RCC04 - And Every Man Has to Die

by Frank Zafiro

  Chisolm pushed the thought away. They’d still be standing in the morning sunshine listening to a priest talking over a casket. The priest might be Presbyterian or Baptist and the body would be Carson’s, that was all.

  He learned a long time ago that you couldn’t play the what-if game. Things happened the way they happened. Of course, that didn’t change whose fault it was. Or that he had let someone down.

  Carson glanced his direction and looked away quickly, her expression momentarily flustered.

  Chisolm took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  Two honor guard officers lifted the flag from the casket and folded it briskly, snapping it into place and creasing each fold. The lead officer handed the folded flag to the chief of police and saluted in slow motion. The chief returned the salute, then presented the flag to Rebecca Battaglia. Chisolm couldn’t hear the words, but he knew their military equivalent.

  Please accept this flag on behalf of a grateful nation.

  Tears streamed down Rebecca’s cheeks. She took the flag and held it to her breast. The priest made the sign of the cross and uttered in Latin.

  The casket was lowered into the ground.

  Chisolm closed his eyes briefly and asked whatever gods may be to welcome Anthony Battaglia into the next life, if such a place existed.

  He hoped it was a better world than this one.

  1034 hours

  Connor O’Sullivan sat with Rebecca Battaglia, her hand wrapped tightly in his. In her other hand she clutched the flag that had been draped over the casket. The chief had presented it, telling her, “Please accept this on behalf of the department and with the gratitude of the entire community.”

  Those empty words did little for Sully as the priest spoke over the casket. He watched as they lowered his best friend into the ground. Little Anthony Junior sat on his grandmother’s lap next to Rebecca. Maggie, all of four, sat next to him. She leaned against his side, pressing her little head against his ribs.

  The crowd slowly dissipated when it was over. He stayed with Rebecca as the stream of people came to offer condolences. She let go of his hand to accept their handshakes. Then, as some who were closer to the family offered hugs, she handed the folded flag to Sully. He clutched the thick cloth like a security blanket.

  Maggie wrapped her arms around his waist. “I want to go home, Uncle Connah,” she said in quiet, earnest tones.

  “Soon, sweetie,” he whispered down to her. “Soon.”

  But it seemed like the consolations took forever. All the while he could feel a huge tension rising in his chest. He resisted the urge to scream out, to shatter glass and splinter wood with the power of his grief. But he kept his jaw clenched, clutched at the tri-corner folded flag, and stroked Maggie’s hair as she clung to him.

  When the last of those offering condolences were finished, he escorted Rebecca and the kids to the waiting vehicle. Rebecca’s dad had already started the car.

  He loaded Maggie into the back seat while Rebecca eased into the front. Sully looked at Rebecca. Her tear-streaked face and red eyes cut through his chest like a jagged blade. Part of the poem she’d written and then read at the funeral flashed through his mind.

  My inseparable has been torn asunder. My forever is left with unspoken thunder.

  His desire to scream doubled.

  “I’ll see you later,” he found himself saying. “I’ve got to take care of something.”

  Rebecca gave him a puzzled look. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said quickly. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “It’ll just take a little while.” He motioned to her parents. “They’ll take good care of you. I’ll see you all in a bit.”

  “Okay,” Rebecca said.

  Sully handed her the flag through the open window and tapped the roof twice. The car pulled away, heading out of the cemetery and toward the Battaglia home.

  Sully waited until the car was out of sight. Then he turned back to face the grave of Anthony Battaglia thirty yards away. Two gravediggers, who’d stayed at a respectful distance during the ceremony, had begun to fill the hole. He could hear each thud in the quiet morning air as shovels full of dirt struck the casket.

  He turned his eyes skyward. He opened his mouth to take a deep breath. Before he was even aware of the sound, he let out a guttural, mourning wail. All of the strength went out of his legs and he sank slowly to his knees.

  For a long time afterward, all Connor O’Sullivan could do was kneel and weep.

  1115 hours

  The Battaglia home was packed. Carson found a corner in the dining room and did her best to hide. She watched as Rebecca Battaglia tried to be a hostess for the assembled group. Every time she tried to do something, some well-meaning person took over the task for her. Carson imagined that she wanted to stay busy, but she eventually surrendered to the intentions of her guests and took to directing activity instead.

  God, she’s beautiful, Carson thought.

  Rebecca’s dark hair and Italian features seemed a perfect fit for Battaglia. And she was incredibly photogenic. Along the mantel of the fireplace and on the walls, she was confronted with family portraits, photo montages and snapshots, all featuring a beaming Rebecca Battaglia and an equally happy Anthony Battaglia. The photos of the two of them with their kids cut Carson right to the bone.

  Maybe he really was happy with her. She was beautiful and gracious. Probably smart, too. Wasn’t that what Batts had told her once? That Rebecca was too smart for him? That he’d been the jock and she’d been the brain?

  That was probably all bullshit, she decided. All a convenient story to make them both okay with his fooling around with her. It had to be. He hadn’t loved Carson. He loved Rebecca, and his kids. She was just a strange piece of ass to him.

  That’s what it had to be. The only other possibility—that he really did love her, or even could—would make a day like today impossible.

  Carson felt smothered by the presence of Battaglia and the photos of him and his wife and family. She felt every bit the interloper that she was. Should she even be here? She’d paid her respects to Battaglia by being at the funeral and the burial, but was she disrespecting his memory by being here?

  She looked around. Every other member of the platoon was here, including Katie. It would be out of place for her not to come, even as a rookie. This is what a good cop did. That is, unless everyone knew.

  Chisolm did, that much was certain. The piercing stare he’d given her at Battaglia’s graveside had told her everything she needed to know.

  Her curse had followed her here to River City.

  Cops milled around, talking in muted tones, sometimes laughing, sometimes embracing. The alcohol had begun to flow freely, and she realized that at least half of those present were still wearing their uniforms. Oh well. She couldn’t imagine a more appropriate time to have a drink in uniform.

  She moved into the dining room and mixed herself a stiff whisky and Coke. The drink warmed her empty stomach. She made an even stronger one. Then she slipped back to her corner in the living room.

  Not many of the other cops talked to her. A few greeted her by way of a quiet nod, but no one engaged her in conversation. She started to imagine a few sidelong glances. By the time she finished her second drink and was mixing a third, she was pretty certain that Chisolm had already spread the word.

  Yes, sir, ladies and gents. Now you know. B.J. Carson is the department whore.

  How long would it be before someone pulled her aside and told her it would be better if she left? Not just this house that she’d dirtied up, but maybe the department, too?

  She gulped down her third drink. Her head was buzzing. Her limbs felt electric. She wanted that fourth drink, wanted to get past the electricity and into the blessed numbness that would surely follow. But now some of those glances seemed cautionary.

  Well, who cared if they thought she was a lush on top of a slut?

  She put ice in her plastic cup to mix a fourth drink, but spilled th
e soda when she tried to pour. She cursed. She’d meant to whisper it, but was vaguely aware that it had come out as a slurring shout.

  Great, Carson thought. Rebecca composes beautiful poetry for her husband’s funeral and all I can do is scream obscenities in her dining room.

  Then James Kahn was there, helping her clean up the mess. He smiled at her, and even though she saw right through it, his smile was a comforting fiction. When he offered to make her drink, she cocked her head and smiled.

  “You know what?” she said. “What I could really use is a ride home.”

  Kahn grinned at her, shark-like. “I can do that.”

  “Good,” she said. “But let’s stop by the liquor store on the way.”

  1242 hours

  Special Agent Maurice Payne sat at his desk in the FBI office, eating a ham sandwich from a local sub shop. The place was owned by a fireman, but that was all right. It was cops he really didn’t think much of, other than a few of his fellow agents. Most of them were arrogant, self-serving, testosterone-driven monkeys, one step removed from the jungle or the savannah.

  Chisolm was a perfect example. What a ridiculous excuse for a cop he was. Payne was willing to bet he’d been riding his tour in Vietnam and that ridiculous scar on his face for his entire career. Well, he’d fix Chisolm’s little red wagon. He had a friend over at the Department of Justice. It wouldn’t be too difficult to come up with something on Chisolm to bring to a grand jury. And what was it they said about the grand jury system?

  He smiled and looked down at his ham sandwich. “A grand jury could indict even you,” he said.

  There was little doubt he could coax the US Attorney to indict Chisolm. And even if he was eventually acquitted, what would his life be like during that time?

  Payne smiled even broader. Thomas Chisolm had no idea the hell he was headed toward.

  His phone rang. Payne set the sandwich down and wiped his fingers, irritated at the intrusion. The number on the display had a DC prefix. That caught his attention. He snatched the receiver and put it to his ear.

  “Agent Payne,” he said in his most official tone.

  “This is Deputy Director Baker,” the man on the other end of the line said.

  Payne sat up straighter in his chair. “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

  “I heard you had some movement in your organized crime case out there.”

  “You did?”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it.” There wasn’t a hint of a request in his tone.

  “Uh, well, sir, thanks to the local PD, it’s been pretty much a disaster.”

  “The locals, huh?”

  “Yes, sir. They failed to provide adequate support on a protection detail. And then—”

  “What about Agent Leeb?” Baker asked.

  “He was on the protection detail,” Payne said.

  “And?”

  “And what, sir?” Payne didn’t want to sound like a tattletale, but Leeb had essentially failed in his mission. It wasn’t up to Payne to protect or hide incompetence.

  “What’s his condition?”

  “Well, sir, he was shot in the right shoulder.”

  “I know that. I got your daily summary. I meant, how is he?”

  “Oh,” Payne said. “Well, as of yesterday morning, he was stable.”

  “Yesterday morning? Your agent is in the hospital with a gunshot wound sustained in the line of duty and the most recent update you can give me is over twenty-four hours old?”

  Payne opened his mouth, but didn’t know what to say.

  Baker continued. “What are you doing out there, Agent Payne? Sitting around eating tea and crumpets?”

  Payne cast a guilty eye down at his ham sandwich. “Uh, no, sir. I’m trying to unsnarl the mess the locals made out of this investigation.”

  “The locals again,” Baker said. “See, I heard it differently.”

  “Differently, sir?”

  “Differently.As in not the same.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

  “I heard it through the grapevine, Agent Payne, that you blew the operation.”

  “Me?!”

  “You. I also heard that you spent all your time out on surveillance instead of protecting a federal witness. What exactly did you get from all of your surveillance, Agent Payne?”

  “Well, sir, nothing chargeable, but—”

  “I also heard that you were rude to pretty much the entire River City Police Department.”

  “Not true, sir. I—”

  “Are you telling me that I’ve been lied to, Agent Payne?”

  Payne hesitated. Depending on who gave Baker his information, that was an extraordinarily dangerous question.

  “No, sir,” he finally replied meekly. “But perhaps there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding.”

  “Really?” Baker’s sarcasm was palpable. “Well, I will tell you what, Agent Payne. Why don’t you hop on a plane and fly back here to our nation’s capital, where you can better explain this misunderstanding to me. In person.”

  Payne was struck momentarily dumb. Finally, he stammered, “Y-Yes, sir, I will. Right away—”

  But by then he was already talking to a dial tone.

  1916 hours

  Carson woke suddenly. She’d been dreaming something horrible, but the images were gone almost as soon as her eyes snapped open.

  What wasn’t gone was the horrible throbbing between her temples and the nausea floating in her stomach. She glanced over at the nightstand. A half empty bottle of Jack Daniels stood next to two used water glasses.

  Two.Her and Kahn.

  Carson closed her eyes again.

  Christ.

  She listened to the sounds of her apartment for a while, but was certain that she was alone. At least that was something.

  Carson swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. Her head swam and her stomach lurched. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The smell of whisky filled her nostrils and made her even more nauseous. She rose quickly and shuffled to the bathroom. She didn’t make it in time to get to the toilet, so she directed her vomit into the bathtub. The terrible, harsh retching tore at her gut and made her head throb like a pounding hammer.

  When she was finished she rinsed her mouth, then gargled with some toothpaste and water. She looked at herself in the mirror.

  Here you are again, Billie Jo Carson.

  This is what she got. Standing in the bathroom, full of guilt, with the stench of a man she despised and too much whisky clinging to her like a leech.

  She wondered how many people Kahn had already told about his latest conquest. The looks that had been surreptitious would come out now without much pretense at all. She’d be fending off every halfway interested guy in patrol before long.

  And she knew she wouldn’t say no to all of them.

  Especially not the married ones.Especially not now.

  “I hate you,” she said to the face in the mirror.

  She turned away and staggered back into her bedroom. She curled up on the edge of the bed and tried to cry, but nothing came out. The smells of whisky, sweat, and sex still hung in the air. She wanted to get out of there, clean up and go to work. But the bathtub was full of puke and what waited for her at work was even worse. Besides, she deserved to pay some penance. Huddling on the cold edge of her soiled bed was a start.

  All eyes would be upon her, she knew. And with her new reputation, would it take long before Chisolm let it out about Battaglia, if he hadn’t already?

  Not long. Gossip was human nature. Put three people in a room and two will gossip about the third.

  Carson rocked on the cold edge of her bed, her thoughts bouncing around like a frenetic pinball. This was her life. To make the wrong choices. To never do the right thing.

  Oh, God. If it came out about her and Batts, Rebecca would find out. Carson’s chest ached at the thought. She pitied the woman that she’d only envied and resented before. Seeing how Rebecca carried he
rself at her darkest hour only reinforced her own inadequacies.

  And that poem of hers that she read at the service. Not in a hundred years could I do that!

  Carson reached for the whisky bottle. She poured three fingers into one of the glasses with a shaking hand. When she brought the glass to her lips, her first reaction was more nausea. But when the liquid burned her mouth and throat and coated her stomach with warmth, she suddenly felt a little better. A little stronger.

  She’d never live up to someone like Rebecca. Or Katie MacLeod, for that matter. Never be a good cop, never do the job. She wasn’t that strong. But maybe she was strong enough.

  She remembered something she’d heard on patrol. Something that, when you really got right down to it, had brought everything to a head. What was the guy’s name who said it to her? Rod? Rob? The last name was Carew. Even her fractured mind inside her pounding head was able to dredge that up.

  “Sometimes you just have to let a person sink to their lowest point,” he’d said.

  “Well, B.J.,” she said, her voice gruff from sleep and throwing up, “it doesn’t get much lower than this.”

  She took another swallow of the whisky, then a third to finish the glass. She put the glass on the table, stood, and walked to where she kept her off-duty gear. A shiny silver badge with her number gleamed in the yellow light of her bedroom. Next to that was her service pistol, the .40 caliber Glock.

  She pulled it out of the holster and carried it into the bathroom.

  Once inside, she closed the toilet lid and sat down. She let her mind flash back to the call that her and Batts went on. How had that woman done it? How had she made it so clean, so easy? She’d just toppled over and bled out in the sink.

  Carson snorted. To hell with that. Her entire life was a mess. Why should this be any different?

  She thought briefly of putting on some shred of clothing, but didn’t have the energy to care. Besides, how fitting was that? The department whore, found in the nude.