to make sure everyone was all right. Time was Trevor would’ve knocked over the guy, the door, and probably some furniture gaining entry. Nancy told me he kept his cool when even she was losing patience. Said she was proud how hard he’s working at it.”
“How is Nancy, anyway?”
“Her face healed up nice. The little bump on her nose gives it character.”
“What about the broad hit her with the…skillet, was it?”
“Cast iron.” Stush winced. “Got a year’s probation. Her and the old man both.”
“That’s all? For hitting a police officer in the face with a skillet?”
Doc made a What are you gonna do? gesture. “Judge Molchan said justice would best be served by giving them something to think about as they went through life or some bullshit like that. Set a condition that the next call we answer at that address, they both go in for the rest of the term, which sounds to me like the next complaint will be a homicide, but I’m not a trained legal professional, so what do I know?”
“What’s Snyder think about that?”
“Whatever it is, she keeps it to herself. I know what I’d be thinking.” Stush opened his hands. “I’d be thinking I’m the deputy chief and don’t need to back up domestics in the middle of the goddamn afternoon anymore.”
They watched the final minutes of a college basketball game that might have been exciting had either team been able to put the ball through the hoop if they were sitting on the backboard. The buzzer sounded and Stush asked if Doc wanted a fresh head on his beer. Doc took a swallow, checked the level, and passed. Stush topped off his own and took his seat. “Sully still bringing in people he worked with in Boston?”
Doc wiped foam from his lip. “Not all. Maureen Tilghman, she’s the new detective, she worked with him there.”
“How is she?”
“At least as good as I am.”
“You mean before or after you made sergeant?”
Doc flipped him off. “She worked Homicide and Major Crimes in Boston. Knows her stuff.”
“What’s she doing here, then?”
“Retirement home.”
“Like Willie Grabek.”
“Oh, no. Willie took his retirement more seriously than the job. Mo Tilghman works.”
“Anyone else slumming?”
“Be nice. I don’t know Barney McGinniss well yet, but he seems okay. The other two newbies are straight out of academies. Holtzclaw’s from Indiana and Obidowski’s from Allegheny County. Or the other way around. They’re so new I can’t tell them apart yet.”
“At least Obidowski’s maintaining the Polack ratio. I was worried Sully’d turn it into a mick department.”
“Depends on how many Boston retirees he can talk into moving here. I overheard the three of them talking about old times the other day. Sounded like they were calling roll for the St. Patrick’s Day parade.”
“How’s the new mix working out?”
“You know how it is. You got new guys trying to establish themselves and guys who’ve already paid their dues trying to adapt to a new situation. Gets interesting some days.”
“Interesting is good.”
“So long as things don’t get fascinating.” Doc snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot. Neuschwander’s wife is pregnant.”
“How many is that? Five?”
“Yep.”
“I thought he had himself fixed.”
“He did. Guess he was too much man for the procedure.”
“How’re they taking it?”
“About how you’d expect. Rick’s lining up doctor’s appointments and trying to decide if they should remodel or buy a bigger house. Hildy’s looking for lawyers.”
“Divorce?”
“Malpractice. She says she wanted a family, not a basketball team.”
“I’ll bet Ricky’s in hog heaven.”
Doc was about to answer when his phone sounded the Official Business ring tone. “Dougherty. Yeah, Chief…Where?…Is he okay?…I had a couple beers with Stush after wrestling but I’m fine. Where can I find you?…Understood. I just left. Ten, maybe twelve minutes.”
Doc tapped the phone into his palm. “Trevor Boston just killed a guy behind Fat Jimmy’s bar.”
2.
Trevor Boston hit the ground running on his four-to-twelve shift. Almost T-boned by an SUV as he turned onto Leechburg Road from the parking lot. Pulled the guy over at the light for Chester Drive. Anthony Thomas, thirty-eight-year-old white male. No open warrants. A court date with Kathy Burrows in two weeks for a rolling stop. Thomas gave Boston attitude and drove away with citations for running the light, speeding, dangerous driving, and crossing over a double yellow line, which Boston threw in because the guy was an asshole. Made a note to talk to K-Bar about him before the court appearance.
Broke up a fistfight on Florida Drive over a fender bender. Fender scratcher was more like it. Each car’s damage required no more than a good wash and a craft-sized bottle of touch-up paint, but the men lived across the street from each other and had only just learned the woman they were both putting it to over on Mintwood Drive was not exclusive property. The ill feeling that started when they both showed up at the same time last week carried over until today, when neither would let the other go first, leading to a collision that might have broken an egg, assuming it was already cracked. Hilarity ensued.
Boston planned to eat his meal at Round Back, wrestling Wednesdays not busy if you got there during the match. He was unaware of a catechism-related event at St. Margaret Mary’s that ended half an hour before he took his break. Every ten-to-twelve-year-old Catholic kid in town beat him to the restaurant. With their parents. And grandparents. And stepparents, if available. The line to get in resembled a Depression-era soup kitchen by the time Boston rolled up at eight thirty. He ate at Subway, which was okay, but he’d had his mouth set for a Round Back giant fish sandwich.
Still settling himself in the car when a call came for a prowler on Oak Street. Went to the house, got the information, idled through the area shining the spotlight between houses until motion made him look twice. Got out to investigate and heard movement in the underbrush leading down Edgecliff Hill. Easing his way into the woods when the siren went off at the Number 3 firehouse and about shit when a good-sized buck came out of the thicket like a rabid grizzly was chasing him and knocked Boston on his ass.
The car seat didn’t have time to warm his butt before the call came to go to Fat Jimmy’s. Obidowski’s sector that night, but he was handling the accident that prompted the alarm that almost got Boston gored by Bambi’s father. Light snow falling, temperatures dropping, black ice a definite threat, Boston was half surprised he hadn’t handled a weather-related accident yet. Rolled Code Two down the bypass, no siren or lights but not taking his time.
Fat Jimmy’s didn’t look any more depressing than usual. Block building, tiny windows too high to look through and too dirty to see through even if you could. Flat roof. Could pass for an adult bookstore if not for the neon beer signs in the windows. Boston parked near the front door, put on the lights on to indicate he was on official business.
Bigger crowd than he expected until he remembered the wrestling match would be over by now. Bar along the wall on the right, booths on the left. Tables scattered around the floor, with a couple tipped over. Two pool tables in the back left. The building smelled of stale beer, old cigarette smoke, and sweat.
Fat Jimmy himself sat on a stool behind the bar displaying the lack of irony in his nickname. Dipped his chin an inch when he saw Boston and said, “Pool tables.” Boston never stopped walking, Jimmy not mu
ch for small talk with cops except for his old schoolmate Ben Dougherty.
The corner behind the pool tables contained what appeared to be an unconscious man bleeding from the head. Another man pressed a folded bar towel to the wound. Two others engaged in animated conversation with a short, undernourished gent holding a broken cue stick.
Boston’s approach stifled the conversation. He pointed to the man on the floor and asked the one with the towel, “He all right?”
“He might need stitches, but his breathing and pulse are stable.” Boston’s face showed the question. “I was a corpsman in the Army.”
“He conscious?”
“Not really. Grumbles a little.”
Boston keyed his shoulder microphone. “Base, this is PR-Eight. Request an ambulance at—” surprised he didn’t recall the address, as many times as he’d been here. Realized he didn’t need it. “Send it to Fat Jimmy’s. Unconscious man in the back by the pool tables may need stitches. His vitals look good, though.” Winked at the man with the towel, who smiled.
“Ten-Four, PR-Eight. They’re on the way.”
“PR-Eight, copy. Thanks.” Boston asked the man with the towel to keep an eye on the victim and let him know if anything changed. Turned to the three men standing. “What happened here? And you.” Pointed to Cue Stick. “Put that down.” Tapped two fingers on the felt.
The man did and Boston rolled the broken cue out of reach. “Who wants to go first? Only what you saw and can swear to. Not what you heard or think.”
The man who spoke wore a flannel shirt open over a Penn State tee, jeans, and Red Wing boots. “What I heard was hollering, so I come back to see what was going on.”
Boston said, “You working security tonight?” Half smiled as he said it. Flannel Shirt and the man next to him snickered. “Security” at Fat Jimmy’s was a souvenir baseball bat from Three Rivers Stadium Jimmy kept behind the bar.