“New guy? I was late when they said his name couple of days ago. He’s a war hero, some shit.”
“Really?”
“He was in the war. Guess he’s a hero.”
“Which war?”
“I get them mixed up.”
He was standing next to Sergeant Urbaniak, who I’d been told was my ride until they found a new partner for me. I hoped it didn’t mean we got the ride-along soldier, but since I could see Urbaniak leaning towards him, mumbling, pointing, and the soldier nodding, saying “Yessir,” well, shit.
“I bet I’m riding with them today.”
The other cops gave me the What can you do shrug and looked away.
I didn’t have too many fellow officers stop by and say “Welcome back” or “Sorry about Gerard” or even pat my shoulder without saying a word. They were pissed that I’d been out so long, turned a tragedy into a vacation when I should’ve been right back on the horse as soon as the mandatory leave was done. They wouldn’t have understood even if I’d bothered to explain it to them. There was only one way — the clichéd “right way”. The job above all. Except, you know, when it came to each one of them personally. Then there was wiggle room.
Burnt coffee smell. Home sweet home. Lots of McDonalds bags and wrappers. That new chorizo burrito of theirs, sure to keep many cops on the toilet the first half-hour of their shifts. And donuts. Damn, that’s almost a joke now, a joke so old it’s got a fucking beard, but still they stuff their faces with those sugar-coated diabetes bombs. Boxes and boxes, stacks and stacks, some of them plain ol’, some of them fancy pants. I like the cake ones. Not this morning, though. One of the women cops told me I looked like I had lost weight. Like I needed a new uniform. I was pretty sure it had nothing to do with my new morning routine, though. Maybe it was three weeks without cake donuts.
I had come back on the day the new Chief was here to give us a pep talk. There she was, up there in a standard uniform, rather than the dress blues. She even had the first button open, showing off the collar of her bright-white t-shirt.
Since I’d never worked with her or spoken to her, and only remembered seeing her on stage at the Academy graduation or on the news, I hadn’t realized how small she was. Barely as high as the lectern they’d brought in for her this morning. She was a hard-looking woman, not unattractive, but definitely carrying the years of cop stress in the lines on her face, giving her a permanent scowl. Reddish hair with swirls and curls, kept shorter than most women with hair like that would’ve done. Drugstore bifocals to read her remarks, but we all knew she wasn’t going to read her remarks. Chief Donna-Ellen Bosack, who was going to do great things as the first woman Chief in Duluth, was going to wing it.
She had to step on a taped-up box of old case files to see us over the lectern. She already looked annoyed, shaking her head as if to say, “Really?” Then she turned to us.
“This isn’t cold, am I right, vets? We used to patrol in much worse than this.”
Some laughs.
She chinned towards the back wall. “Didn’t we, Urbaniak? You remember?”
“I do, I do. Nothing but babies these days.”
A smile. Like a blessing from the Pope. What was it with me and women who didn’t smile much? The crankiness was coming off her in fucking tsunami waves, but underneath that was a bedrock of confidence, and that won me over. I would take a bullet for that woman. I would go wherever she told me to go.
“So I’m here to say be careful, and I’m here to say keep warm, and most of all, here to tell you I don’t expect anything from you at all.”
Cops glancing around. Was that a punchline? Was she serious? Some bozo sang out, “Low-ered Ex-Pec-TA-TIONS,” and everyone laughed some more, including the Chief. But then she braced both arms on the sides of the lectern and everyone got quiet.
“No expectations whatsoever. Expectations are all about hope. I don’t do hope. I do results.” She stabbed the lectern. “I do what works. I don’t expect good behavior from you all. I demand it. It’s already a given. Are we clear?”
I didn’t expect the room to go all high-school football team, but it did. A loud, “Yes, Chief!” almost in unison. Some handclaps.
“Damned straight,” Chief Bosack said. “And don’t go thinking I don’t know what it’s like out there. Ask around, go ahead. Ask your fellow officers about me being out on patrol. Ask if I’m going to drop you in the frying pan to make the politicians feel good. Ask if I’m going to cover your sorry ass if you fuck up. Go ahead.”
More handclaps, couple of boot stomps. One vet bellowed, “Booooo-saaaaack!”, only for the Chief to flip him off and make the whooping even more infectious, until the cold was all but gone from the room.
She shouted a few more things like, “Get home safe!” and “Use this,” pointing to her shield. “Damn thing’s got superpowers.”
And then she, too, was gone from the room. The Captain followed her out, and another Sergeant stepped up to the lectern, climbed onto the box — more laughter because he was already six-two — then off again and said, “Listen, folks, here’s what we’ve got …”
Yep, me and Urbaniak and soldier boy — Skovgaard — in the back of a Ford Explorer squad car. I had to drive. At least it meant a pretty quiet day for us, as far as calls went, since no one wanted the new blood in the way, especially precious cargo like ours. We were all aware of what was going to happen — he’d do his “service” with us before quietly disappearing to an administrative position upstairs. His own office, his own secretary, his sidearm more of an honorary emblem than a practical tool.
Turned out it wasn’t going to be a quiet day after all, though, not with Urbaniak telling his stories and giving his warnings and advice and other shit that had already been out of date by the time he started in the nineties. That was how he’d been taught by the old-timers when he was green, right? Good enough for them, good enough for new blood. Pairing greens with prunes gave you cops like Gerard. Just saying.
“You just never know.” Urbaniak shrugged. He would have a neck ache by shift’s end, looking back at Skovgaard constantly. “Always got to be ready, but goddamn it, don’t you pull that gun unless it’s the last fucking thing, I swear, the last fucking thing.”
Well, at least cops like Gerard and Urbaniak didn’t think of policing as an extension of their politics, unlike some of my generation, or the ones with more time under their belts. Those fuckers.
“You know …” Next story. “They would have you think the fags are all peace and love, right, but let me tell you, some of these calls—”
Our radio squawked and I grabbed my handset, spoke loud enough to drown out Urbaniak. “Do we win a prize?”
The dispatcher read the address of the complaint and added, “Domestic, don’t you know?”
“How domestic?”
“Bliss? Lots of f-bombs. And in the background, c-bombs.”
I caught Joel’s eyes in the rearview. “Time for you to see real police work.”
We got there, we talked, we got both sides of the story. We were happy there was no blood, just welts and bruises. It didn’t make the situation any happier, but bruises heal easier, anyway.
Kids, that sucked. Two in the house, boys, eleven and eight, the older one zooming in and out of the room pretending to be a cop as if he had gotten used to this.
These cases were worse in winter. Close quarters, no one wants to go outside, not enough space in the house to get away from whatever the fuck is bothering them.
We split the couple up. They spilled the defensive story first, the one that made each of them look best, before the weariness set in and they each admitted to their own role in the fight. I had been here before, earlier in the fall. They never remembered us. We’re faceless. It was cold in this apartment. The window air-conditioning unit was still in the window, uncovered on the outside. The space heaters all around looked dangerous, second-hand, and impotent. Everything smelled like burnt dust.
And, I’ll tel
l you, this wasn’t me trying to paint a shitty picture of poor people. This was more a middle-class apartment. The furniture had taste, if only chain-store taste. The electronics were taken care of nicely. The small dining room area had a table that appeared to be used for actual dinners.
But one of these two people — lovers winding down too slowly — had a problem. A money-pit of a problem, and the other one dealt with it by creating a new one. By the time we were done, we knew which was which and decided to bring the guy along with us, offer to drop him some place. Not because he was guilty, but because the woman was fucked up and wouldn’t be any good to anyone until she slept it off.
The whole time, Joel didn’t act like he was listening. Instead, he sat on the edge of the couch and accepted toys from the eight-year-old, who would run off to his room and get another and another and hold it out for Joel to take, which he did with a noise for each one. Vroom vroom or Oo Oh Ah Ah or Deceptions, attack!
The eleven-year-old bounced on the couch cushion beside him, some wild sugar rush this kid had going, asking “Can you taze me? Have you been tazed? Does it feel funny? Is it like static, when you rub your socks? Who is the biggest person you ever tazed? Did he pee himself?”
I think Joel made up shit to answer him, but his voice was all low rumble and crunch, a car on gravel.
The guy, Keith, was pissed when we told him to grab some stuff for a night away. His very own home? His very own kids? (The oldest wasn’t his, but I admit he was a decent stepdad.) I’m paying your salaries for this? But Urbaniak kept his emotions out of it. It was harder for me, but I had learned to cool out when things got testy. Joel, I could tell, hadn’t learned that yet, and he was getting his fuse lit, getting short with the kids, keeping an eye on Keith.
Keith wasn’t going to do jack shit except talk because he knew what he was doing, same as we did. He was putting on a show for his wife, or wife-ish — I had never asked to see the marriage license. But she was so out of it, I wondered if any of his barbed comments got through her armor of fog.
Outside, down the stairs, in the parking lot, I asked Keith, “Who can you call to come over and watch them?”
His breath was fast and thick, forming frost on his mustache. “Her sister.”
I pointed to the phone in his hand. “Call her?”
“She hates me.”
“But she doesn’t hate her sister or your kids, right?”
It was a pathetic conversation to overhear, as he paced in the snow along the backs of cars. Hey, she called the cops again. No, no! Not me! You know I didn’t — listen, listen, shut up, please. No, just … I’ll be at Syl’s place. Just, the kids? She’s gone. You know what I mean. Right now? Well, I’m so sorry that the cops aren’t giving me a choice, alright? You know the drill.
She would come. It would take more pride-shattering begging on his part, easily a couple of minutes’ worth, but she would come. So we all climbed into the Explorer and dropped Keith at his brother Syl’s house up the hill. A quiet drive, each man watching out of his own window. Urbaniak got out and walked Keith to the door. A little talk going between them, Keith nodding.
Joel leaned between the seats, close to my ear. “So that was real policing?”
“What about it?”
“You take the sober one away like he did something wrong and leave the drunk with the kids?”
“He did do something wrong. He hit her back.”
“She deserved it.”
“Jesus, are you serious?”
He let out a hot horse sigh. Then, “No wonder nothing gets fixed anymore.”
I leaned to the left, away from his breath, cinnamon toothpaste, and said, “What would you have done, then? If it was your call.”
“Drag her out. Let her sober up in the clink and choose if she wants her kids to see her like that again. Let them stay with Dad, who’s going to do his best. That’s what you do. You do what works. Common sense. You don’t force a man out of his home, away from his kids, for fuck’s sake.”
Urbaniak climbed back in at that point, and I said, “Hey, Sarge, tell the newbie why we did what we just did.”
“What?”
“He thinks we should’ve arrested Mom.”
A laugh. “In front of her kids? You want to deal with the kids crying? Parents fighting, we all see that. Mom arrested? Shit, just hand them the knife now so they can start cutting their arms and shit.”
Joel, lips tight, stabbed at the passenger window towards the house. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Yeah he did. He hit back.”
“Goddamn. Am I crazy? Am I the crazy one?”
Urbaniak gave me a look that carried more hazardous cargo than a semi-truck: So, I reckon we shouldn’t do the old “throw a CI in the back with him and leave while the CI pretends to go nuts” routine, what do you think?
I grimaced a little. Probably. Yeah. Steer clear.
Urbaniak spoke softly, slowly. “Dad leaves, Dad comes back. Dad’s gone off to work most of the time. Mom, drunk, is still Mom. Let her sleep it off, let Auntie come over to play with the kids and watch over Mom. No one goes to jail because no one needs to. We’re here to help. You help the way that works best.”
Joel crossed his arms, slumped back. I thought he said, “Sounds familiar,” but I couldn’t be sure.
By the end of shift, both Urbaniak and I could tell the guy was about to explode. It was one of those days. Lots of talking to people, lots of explaining common sense to them — which was the sense that kept them out of jail — lots of watching Joel Skovgaard roll his eyes or mumble under his breath or do that Hmph laugh that isn’t a laugh. I was glad Urbaniak told him, “I’ll buy you a beer and talk it out, alright?” Grabbed his shoulder and gave him a good shake. “You and me, some of the other fellows, bitching about what we do. I promise you won’t have to buy a drink tonight. It’s all on us.”
Then he invited me, but I shrugged. “Plans. Can’t break them.”
Urbaniak turned back to Joel. “Rule number one: no plans till the post-shift drinks are drunk. Some kids never learn.”
As they walked off and I headed for my locker, I thought, Skovgaard? I give him two months and a lot of warnings.
I went home. Slept for a couple of hours. Ate day old pizza. Showered. Got ready to go out. And felt about as nervous as when that popsicle disappeared in the lake.
See, after I’d changed out of my uniform and back into civvies, I went looking for the detectives on our missing snowmobiler case. They were out. Seemed they were out a lot. In fact, the still warm, half-cup of coffee on the desk told me they’d left in a hurry. Almost as if they’d known I was coming.
I stood around the cubicle for a few minutes, tried to look like I belonged there, but I got fidgety. I bobbled their bobbleheads, a Joe Mauer and an Adrian Petterson. Scraped my fingernails against the cubicle-wall padding.
It took a woman named Chelsea, another detective, to step over, all smiles, and ask me how things were going, if I’d gotten over Gerard’s death, if I had enjoyed my long “vacation”. The whole time back-and-forth between her phone screen and me.
I said, “My folks are re-modeling the farm.”
“You don’t belong here.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t call and ask about this anymore. Leave those guys alone.”
I was stunned. They had sent her over, all the other detectives on the floor, watching to see how she’d handle it, how I would handle it. “I was there.”
“Yeah, you’re there for a lot of things, but how many of them do you keep tabs on later?”
Typing as she said it. She was a handful of years older than me, white like me, blonde but with dark eyebrows, in a U of W Madison sweater and dark jeans, holster up front, black pistol. Finally, she looked up. “Okay? I’m not trying to be a bitch or anything.”
“I thought I could help. I thought we were all in this together.”
Her grin — hi-sheen gloss on her lips, but cracks along
the edges — was just pathetic. I felt like an eager teenager trying to impress a jaded teacher. “Honey, we are in this together, which is how this works. They already know everything you know, plus a lot more, and having to take your calls just wastes their time, okay? Be a team player? Am I making sense?”
Common sense. The right sense. The one that kept you out of jail.
So I nodded. Told her okay and left.
And decided I’d go out trolling for trannies that night.
Downtown Duluth sits above Canal Park, which is the bottom of the bowl, where all the tourists collect like unwelcome sediment. The rest of us keep our perches higher on the hill, but we’re all drawn down to the lake somehow, someway. It’s the reason we stay.
So Downtown was where I headed, hoping, somehow, I would fit in — jeans and t-shirt a bit tight, more gel in my hair than usual. Drank another couple of Doubleshots. It had taken a few hours of digging around on the Internet to find these places, three of them, my planned pub crawl for the evening. I decided to leave out the biggest one, one that advertised in The Reader just like any other bar, one that attracted gays, lesbians, college girls, straight couples, like a Disney World version of a gay bar, which was fine, yeah, I had no problem with that. Mainstream, that was good. But it wasn’t where I was going to find the truth about our frozen Lady of the lake.
Why did I want to find that particular truth? The hell was going on with me?
I hadn’t quite connected the dots to Hans Marquette, but his name was slinking around in the back of my head that night, too. I did some more reading. Strange life, this guy. Seemed Hans was a “donor baby”, conceived for the purpose of giving his older brother Andrew some bone marrow, something like that. I glazed over at the details. Even with a rich and influential family like the Marquettes, some things were beyond money, like being able to find someone with the right combo of blood-type and some other medical voodoo in order to save their sick kid.
Andrew got better, although it took a few years and a lot of discomfort for the younger brother, who hadn’t volunteered and didn’t get a choice. Other than that, both boys had a pretty sweet upbringing. Hans might have rebelled some in high school and college, but all in visible ways — he joined the Atheist Club and Environmentalism Gang, even though his family was staunch Lutheran and Republican.
Castle Danger--Woman on Ice Page 7