RCC02 - Heroes Often Fail

by Frank Zafiro

  After the third or fourth license plate, the dispatcher figured out what he was doing. After the seventh or so, she was sick of him doing it. Chisolm didn’t care. Dispatchers came and went. A little girl was missing.

  When he heard his call-sign come over the radio on the main south side channel, he was reasonably certain that the data channel operator had told the south side operator to make sure he went to the next call.

  “Charlie-143, Charlie-145?”

  Chisolm clicked his mike.

  He heard Charlie-145, Officer Bill Lindsay, answer up with his location. As usual, he was far south and away from the crime-ridden areas of their sector.

  Chisolm shook his head in disgust. It wasn’t that he had anything against rich people getting a ticket—in fact, the idea somewhat appealed to him—it was just that whenever Lindsay was called, he was deep south. That meant that he wasn’t going to be there to back anyone up very quickly.

  “An unwanted guest, downtown at the State Theater,” the dispatcher said. “Complainant is the theater manager, who says a white male in his forties entered without a ticket and is refusing to leave. Description of suspect available.”

  “Disregard the description,” Chisolm said into the microphone. He considered going Code 4 and disregarding Lindsay, but decided against it. He’d let the lazy bastard drive downtown and do a little police work for a change. He was next up on the detective’s promotional list and would soon get made, anyway. Then he’d be able to duck work even more effectively.

  “Copy Charlie-143,” the dispatcher said. Chisolm imagined her and the data channel operator slapping a high five.

  There was a short silence on the radio. Chisolm knew Lindsay was waiting, hoping someone offered to go in his place or that Chisolm would go Code 4. After a short time, he came on the air.

  “Charlie-145, copy,” he said in a dejected voice.

  Chisolm smiled to himself.

  His smile faded as he headed downtown. He was reasonably certain that it was a drunken bum who had wandered in to the business. Downtown was full of winos, due to several outreach centers being located there. There were three competing churches that gave out sandwiches and bible verses on different days of the week. The transient population generally behaved themselves when they were in the outreach centers because to act up was to get booted out. However, once the doors closed for the evening, it was time to get liquored up and sleep in an alley or under the freeway. The luckier ones found their way into the Detox center, which was also conveniently downtown.

  He felt disgust for some, pity for others. Most claimed to be Vietnam vets and most were lying. As a veteran of that war himself, he took considerable exception to those false claims.

  As he pulled up in front of the State Theater, a kid about nineteen in a faux tuxedo and a red bow tie stood impatiently out front.

  “Charlie-143, on scene,” Chisolm told Dispatch.

  “Copy,” the dispatcher said.

  “Charlie-145, I’m still a long ways off,” Lindsay said, a last minute plea for reprieve.

  Chisolm switched on his portable radio as he turned off the police car and stepped out. No other units answered up to rescue Lindsay. It was still early in the year, but his sector-mates were wise to Lindsay’s games.

  “Are you here for the trespasser?” the kid in the tux asked.

  Chisolm glanced up at the marquee for a moment, then back at the kid. “Huh?”

  “I’m the manager,” the kid said. “I called the police for a trespasser. He’s inside.” He pointed. When Chisolm didn’t respond immediately, he dropped his arm. “Are you here for that?”

  Chisolm shook his head. “Nope.” He pointed up at the marquee. “I’m here to see Dances With Wolves.”

  Confusion swept over the manager’s features, headed toward panic. “But I’ve got this guy inside…”

  “Relax, kid,” Chisolm said with a smile. “I’m just pulling your leg.”

  The manager gave him another confused look, then relief took over. “Oh. Okay.” He smiled. “You had me going there.”

  “I gathered. You’ve got a transient inside?”

  “Uh, yeah. Well, a guy, anyway. I don’t know if he’s a transient or not.”

  “Does he stink?”

  “Huh?”

  “Does the guy inside stink?”

  The manager shook his head.

  “No? Well, maybe he isn’t a transient, then.” He reached inside and grabbed his flashlight and slid it onto his belt. “Let’s find out.”

  The manager led him to the row of glass doors, past a bug-eyed girl in the ticket kiosk and into the lobby. Two teenagers in mock tuxedos with black ties stood at the snack bar watching them.

  There was no sign of anyone else in the lobby.

  Chisolm looked at the manager and turned up his palms.

  The manager swallowed and turned to the employees at the snack bar. “That guy in the army jacket—where’d he go?”

  The boy behind the counter shrugged, but the girl pointed. “He said he was going to find his baby. I think he went into three.”

  The manager looked at Chisolm. “Three is our smallest screen. It’s this way.”

  Chisolm held out his arm. “Lead on.”

  The manager turned and strode purposefully away. Chisolm followed.

  As he walked, the manager looked over his shoulder. “We show second run children’s features on this screen.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. So maybe the guy is looking for a runaway kid or something.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “No, sir. He wouldn’t tell us why he wanted in. He was just talking constantly about finding his baby and not listening to a word that I said. That’s why I—“

  As they rounded a corner, Chisolm saw a pair of doors at the end of a short hallway. One was swinging open and a bearded man in his forties limped out.

  “Where’s my baby!” he shouted at the manager.

  The manager froze, which allowed Chisolm to stride past him.

  “Hey, partner,” Chisolm said. “What’s going on?”

  The man’s eyes were frantic and when they lighted on Chisolm, it was several moments before a flicker of recognition for his uniform registered in them.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  Chisolm ignored the profanity and closed space with the man. Once he was an arm’s length away, he gave the man his most disarming smile. He knew that when he did that, the thin white scar that ran the length of his face stood out.

  “What’s going on tonight?”

  The man swallowed and glanced nervously over his shoulder. “Nothing,” he muttered.

  Chisolm kept his smile up, but watched the man’s hands. They hung limply at his sides, visible and empty.

  “Well, there’s something going on,” he told the man, “because the cops are here.”

  That brought a rueful grin from the man. “True enough,” he said.

  “What’s your name, friend?” Chisolm asked. He could smell the faint odor of alcohol on the man, but not the rotten, permanent smell that most transients carried. And although the bottoms of his jeans were dirty, he didn’t have the days upon days of dirt look about him.

  “Kevin,” he said.

  “Kevin?” Chisolm noticed his hair was uncombed and his eyes seemed a little unfocused. He began to wonder if the guy was more of a Signal Forty-eight, a mental.

  “Yeah. Kevin.”

  “Kevin, what’s the deal here? The manager said you came in looking for someone.”

  Kevin shot the manager a dirty look, the kind reserved for snitches.

  “Who’re you looking for, Kevin?”

  “My baby,” he mumbled.

  “Boy or girl?”

  “Boy,” Kevin said. “Three months old.”

  Chisolm raised his eyebrows. “Three months old and he walked in all by himself?”

  Kevin’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t make fun, motherfucker. It’s a serious matter.”
<
br />   Chisolm forced his smile to remain in place. “Fair enough, Kevin. What’s your baby’s name?”

  “What do you care?”

  “It’s my job to care. Besides, who doesn’t care about kids?”

  Kevin grunted.

  “What’s your boy’s name?”

  “Kyle.”

  “Okay, good. Nice name. Who’s Kyle with tonight?”

  “His whore mother,” Kevin said, his voice rising slightly. His fists clenched and unclenched.

  Chisolm ignored the epithet. “What’s her name?”

  “Cindy the Fucking Whore.”

  “Does she have a last name, Kevin?”

  “Harrison.”

  Chisolm tilted his head toward the manager, keeping his eyes on Kevin. “Son, I want you to go to the front of the theater and tell your concession clerks to tell my partner where I’m at when he comes in. Then I want you to find Cindy Harrison for me. Got it?”

  “Yessir,” the manager said, his voice breaking. He turned and scuttled off in a rush.

  Chisolm turned back to Kevin. “You’re a little upset about something, huh, Kevin?”

  “It’s not your business.”

  “Most days, you’d be right,” Chisolm said. “But unfortunately, not today. Not here in a public place. Now I’ve got to figure out what’s going on and solve the problem. That’s my duty.”

  Kevin shook his head and said nothing.

  Chisolm examined his olive drab jacket. “You buy that at the Army-Navy Surplus store on Division?”

  Kevin’s eyes flared. “Hell, no! This is my jacket. I’ve had it since Parris Island.”

  “Marine?” Chisolm asked.

  “Yeah. Seventy to Seventy-one.”

  “Well, then Semper Fi,” Chisolm said.

  Kevin fixed him with a suspicious look. “You were in the Corps?”

  “No. Army.”

  “Really?” Kevin’s voice was full of doubt. “When?”

  “Sixty-nine to seventy-one.”

  “In the Army?”

  Chisolm nodded.

  “You go to the ‘Nam?”

  “Mekong Delta.”

  Kevin considered him for a long moment. “I was in Saigon. Except when I was out in the bush.”

  “Which was all the time, I bet,” Chisolm guessed.

  “You know it, brother.” Kevin smiled in spite of himself, but the smile quickly faded and was replaced by suspicion again. “What unit were you with?”

  “S-F,” Chisolm said.

  “Special Forces? Really?”

  Chisolm nodded. “Two tours.”

  “No kidding?” Kevin nodded his head in appreciation. “Most of the Army guys I came across were pussies, but you Green Berets came through for us a few times.”

  “Marines saved our asses a few times, too.”

  The two men stood quietly for a minute. Chisolm hoped that he’d made enough of a connection with the man to keep him from drifting off into suspicion and anger again.

  “What can I do to help you here tonight, Kevin?”

  Kevin stared at him for another long moment, then shook his head clear of his reverie. “Not a fucking thing,” he said. “I’m here to get my baby back from the whore that took him from me.”

  “You know Cindy is here at the theater?”

  He nodded. “I saw her walk in when I rode by on the bus. She’s here.”

  “You two married?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “How long have you been divorced?”

  “You’re a nosy fucker, aren’t ya?”

  Chisolm smiled. “Peril of the job, I suppose.”

  “Well, it’s none of your business. None of this is.”

  Kevin started toward Chisolm and tried to walk past him.

  Chisolm sidestepped and grabbed onto Kevin’s wrist and elbow. In one smooth motion, he swept his foot forward with as much force as he could muster, intending to take the man to the ground. His foot made contact with Kevin’s calf. There was a hollow thunk and Kevin fell forward like a rock. His lower leg jutted out at against his pants in an unnatural angle.

  Kevin grunted but didn’t cry out. He landed on his face and his chest and tried to roll. Despite being surprised at the injury he had caused, Chisolm followed through on his takedown by dropping his weight onto Kevin’s upper back, leaning his shin across the back of his neck.

  He heard the man curse, but paid no attention. Chisolm was transfixed by the compound fracture he seemed to have caused.

  In the next instant, his mind processed the plastic thunking sound he’d heard when his foot made contact.

  It was a prosthesis, he realized. A fake leg.

  Chisolm was relieved. He snapped his handcuffs on Kevin and patted his pockets and waistline for weapons. Inside his pants on his hip, he found a long hunting knife. He removed it and tossed it several feet away. Then he patted Kevin on the back.

  “Easy there, Marine. It’s going to be all right.”

  Kevin swore at him. Chisolm kept his shin across the back of the man’s neck and accessed his radio.

  “Charlie-143 to -145. I could use your help here.”

  “-145, copy.” Lindsay’s voice came through static. He was out of the car and using his portable radio. “I’m walking in now.”

  “Copy,” Chisolm said and replaced his radio. He gave Kevin another comradely pat on his shoulder blades. “It’ll be just a few minutes and we’ll get you into a nice car.”

  “You’re weren’t no fucking Green Beret!” Kevin yelled into the floor.

  Chisolm ignored the accusation. “Your leg injury happen in country, Kevin?”

  “None of your goddamn business, you lying sonofabitch!”

  He gave Kevin another pat. “Just be another minute.”

  Kevin let loose a stream of profanities, ending with “shit-eater.”

  “I think the ‘Nam mighta left you beaucoup dinky dao, my friend,” Chisolm said softy. “And I’m sorry about that.”

  “Shove it up your ass! Fake Army son of a bitch!”

  Lindsay appeared around the corner, loping along at his usual lazy pace. When he saw Chisolm on top of Kevin, his eyes flew open and he trotted over.

  “What the hell, Tom? This guy fought?”

  Chisolm shook his head. “Just tried to leave before it was quite time.”

  “Jesus, what happened to his leg?”

  “It’s a fake.”

  “Oh.” Lindsay cocked his head to the side, then asked, “Jesus, Tom, you beat up a one-legged man?”

  “Faker! Liar!” yelled Kevin.

  Lindsay stared for another moment, then asked, “Is he under arrest?”

  “What are you, my sergeant? Just grab that knife there and help me get him out to the car.”

  Lindsay looked briefly for the knife on the floor, found it and picked it up. He gave a low whistle.

  “Rambo,” he said.

  “Come on, Bill,” Chisolm said, breaking his reverie. He and Lindsay lifted Kevin into a standing position. Each took an arm and walked him toward the front doors. His prosthesis dragged on the floor as they walked and he hopped effortlessly along on one leg to keep up.

  They walked past the snack bar. Both tuxedo-clad teenagers followed their progress with their mouths hanging open. When the threesome exited the front doors, the bug-eyed ticket girl joined the gawker’s club.

  “He still needs a good search,” Chisolm said, leaning Kevin against the car at the front tire. The two officers set about searching him. They removed all of his items and placed them on the hood. They found no more weapons.

  “What’s your last name, Kevin?” Chisolm asked. “Is it Harrison?”

  The prisoner stared ahead and said nothing.

  Chisolm flipped open the man’s wallet. He saw a veteran’s hospital identification card in the name of Kevin Yeager. It showed his service dates as 1970-71. Chisolm slid it back into the wallet.

  After the search, they awkwardly stowed a subdued Kevin in t
he back seat of Chisolm’s car.

  Chisolm handed the wallet to Lindsay. “Do me a favor and run him. In addition to any wants, I need to know if there are any mental entries. And look for protection orders or anything like that. This might be some kind of Domestic Violence or something. The female half might be named Cindy Harrison.”

  “Now who’s the sergeant?” Lindsay tried to joke.

  Chisolm ignored him and walked back into the theater past the bug-eyed girl. Inside, he found the manager standing against the wall behind the ticket booth. A dark-haired woman in her thirties stood next to him. She held an infant in her arms, bouncing him softly.

  “Cindy?” he asked as he approached.

  “Yes, sir,” said the woman. He detected a southern accent.

  “Then this would be Kyle,” he said, indicating the baby.

  “Yes, sir,” she said again, and paused to kiss the child’s head.

  Chisolm waved the manager away. The kid reluctantly retreated, wandering slowly toward the snack bar.

  “He can’t see me from out there, can he, sir?”

  “No,” Chisolm said.

  She let out a relieved sigh. “Thank the Lord. How did he even know I was here?”

  “He said he was riding the bus and passed by as you were walking in.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Listen, Cindy, what’s the story here? Is he your husband?”

  She took a deep breath and let it out. “Yes, sir, he was.”

  “When did you get divorced?”

  “Oh, we was never married.”

  Chisolm gave her a puzzled look.

  “We was common-law married,” she explained. “Seven years together.”

  “But not legally married?”

  “Not like in a church proper, no, sir.”

  “Is he Kyle’s father?”

  “’Course he is,” Cindy said.

  “He made some references that made me wonder, that’s all.”

  “He called me a whore, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, I think that was the word.”

  “That’s on account of I left him, sir. I was afraid for my baby, so I left.”

  “Afraid of what?” Chisolm asked, but he thought he knew.

  “Of him,” Cindy told him. “He wasn’t seeing his doctor or taking his pills like he was s’posed to. He started saying crazy things.”

  “Like what?”