Secrets Uncovered Read Free Page A

changed things for Avon.
    Unfortunately, the DEA’s confidential informant had provided the wrong address. When Avon’s unit rammed the door of the home and entered tactically, there was a lot of screaming and running. As they worked to clear the house, Avon and Brad Brubaker searched the back rooms to make sure everyone was accounted for. In one of the bedrooms, Avon could hear someone breathing hard in the closet. Brubaker put his fingers to his lips to indicate silence, and the two approached the closet on deft feet. Brubaker pulled back the closet door for Avon to clear, and a young boy jumped out with a black crowbar raised in his hand. Avon, in knee-jerk reaction, overreacted and let off a single shot. The boy died later that day at the hospital. There was a huge public fallout. Everyone in the city wanted Avon’s head on a platter; firing him wasn’t going to be enough. Avon was ultimately vindicated of any wrongdoing because he was able to articulate his perceived threat—the boy could’ve just as easily had a gun. But Avon’s name was forever tarnished by the incident.
    All of the people in the room now were supposed to be on his side; but the earlier shoot-the-shit atmosphere had been replaced by a harsher, more attack dog format. Now Avon sat in the hot seat and was forced to defend his honor and his actions. Had Avon set Brubaker up to die, after finding Brubaker having an affair with his wife? Did he know Joseph Barton personally? Did he want Brubaker dead because he would expose Avon for committing crimes while undercover? And finally, why didn’t he try to save Brubaker?
    Apparently “no” or “I don’t know” were not satisfactory responses to the investigators. Instead, they would simply rephrase their questions to try to trip up Avon. It was a law enforcement philosophy—the more times someone had to tell the story, the more holes they might find. And, of course, these were holes that might be filled with lies.
    Letting out a long sigh, Avon roughly rubbed his hands over his face in exasperation. It was going to be a very long day.
    â€œLike I said, Joseph ‘Rock’ Barton was the shooter. He was the older guy on the scene. He said that he was working for some fuckin’ body inside of this agency—the DEA!” Avon’s voice rose an octave or two, startling his fresh-out-of-law-school Federal Law Enforcement Officer’s Association—funded attorney.
    Avon couldn’t help it; his emotions were on a hair trigger. He had been shot at, betrayed and hunted while working undercover on a case that was never intended to go anywhere. And now he was suddenly a suspect in some fictional conspiracy.
    Avon closed his eyes and placed his palms flat on the table. In an unnervingly calm voice, he continued, “Again, Barton walked over to Brad Brubaker. He pulled his weapon out and said these exact words, ‘You can’t be that stupid... . Your backup is not coming. They hired me for one last cleaner job ... but it wasn’t for who you thought. Did you think the government would laud you for being a traitor? Did you think they would promote you, trust you and respect you after you threw your own partner to the wolves—betraying him, lying on him, committing murders and putting them on your partner? Did you really think they would kill another federal agent to get him out of your way? Couldn’t you see that while you thought Tucker’s case was all one big red herring, you were being duped?’ Then he shot Brubaker in his head.” Avon looked up at the ceiling, as if recalling the entire scene from some distant place in his mind. He wanted to finish his recount of the events with his own personal opinion that the traitorous rat bastard deserved to have his head blown off, but he refrained himself from doing so, knowing those types of statements would make him look like he wanted his partner dead.
    â€œDo you