Requiem For The Widowmaker

by Blackie Noir

  Call it just a little more luck that night for Nadine. Luck, that the troopers didn’t Taser her. That was how scared she’d had them.

  Chapter Six

  Butch Ritter didn’t need a weathervane to tell him which way the wind was blowing.

  Hell, he’d made a career of tracking currants, nuances, and departmental, as well as public, mood swings. A long career. A successful career. A very successful career. As usual, the latest threat had first been reduced to a mild pain in the ass, then finally, after the smoke had cleared, turned into a major feather in Butch’s cap.

  The way it looked now, Butch would probably ride the Kozok video-tape all the way to another term as Chief of Police. Since the infamous Rodney King tape, at least a half dozen videos had surfaced over the years depicting officers of various Southern California police agencies engaged in numerous episodes of unwarranted brutality, up to and including unnecessary shootings.

  When Butch first got the call informing him that one of his officers, Nadine Kozok, a police woman with the reputation as a loose cannon, had beaten a suspect into a coma with her nine-cell Maglite, he figured he might have a problem. A minor problem, one he could spin, but, still a problem.

  When he was told the whole incident had been taped, a fine, clear, professionally shot video-tape, done by a local news-copter crew, Butch figured he’d better find him a storm cellar to hide in. The, sure to come, shit storm was bound to be brutal.

  As Butch’s phenomenal luck would have it, ducking into a storm cellar was unnecessary. He could ride this one out in the light of day. In fact, he could bask in the sunlight of the tape’s revelations. Butch didn’t have a rogue officer on his hands, he had a genuine heroine in the ranks. The real fucking deal. No embellishment needed.

  Embellishment? Hell, the tape was so far out it could have gone to Hollywood as is. No stunts or computer imaging added. Shit, the video had the Kozok broad. And Nadine Kozok was most definitely one star who had done all her own stunts.

  Pushing her Saleen Mustang to the max, overtaking the perp, getting him to quit his vehicle. Then, when she could have blown the guy away, hesitating just long enough for the mutt to split. What great fucking PR! Ladycop, too kindhearted to shoot, but brave enough to run the guy down on foot. Next? Unarmed, trying to run a bluff on the guy. Then, the capper, getting shot, three, count em, three fucking times.

  Grand finale? Takes the dude on, hand to hand. Gets stabbed, face punched to shit, hangs tough and beats the scumbag silly with her flashlight!

  Whoa.

  Not surprising that TinselTown had taken notice. Agents, producers, TV, all the usual hucksters sniffing around. Nadine Kozok, to this point, totally uninterested. That was the only glitch. Kozok was almost phobic in her reaction to the extensive publicity. Well, that was one of the things this meeting was about.

  Thank God they had the still photos of Kozok. Taken upon her admittance to Harbor General, the pictures showed Nadine badly battered and bathed in blood. Blood from her ear, the gash on her face, her broken nose, and of course from the carjacker she had taken down. Nadine looked torn up, but like the saying went, “ya shoulda seen the other guy,” the asshole’s face looked like a bowl of chili.

  Butch had seen to it that a friend of his on the Times had gotten the pictures of a brutalized Nadine. Two of the photos made the front page of the morning edition. Many of the paper’s readers had seen the drama played out, either live or ‘film at eleven’ on TV. Already enamored of the heroic police woman, the citizens of Long Beach and LA felt nothing but sympathy for her when they saw the extent of the savage beating she had absorbed.

  That alone would have been more than enough to raise the LBPD, and Butch with it, to high, safe, ground, far above the filthy waters of a brutality scandal, but it just kept getting better.

  The pistol, a .32 Davis semi-auto, that the carjacker had used on Nadine had turned a hit with ballistics in San Diego. The same gun had been used, six months ago, in the shootings of two members of the SDPD. One of the officers had died, instantly. Headshot. The other had survived. Disabled, the San Diego cop was in good enough shape to ID his assailant, from photos obtained from the mutt’s record after his fingerprints had brought his jacket up. Chuey Medina, a south of the border loco, with a sheet so long that Butch had stopped reading after the first two pages.

  All Butch really gave a shit about was the fact that the killer had been fucking stupid enough to hang on to the piece, after using it to murder a cop. Sometimes small favors made big cases.

  It had been ten weeks since Kozok’s big show, the taking of Chuey Medina. Butch had had two short photo-opps with the woman, one at her bedside in the hospital, the other upon her release. Aside from a few public statements, positive in nature, but limited in terms of commitment, Butch had kept his distance from the hero cop. Not that Butch, himself an old hard-core street cop who had come up the hard way, was unwilling to lavish rewards on Kozok. Butch looked forward to giving Nadine her due. He just didn’t want to get bit in the ass, aligning himself too closely, too quickly with an unknown commodity.

  From what Butch’s research showed, Kozok might have, not only issues, but baggage as well. That was what this meeting was about. Butch needed to discern not only how much baggage Nadine Kozok was carrying, but just how heavy that baggage might be.

  #

  Nadine Kozok was tall and lean. Taller than Butch had remembered. Thicker through the shoulders and arms too. Butch didn’t really care for women pumping iron, cops or not, it didn’t sit well with him. Still, he had to admit Kozok wore the muscle well. Knew how to use it too.

  Of course, when Butch got a good look into the woman’s eyes, he knew that her physical prowess had been secondary in enabling her to take Medina down. Deep in those, weird, mismatched eyes Butch saw steel. Steel tempered in the crucible of anguish. Unfortunately, Kozok’s jacket offered only a cursory view into a past that appeared to be rife with tribulation.

  Masked as an informal interview, this meeting would actually be an interrogation, albeit a subtle one. Butch wanted to back this woman, reward her by advancing her career, but not at risk to himself. Standing, smiling as he offered his hand, Butch took his first step into the unmapped territory of Nadine Kozok’s past.

  “Officer Kozok, we’ll be chatting for awhile, would it offend you if I called you Nadine?

  Taking his hand, face blank, Nadine said, “Not if I can call you Butch.”

  Butch wasn’t crazy about smart-asses. Especially in the rank and file. Being that he couldn’t read anything in her expression, he’d have to give her the benefit of the doubt. He didn’t want to form a negative impression of the woman from the get-go. In the interest of fairness, he’d take her reply at face value. Besides, he liked the way she shook his hand.

  Being a politician was part of his job; as such, Butch had to shake a lot of hands. Being a big man, he found that many of the men he shook hands with, for whatever personal reasons of insecurity, considered these casual handshakes machismo fueled contests of strength. Assholes. Iron-pumpers could be the worst. Weightlifters, like Nadine.

  He found Nadine’s grip a mirror of his own. Firm, yet restrained. Obvious power, held in check. Steel hand, velvet glove. Handshake as a friendly greeting, not a contest of wills. Definitely a plus for Officer Kozok.

  Giving her his real smile, not the bullshit, plastered-on, photo-opp version, Butch said, “Fine with me. For this meeting, and for this meeting only, you can call me Butch. Once you’re out of this office, it’s strictly ‘Sir’ or ‘Chief Ritter.’ You ever hit me with a ‘Hi Butch’ in public, I’ll have you writing parking tickets at the mall. Clear?”

  “Perfectly . . . Butch.” She had a nice smile. A hint of insolence. Still, a nice smile.

  “Good. Have a seat.”

  Seated, Nadine’s posture remained erect. While dressed casually; too casually for Butch’s taste, in short-sleeved top, jeans, and running shoes, she was neat and fresh, her grooming immaculat
e. Still, he had to struggle to suppress a wince as his eyes passed over her ear, the top third sheared off by Medina’s bullet. The struggle continued as he took in the ragged furrow gouged out from the flesh of her cheek. The angular bump from the break on her nose was the least disfiguring of Nadine’s facial injuries.

  Clearing his throat, Butch said, “Nadine, forgive me if, in the course of our conversation, I may sound curt. I sometimes come across as too direct. Harsh, or even blunt, if you will. Let me assure you I’m not an insensitive man, and my manner isn’t intended to be confrontational. It’s just that I believe in saying what I feel, asking what I want to know.”

  Leaning forward, Nadine said, “Good. I share the very same social shortcomings. I’m not a fan of bullshit. What I’m going to say now isn’t meant to be disrespectful, or adversarial, so please don’t take it that way. But, if you’ve brought me here to give me some kind of a dressing down for my actions, forget it. I’ve been shot, stabbed, kicked, punched and put through weeks of bureaucratic flim-flam. The bureaucracy was the worst, so spare me more of the same. If you’re going to fire me, do it. Don’t waste my valuable time. Time I could be using to line up an attorney.”

  Butch shook his head, held Nadine’s eyes, said, “Nadine, right now you still have a friend in this room. Don’t be in such a hurry to change that. My grandmother’s favorite expression was, ‘don’t borrow trouble,’ that’s good advice. You’re assuming the purpose of our meeting is negative. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  “So, what’s that translate to? You want to give me a medal?”

  Butch laughed, “Yeah, as a matter of fact I do, and I will. But that’s the least of what I’d like to be able to do for you.”

  “Forgive the skepticism, but when people start telling me what they’d like to do for me, I start wondering what they want to do to me.”

  “Hey, how about you put your paranoia on hold for the next half-hour or so. Let’s shoot the shit awhile, get to know one another. Nadine, I want to help you out. Maybe move you up to bigger and better things. Naturally, there’s something in it for me too, but only if you do well and don’t fuck up. I’m willing to give you chances, but not if it entails taking huge chances myself.”

  Nadine grinned, “Got it. Cover your own ass first.”

  “Exactly. So? What do you say?”

  “Go for it. Ask away.”

  “Good. Your health, physically. How are you doing?”

  “Doing well. Vest did a good job stopping those .32 slugs. Some nasty bruises, mostly healed now, but no breaks. Foot was worse, but its healed up OK. I’m walking just fine, but it’s a little too tender to run on yet. I put in a lot of hours on a stationary bike to stay in shape, but it’s not the same as running. Boring too.”

  Gesturing, Butch said, “What about the ear?”

  “No hearing loss. Sure looks like shit though, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re the one said it, Nadine. You’ve got nice long hair Why wear it up? Let it down, cover the ear.”

  “I did that, but the wound’s real sensitive. Covering it also seems to slow the healing process, lots of air and light get the best response. Truth is, the ear doesn’t bother me, not half as much as this does.”

  Watching Nadine’s fingers trace the jagged furrow on her cheek, from eye to jawline, Butch said, “Shit, of course that bothers you. You’re a beautiful woman, that kind of disfigurement has to be a terrible affliction.”

  Cocking her head, Nadine said, “Disfigurement? Well, you said you were blunt.”

  “Oh, hell. I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .”

  Nadine laughed, “No, it’s OK. Just having a little fun with you. It’s going to be fine. My bother sent me to a reconstructive surgeon. The doc said he’d smooth that cheek out, good as new. Hey, he’s even gonna throw the nose job in for free. He advised me to leave the ear alone, at least for now. Top guy in LA, he gave me the same advice you did on the ear. Let my hair down, cover it. Funny, huh?”

  “Hey, at least I didn’t charge you.”

  “Neither did the doc my brother sent me to, at least not for the consultation, he wants to be sure he gets to do the work on my brother’s mug once Bill retires.”

  “That’s right, your brother’s Bill Kozok.”

  “ ‘Bad Bill’ himself.”

  Butch laughed, “Damn. Any gentle souls in your family?”

  “Not above ground.”

  Feeling an abrupt shift in the tone of their conversation, Butch rode the wave. Softly, he said, “Nadine, you seem pretty good physically. How about psychologically? How are you coping emotionally?”

  “I’m sure you’ve got the reports from my meetings with the department psychologist.”

  Butch patted a small stack of folders on his desk, said, “Right here. They don’t tell me shit. The shrink says you’re recalcitrant. Which means you don’t tell him shit.”

  Nadine stiffened, “Right. I don’t have much use for shrinks. Bunch of pompous self-promoting twits. Fucking witch doctors playing guessing games with peoples heads. Well, not with my head.”

  “Sometimes they can help.”

  “Really? You’ve read my files, the ones that go way back. I was five years old, messed up for real, I had over a year of their so called help. Let me tell you, they were the ones making me crazy. Know what straightened me out? My aunt June. Aunt June and her husband, Vassily.

  “They got me out of that hospital, took me home. Made their home my home. Vassily Kozok, my step-dad, he gave me his name. His name! Adopted me. Made me his daughter, treated me as good, no, better, than he did his own sons, my step-brothers. And you know what? They never asked me the question. Twenty-five years and none of them, not June, Vassily, or either of my brothers has ever asked me that one big question. I guess they figured a year of my being subjected to that goddamn question, over and over, was enough.”

  Butch knew he must tread carefully, things were beginning to happen, the interview was becoming productive. Nearing the crux of the matter, Butch instinctively knew not to push too hard. Still, he can’t let the opportunity pass. Speaking softly he said, “What question is that?”

  Locking on Butch’s eyes, Nadine said, “You just got through telling me how you’re so direct; ‘Mr. Blunt.’ Now you hit me with that lame, ‘what question?,’ bullshit. I expected better from you Butch, really I did. Let me make it easy for you. You want to know, did I, at the tender age of five, shoot my real father in the head. How’s that for blunt?”

  Butch sighed, shrugged, spread his hands, said, “Well?”

  Nadine, not making it easy, “Well what?”

  “Did you? Shoot your father in the head?”

  Holding one hand up, placing the other on her breast, Nadine said, “I swear, Butch, I wish I fucking knew.”

  “Not accusing you of being evasive, but that’s not much of an answer.”

  “It’s the only answer I’ve got. You have my jacket there. What did it tell you?”

  “Blyth PD pegged you as the shooter. Hell, it was, literally, a ‘smoking gun’ case. They rolled out on a 911 call, found you there, sitting next to the body, little .22 derringer in your hand. Ballistics on the derringer confirmed it was the gun that killed Ralph Meeks. Tests on your hands found gunpowder residue, confirming you’d fired the piece that night.”

  Nadine laughed, “Can’t dispute evidence, not when you’re five years old and catatonic.”

  “What matters is, evidence-wise, they had you as the killer, but everything was dismissed.”

  “Not dismissed. Charges were never filed. C’mon Butch, get real. I was a baby, five years old. My father used to beat the shit out of my Mom on a weekly basis. On that night he went all the way, murdered her. Was I gonna be next? Probably. Extenuating circumstances.”

  “Your recall seems pretty good now.”

  “Recall shit. Over the years I’ve managed to read the files too.”

  “How’d you swing that?”

  “I’m a c
op, remember? Or am I?”

  “I already told you, you’re OK there. Don’t sweat it.”

  “Then why the interrogation? I mean, you tell me my job is secure, yet you seem to be angling for something in my past. Something that would prove me unfit to perform that job.”

  “Actually, it concerns, not your present job, but your qualifications for a different job.”

  Nadine frowned, “You want to take my gun. Take my gun, sit me behind a desk, and have me tickling a keyboard for the rest of my twenty.”

  “No. I want to give you a gold shield.”

  “First a medal. Now, a gold shield. Go right ahead. What’s stopping you?”

  “I’m concerned. Concerned that perhaps your recent trauma has unlocked some bad memories from your childhood ordeal. Memories that could send you over the edge, the next time you encounter some major on job stress.”

  Nadine said, “Which, should I freak out, pull my weapon, and lay waste to everyone in some low-rent gambling den or massage parlor, would reflect poorly on your judgment. Your promoting a psycho whose sanity was hanging by a thread. A fuck-up like that might even keep you from being mayor some day.”

  “That would be the least of my worries. Believe it or don’t, but you, your health, mental and physical, are my major concern.”

  “I’d like to believe that.”

  “Believe it. You’re a brave woman. A pretty fair cop too. You survived a horrendous ordeal as a child, and bounced back well. Family, school, work history before you came on the job, they all fit the pattern of a well adjusted individual. It doesn’t appear to me that this Medina incident has altered that. But I don’t know. You’re the only one that does, but you won’t really talk to me.”

  “What exactly do you want to know?”

  “I want you to level with me. Can you still do the job? Are you scared? Mad at the world? Looking for some kind of a payback against any and all?”