by Paul Bishop
“Did everybody hear?” Harrison said over the noise. “Trainee Fallon locked his pistol in the jail gun locker when he and Rowe booked a bad guy yesterday but forgot it when they left. When he needed it to chase another bad guy, he realized he was about to get into a gunfight without a gun!”
The young rookie mashed his teeth as he strapped on the belt, but noted nobody seemed to be laughing—except Harrison, who brayed his usual animal screech of a laugh. The sergeant said, “How did you handle your screw-up, trainee?”
Tony kept his eyes on the ground, took a breath, and said, “I grabbed the automatic rifle from the trunk.”
Harrison laughed. “Then after the chase, some citizen called to complain about a certain cop running around with a machine gun.”
Officers nearby slammed their lockers and headed for the exit.
Harrison seemed oblivious to the lack of response to his humor. “Thus began the captain’s latest lecture about the appropriate use of the automatic rifle. I’m sure trainee Fallon will enjoy the inevitable memo since the captain is always thorough when ripping somebody a new one.” Harrison ended with a final, satisfied exhale and started undressing.
Tony pushed a magazine into his .40-caliber Beretta pistol, snapped back the slide extra hard. Holstering the gun, he walked away. Harrison said to his back: “Be careful today, trainee.”
The young rookie let out a deep breath as he left the locker room, following the checker-tiled hallway to the briefing room. The department wasn’t like the army, which was where he’d spent most of his twenties before an honorable discharge. He’d returned to town, reunited with the rock band he’d put together in high school. They played a few gigs a week, but he also took a job as a personal trainer at the local fitness club. The work was boring, so he joined the force.
However, there were a lot more rules to follow on the PD, and fitting in wasn’t easy. Most of the officers had been around for fifteen to twenty years, and he was one of only three rookies. At least he was on day shift—for now.
Tony reached the briefing room, a dozen or so officers already there. He saw Rowe—his field-training-officer or FTO—seated at a rear table and joined him. The watch commander stepped up to the podium, called roll, and began the morning run-down of overnight incidents, stolen car reports, and robbery suspects at large. Tony took careful notes, but noticed Rowe only scribbled a few.
The briefing ended quickly, and the officers filed out. Outside in the parking lot, Tony ignored the sharp morning chill and spent ten minutes reviewing the contents of their patrol car’s trunk—DUI kit, first aid kit, rifle and shotgun, extra ammunition, fire extinguisher, spare tire, ponchos, and rubber boots. He triple-checked everything while Rowe waited in the car. He stopped when he realized he couldn’t spend all day checking gear.
Tony shut the trunk, went around to the passenger side, and stopped when he saw Rowe already sitting there. The older officer had his face in his notes and didn’t look up. Tony swallowed, pivoted, walked around the back of the car, and slid behind the wheel. He let out a breath. The weight of his equipment made him sink into the vinyl seat. Space was tight, taken up by the computer screen, radio, and other electronics. The plastic dashboard, warped and cracked in places, had a layer of dust on it. Odds and ends of extra pens and ticket books decorated the rest of the interior.
Rowe handed him the keys and said, “Let’s go.”
Tony steered into the street. The city wasn’t much—about half a million people and more country than residential with tall, rocky mountains—granite sentinels—casting a shadow over everything.
“Don’t worry about Harrison,” Rowe said.
“Trying not to, sir.”
“He once screwed up worse than you. He and I were partners when we arrested a couple of the Red Tigers. We had a tip about a rumble and wanted to get as many of them off the streets as we could. Harrison had been using the shotgun. When he went to put it back in the rack—we kept them inside the cars at the time—his finger touched the trigger, and he blasted a hole in the roof.” Rowe chuckled.
Tony remained quiet.
Rowe said, “So, forget about him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll have a chance to make up for yesterday soon enough, and everybody will forget the blunders.”
Tony hoped so but didn’t say anything more.
Betty Gavilan swore loudly as she swung her thick legs onto the street, struggling out of her car. Tight skirts, itchy nylons, and high-heeled pumps that squeezed her toes didn’t mix with her low-slung blue Camaro. She caught a reproachful glare from a woman on the sidewalk who had a baby in her arms. The woman turned away as Betty slammed the door. Betty narrowed her eyes at the mother’s back, then tap-tap-tapped her way up the sidewalk to Joe’s Donuts. She was glad the door was already open.
Smilin’ Joe greeted her with his usual toothy grin, saying, “Beautiful mornin’, miss.” Betty almost told him to get tied. Instead, she said, “Two dozen assorted.” She waited for him to turn his back before jamming a bright red manicured fingernail under the waistband of her skirt and scratching.
She caught her reflection in the mirror behind the counter. At least her hair, which was a color resembling sand, looked good, flowing just past her shoulders. She wondered if she should dye it black and put in some highlights like her hairdresser had suggested. It would be a nice change. She wanted a change. She checked her watch and cursed inwardly, because if Smilin’ Joe didn’t hurry up and fill those two pink boxes, she’d be late. He finished the first, set it on the counter, grabbed the next, and whistled as he began filling.
Betty tapped a finger against her thigh and wished she could kick her heels off. Anything that hurt as much as they did couldn’t be good. Maybe her feet were too big. And why did she have to be the office gofer? Her grinning witch of a boss had told her the morning donut run would be part of the job. But they did give her a dealership credit card to pay the bill. Still, after two months of the duty, she was ready to tell the sing-song-voiced slut to jam the donuts.
“Here go, miss,” Smilin’ Joe said, placing the two pink boxes on the counter. Betty handed him the credit card. She didn’t want to go into work and be around all the salespeople pushing new and used cars. When the guys weren’t chasing customers, they chased her. While sometimes the flirting was fun and helped to pass the time, she wasn’t in the mood today.
Smilin’ Joe gave her a receipt. She signed his copy and carried the boxes in both hands as she left the shop. Why couldn’t she win the lotto, spend the rest of her life fishing? She hadn’t been fishing in two weeks, since she’d left Eddie. He had the boat. Fishing off the shore wasn’t the same, and renting a stupid boat was too expensive.
What in the world was Eddie doing standing by her car?
Eddie Milano found Betty very easily. She’d complained about donut duty enough, so he knew her routine. He’d been parked in his high-wheeled truck, across the street for over an hour, watching the shop. He saw Betty pull up in the Camaro and struggle out. As soon as she went in, he hopped down from his truck and raced across the street. He stopped by the Camaro’s bumper. He couldn’t see her through the shop’s front window. Moving carefully along the passenger side, he stopped again by the hood, took the heavy .44 revolver from under his shirt, and placed it behind his leg like the cops on the TV. A chill raced up his arms and neck. He wore no coat, and his head was dizzy from too much whiskey. His pulse, though, felt normal.
Betty emerged from the donut shop with the two pink boxes in her arms. She froze when she saw him. “Eddie,” she said quietly.
“Get in the car.” He kept the gun behind his leg.
“Go away,” she said.
He stepped toward her, she stepped back. As she turned to run, he grabbed a handful of her collar and yanked. She yelped, the boxes crashing to the ground. He wrapped his left arm around her neck, jamming the muzzle of the .44 just under her ear. She screamed. Onlookers stopped, some grabbing for cell phon
es. Eddie pulled her toward the Camaro, wrapped his right arm, gun and all, around her neck, and reached back with his now-free left to open the passenger door.
Betty brought a foot up and slammed it down, the heel digging through his shoe. He yelled and hammered the butt of the .44 on the side of her head. She went all doughy, Eddie letting her sagging weight help him shove her into the car. He slammed the door, slid across the hood to the other side, and jumped behind the wheel. Betty moaned and shifted in the other seat as he buckled up, like his mother always said. He ripped her purse from her shoulder and batted her hands away when she tried to grab it back. He found the keys and started the engine. As he pulled away, he saw a police car in the rearview mirror. Betty took a deep breath to scream but wound up face-first in the back of the seat as Eddie hit the gas.
Dispatch broadcast the alert, calling it a fight, and Rowe radioed they were nearby. As Tony steered around the corner, scanning for the donut shop, they saw the Camaro screech away. Onlookers gestured wildly.
Rowe said, “Hit it!”
He radioed dispatch, saying they were in pursuit of a blue Camaro with the victim of a possible kidnapping inside.
“Time for the blink-blinks and wee-wees,” Rowe said, flipping the console switches to activated their lights and siren.
Tony saw the Camaro a few blocks ahead and wove through traffic, catching up fast. The sports car picked up speed. Tony pressed the gas harder, dodging a minivan to keep the other car in sight.
Rowe rattled off their direction into the radio. His request for additional units was met with a 10-4.
Tony kept his hands tight on the wheel, his eyes locked on the Camaro. He breathed deeply with his pulse and heartbeat racing.
“Don’t stare,” Rowe said. “Scan.”
The Camaro took a sharp right. The tires of the patrol car screeched as Tony followed.
Inside the Camaro, Eddie Milano decided the best thing Betty had ever done was buy a muscle car with an automatic transmission. He wove around traffic and blew through an intersection, other cars screeching and swerving to avoid the speeding vehicle. The cops were six cars back.
Betty was crumpled up in the passenger seat. She finally sprang up to crawl between the front bucket seats to get in the back. She flapped her hands wildly, shouting for help.
Eddie swerved around another car, hitting the brakes as he approached a second intersection. Betty flew backward, her head striking the passenger seat. Dazed, she rocked side to side as Eddie maneuvered through the intersection, the engine growling as he again stomped the gas.
Rowe said, “Dispatch, where are those units?”
The reply sounded like static to Tony as he threaded along in the wake of the Camaro. Sweat trickled down his face, coating his forehead. He felt more sweat under his vest, the back of his neck. His breathing came faster and faster, his knuckles white.
The road began to twist and turn. Traffic eased as buildings gave way to forest. Rowe broadcast their new location and direction. Tony followed the road, crossing the median to stay on the pavement. Brake, gas, twist, turn, brake, gas. They were gaining on the Camaro, but Tony wasn’t sure how that improved the situation. The fleeing driver obviously had no plans to stop.
“You’re doing fine, Tony,” Rowe said, but suddenly yelled, “Stop!”
Tony stomped the brakes.
Betty sobbed, wedged between the front and back, as Eddie followed the twisting road. Her bleary eyes saw one of her black pumps lying on the back seat. She grabbed the pump, rose, and began bashing Eddie’s head.
Eddie hollered as the heel bit into the side of his head, then his neck, then dug into his shoulder. He batted away another blow with his right hand but couldn’t stop the next. It scored dead-on with his temple.
Eddie’s vision spun as he tried to follow another curve and he cursed as the tires left the road. He twisted the wheel too hard, the car screaming toward the trunk of a tree. A sudden violent jolt shook the car, screams cut off by shattering glass and grinding metal. The airbag exploded in Eddie’s face.
Blood leaked from his cheeks and forehead, his vision fuzzy. He grabbed for the seatbelt, his fingers not responding. He had to unbuckle with both hands. He pushed the door open and hauled himself out of the car, unsteady on his feet. He frowned at the two policemen with drawn guns, covered by the patrol car doors, who were shouting at him. He raised the .44 and fired.
One of the officers went down.
Eddie took off stumbling into the trees as return fire nipped at his heels.
When Rowe shouted, “Stop!” Tony had pushed the brake pedal down with so much force he thought he’d bust through the floor. The car began to spin, stopping with Rowe’s side closest to the Camaro. The two cops jumped out with drawn guns and began shouting instructions to the driver: “Hands up! Get down on the ground now!” The suspect was teetering on his feet.
Rowe saw the shiny revolver first, yelling, “Shoot!” But the bad guy brought up the .44 and let a round go, knocking the veteran officer off his feet.
Tony opened fire with shaking hands. The man made the tree line and vanished into the woods. He ejected the empty mag from his automatic as another blast thundered from the suspect’s weapon. The round buzzed overhead. Tony raced around to his partner, who lay moaning on his back. Tony tore at the opening in Rowe’s uniform shirt where the suspect’s bullet had struck. It had been stopped by his bulletproof vest.
“Get...the...bad guy,” Rowe said, gasping.
Tony raced off as the veteran officer rolled over, pushed up to his knees, and leaned against the car for support. Hurt and sucking air, Rowe leaned against the car and relished the growing wail of sirens in the distance. Then he glanced at the wrecked Camaro and realized only the suspect had made it out.
A sharp pain ran through Tony’s stomach as he raced through the trees. He couldn’t breathe right but he didn’t dare stop. One of his academy instructors claimed pain only meant you were alive. “Doesn’t it feel good to be alive?” he’d say.
Tony saw the suspect ahead as the ground began to slope upward. He shouted, but the word came out, “Ack!” even though he’d tried to yell, “Stop!”
Milano did stop, but only to turn and fire another round. It missed by a mile. Tony braced his arms against a tree, fired twice. Milano staggered back, blotches of red showing on his shirt. Tony kept the suspect in his sights.
The other man turned his back and took several long strides forward, then began to stagger and bend at the waist.
Tony advanced. “Drop the weapon!” The words came out this time.
Milano turned and began to raise his gun.
Without hesitating, Tony fired again and again.
Milano’s body rocked with each hit until he tumbled face first into the dirt. Tony ran up and kicked the .44 away and stepped back. He continued to hold his gun on the fallen man.
As he stood panting, lungs burning, the beat of his pulse loud inside his head, he tried to comprehend what had happened, but his mind couldn’t grasp it.
A voice. “He’s up here!”
And then, “Fallon!”
Tony turned. Sergeant Harrison and his patrol partner Scott had reached him.
Harrison said, “You okay?”
Tony nodded. He kept nodding until he realized he looked like an idiot and stopped. Scott knelt by the suspect. He put two fingers on the side of the man’s neck. He then shook his head and stood. “Goner.”
Harrison slapped Tony’s back as the rookie stared, stunned, at the dead man.
“Nice shooting, trainee,” Harrison said. “Feel good about yourself. You’re one of us after all.”
Tony slowly holstered his still-hot automatic. He tried to speak. Nothing came out. Everything around the edges of his eyes looked blurry, but he didn’t know why. Then he remembered something about tunnel vision. He hadn’t noticed it during the fight. He followed Harrison and Scott back to the road, reaching for Harrison’s shoulder to steady himself.
&nbs
p; Harrison didn’t argue.
Tony shook as he sat in the cold metal chair, his arms on the table in front of him. The bare white walls of the interview room had nothing reassuring to cover up their drabness. The bright fluorescent lights above reflected off the walls and created a glare that made Tony squint. It was in a room like this where suspects were interviewed by department detectives.
The homicide team investigating the shooting had brought him here. They were looking over his statement, he knew, but wished they hadn’t put him in this room. His mind began filling with doubts over what he’d done. Should he have fired those last two shots or waited for the suspect to fall on his own? He wondered if the man would have been able to get off another shot like he’d tried. Would they use that against him?
He jumped in the seat as the door squeaked open and the two detectives, Holt and Savage, entered. Holt sat on his left, Savage his right. Savage, his eyeglasses on the edge of his nose, looked through a file folder while Holt just looked at Tony. Tony stared at the center of the table.
“This is a good shoot,” Savage said, and Tony looked up at him. “I think the district attorney will agree when she sees our report. Good driving, too. No civilians were hurt. You may get a medal.”
Tony tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it stayed where it was.
“It’s okay,” Holt told him. “Your reactions are normal.”
Savage said, “I don’t think we have any further questions.”
Holt nodded in agreement, asked if Tony had any for them.
The young patrolman looked at Holt for a moment, noticed the specks of gray in his mustache that didn’t show in his hair. His question came out in a low whisper. “Is Rowe okay?”