Precinct 11 - 01 - The Brotherhood

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  It hadn’t crossed Boone’s mind to ask which hospital, but it shouldn’t have surprised him when they pulled into Presbyterian St. Luke’s. He exhaled loudly and covered his mouth.

  Lang turned. “I wasn’t thinking, Drake. You gonna be all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want to wait out here? You don’t have to go in. They’ve already got him cuffed and ready to go.”

  “As long as we’re not going in through emergency.”

  “Nope. In and out through the back. I want to hurry because I hear the press is on their way, and we’d rather they film us going into the station.”

  Moving the bad guy from the hospital to the car went without incident, and they beat the press. As the only place for the handcuffed man was in the backseat with Boone, he removed his Beretta and gave it to Lang’s driver. The cyclist sat staring out his window, refusing to even acknowledge Boone until they were within a block of district headquarters.

  “Photo op, eh?” he said, turning. “Maybe I ought to tell the press what you did to me on the scene.”

  “Feel free,” Boone said. “Before or after we tell them how close you came to killing schoolkids?”

  The man shook his head and looked away again, his knee bouncing. What was he so hyped up about? Looking forward to sitting in a holding cell before his transfer to Cook County Jail?

  By the time they got back to the 11th, satellite trucks from channels 2, 5, 7, 9, and 32 jammed the tiny lot. Jack Keller and a couple of other officers held back the crowds and directed Lang’s car up to the rear steps.

  “I’ll lead the way, Drake,” Lang said. “You escort the arrestee.”

  Lang waited briefly while Boone pulled the bad guy from the car and they started slowly up the steps. Boone’s antennae perked up as the cyclist tensed. This guy was about to pull something. He was cuffed in front, so he couldn’t easily try to get Lang’s weapon. And Boone was no longer armed. He held the man lightly, giving him all the rope he needed.

  Reporters were calling out questions and cameras were taking it all in as they moved up toward the door. Then, just as Boone had suspected—and hoped—the man spun out of his grip and bounded down the steps two at a time. How he thought he could get past a cadre of officers, the press, and dozens of onlookers was beyond Boone, but criminals have never been known for their brains.

  Boone put his right foot on the top step and launched himself into the air, coming down on the man’s shoulders just as he reached the pavement. They went down in a heap, the prisoner taking most of the impact on his nose. When he started screaming and swearing, he lifted his head and showed a bloody mess. The press captured it all.

  Boone enjoyed watching the news that night, at both six and ten. And yes, the story was made more poignant by who was credited with the collar.

  A few weeks later, Boone was feeling better physically, if not mentally. His workouts and his healthy, sparse diet had given him a feeling of fitness and strength and energy he had not enjoyed in a long time. He was still having trouble sleeping, but still also eschewing alcohol. When his longing and grief and depression overtook him, he would pace the little apartment.

  Occasionally he would look at the list of verse references he had received from Pastor Sosa. One night he was pleasantly surprised to find that Francisco had sent one since he had last had his phone on. It was Matthew 6:21:

  Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

  Boone sat with Nikki’s Bible. He had been wondering why, after all he had been through and suffered and was now struggling with, he never thought to pray. Did he not believe in it? Did he think God would do what God was going to do, regardless of what Boone might ask for?

  This verse seemed to have nothing to do with prayer, yet it pricked Boone that if he truly treasured his relationship with God, he would be a man of prayer. Dare he try? What would he say? God knew how he felt about the tragedy, the loss, and the horror of it. Surely he needn’t tell the God of the universe what he already knew. But then, God knew everything.

  Trying to talk to God certainly couldn’t hurt. How long had it been? Too long.

  Boone set the Bible aside and bowed his head. “God,” he whispered, “I don’t even know what to say. Am I hopeless? Do you love me? Do you still care about me? Could you help me survive this? Could you help me understand it?”

  As soon as he asked that, he knew the answer was no. What could even the Creator of the world impress upon Boone that would make him understand the unspeakable? Even Pastor Sosa had said there would be no understanding such carnage this side of heaven. He attributed it to a fallen, sinful world.

  Boone finished, “Could you show me what it’s supposed to be like if I’m a man of faith? Amen.”

  He felt such a fool that he wasn’t sure he would ever pray again. What was God supposed to do with that? He hadn’t known what to say or even how to say it. Boone guessed that what he really wanted to know was whether God wanted anything to do with him anymore. Did he dare pray that God would somehow show himself to him?

  No, he did not dare.

  12

  A New Season

  A couple of WEEKS LATER, Boone was driving on patrol with Jack in the passenger seat. Boone had been driving more lately, the idea being that when Jack was promoted, Boone would likely get a junior partner who would not be expected to drive.

  They were cruising down West Harrison just after noon when the radio crackled and Keller was informed that Watch Commander Lang and District Commander Jones wanted to see him at the end of his shift.

  “What do you think, Jack?” Boone said. “Is this it?”

  “I’m way past hoping, but I can’t imagine what else they’d want. Wish me luck.”

  Boone was about to when he saw a late-model BMW pull away from the curb a block and a half ahead, pass three cars at once despite traffic coming the other way, and head for the Eisenhower on-ramp at high speed. Too many cars were between him and the Bimmer to accurately gauge the speed, but it was clear the driver was exceeding the limit.

  Boone flipped on his blue lights and raced through traffic in pursuit. Fortunately rush hour had not yet begun and Boone was able to use lane openings to close the gap and pull in beside the speeder. The driver quickly pulled over, and Keller called in the tag number.

  The driver, a well-dressed, heavyset man in his fifties, opened the door.

  Boone flipped on the PA. “Stay in the vehicle, please. With you in a moment.”

  Dispatch reported no outstanding warrants, no reports of the car being stolen, and that the BMW was registered to a Dwayne White of Burr Ridge. Boone and Jack emerged, pulling on their caps. Jack took a position off the right rear taillight, his hand over the butt of his 9mm Beretta.

  Boone slowly approached the driver’s window, pausing a foot or so behind the driver. “Operator’s license, please?”

  The man handed out the card, which had a paper clip affixed to it. “Still live in Burr Ridge, Mr. White?”

  “Yes, Officer.”

  “What’s your work there?”

  “Import/export. Do a lot of business in the city.”

  “You in a hurry today, sir?”

  “Yeah, late for a meeting. Sorry.”

  “I appreciate your attitude and cooperation, sir. You were doing more than speeding there on Harrison. That was dangerous.”

  “My bad.”

  “I’m going to give you a warning and caution you that in the future . . .”

  Boone stopped when he casually turned the license over and noticed that the paper clip was holding a hundred-dollar bill. “What’s this?”

  “Sorry?”

  “What’s this on your license?”

  Mr. White did not respond.

  As Boone continued to speak with an even tone, he began to slide the bill off the clip with his finger. “So, living in a nice suburb, doing business in our fair city . . .”

  “Right.”

  The bill hung from the license b
y an edge. Boone held it where the offender could see it. “When was the last time you were ticketed, Mr. White?”

  “Hmm, oh, couple of years ago. Excessive lane changing, if I recall correctly.”

  The bill was about to blow away. Boone said, “This yours, Mr. White?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Hmph. Not mine either.” Boone held it up so Jack could see it. “This yours, Officer Keller?”

  “Nope, not mine. Is it yours?”

  “Nope.”

  “Is it the driver’s?”

  “He says it’s not his.”

  “What do you know?”

  Boone gave the bill one more nudge and it blew down the Eisenhower behind them in the fall wind. Mr. White wrenched around in his seat to watch it go.

  “Sure that wasn’t yours, Mr. White?”

  “No. Not mine.”

  “You are aware that bribery is a second-degree felony, punishable by incarceration, aren’t you, sir?”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that, no, Officer.”

  “Well, for future reference . . . we don’t look kindly on that kind of thing. Do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Drive carefully, Mr. White. And have a nice day.”

  When Boone pulled back into traffic, White’s car was still idling. He and Jack burst into laughter when they saw White running down the shoulder of the Eisenhower after the hundred.

  “Should we bust him for being out of his car on the expressway?” Jack said.

  “Nah. I think it’s been an expensive enough stop for Mr. White.”

  Back at the station, Jack gave Boone a look and accepted District Commander Heathcliff Jones’s invitation to his office, along with Watch Commander Lang and, yes, Fletcher Galloway of Organized Crime. Like Boone, several other officers about to go off duty found reasons to hang around the locker room and the vending machines.

  The meeting went on for more than an hour, and when it was over, the others loitered and jockeyed for position near the locker room door, knowing Jack would come there to change back into street clothes.

  When Jack didn’t appear for another twenty minutes, the others badgered Boone to go find out what was up.

  “You’re his partner.”

  “Grab something out of your desk.”

  “See if Galloway is still here. I didn’t hear a car leave.”

  Boone finally left the locker room and bounded up the steps to the squad room, only to run into the four men in question, standing by the back door. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, brushing past. He rummaged around in his desk, folded a bunch of innocuous papers, and headed back down.

  “Well?” the others said.

  Boone told them what had happened and added, “I honestly couldn’t tell from any of their looks—even Jack’s—whether the thing got done. I don’t know.”

  “You kiddin’? It has to be a done deal. They wouldn’t stand around gassing with the guy if they told him no.”

  Another officer said, “They might not even have been talking about the promotion. Maybe it was something else.”

  Others laughed. “Yeah, that makes sense. Your boss and his boss call you into a meeting with the Organized Crime Division chief, and it’s about what, crossing guard duty?”

  Boone heard footsteps on the stairs, the back door opening, a car pulling away. Everybody in the locker room, now long past the end of their shifts, busied themselves at their lockers. Keller entered with his head down, no discernable expression. Boone saw the others peeking at him.

  Keller opened his locker and began to peel off his uniform.

  “So?” Boone said.

  “So, what? How long’s it take for you yahoos to change clothes anyway?”

  “C’mon, Jack. We’re all pulling for you.”

  Jack stood with his shirt unbuttoned and was shrugging out of his bulletproof vest. “Let’s just say I won’t be needing the uniform anymore. First of next month, I’m a detective and deputy chief in OCD.”

  The others whooped and hollered and surrounded him for handshakes, high fives, and embraces. “Kick some tail over there, would ya?” one said.

  “We celebrating?” another said.

  “You bet,” Jack said. “On me.”

  They piled into their own cars and caravanned to a local watering hole where off-duty cops from other districts gathered too. The news spread fast, and soon the place was alive with music, singing, dancing, and toasts.

  Boone was nursing a Coke and found himself hungry, so he ordered baked chicken wings. He had been so disciplined on his diet that he avoided the loaded potato skins, onion rings, deep-fried fish-and-chips, and other bar fare. He was teased unmercifully by the others, but all that only meant things were getting back to normal. He had grown so tired of being treated with kid gloves.

  At the end of the evening, Jack was clearly too tipsy to be driving, so Boone prevailed on a couple of other guys to take his car back to the station. “I’ll run you home and pick you up in the morning.”

  “Oh, I’m okay, Boones.”

  “You know better than that. No arguing.”

  Fortunately, Jack wasn’t so far gone that he had to be led to his apartment or put to bed. He was just buzzed, and by the time they got to his place, he was also hungry. Boone liked having something to do and not having to face the prospect of another lonely evening at home. He had been, as Francisco Sosa always liked to put it, “redeeming the time.” He was reading about gangs and the Chicago Outfit, studying organized crime, brushing up on stuff he’d learned studying criminology. And none too soon. Jack kept talking about how street gang violence was at record levels and that it seemed something was about to blow. “I can’t get to OCD soon enough,” he said.

  “Me either,” Boone said. “I know most guys would love to be in the 11th with all the action we get, but I’m not going to be happy until I’m on full-time gang duty.”

  “Well, don’t worry. The work will be waiting for us when we get there. And I hope you know we’re never going to solve the problem. Gangland stuff is never over.”

  “You sound defeatist, Jack. If we can’t win, what’s the point?”

  “You serious? Just frustrating the bad guys and neutralizing them is a worthy enough goal.”

  Boone was also looking up the verses Sosa occasionally sent. Strangely—to him anyway—Boone continued in his own awkward way to try to pray.

  Every time he did, he was reminded what an empty Christian he had been all his life. He believed the Bible, believed in God, trusted Christ for his salvation—all of it. But he had never been passionate about any of it. He had never memorized Scripture or even read much of it outside church. And besides saying grace, he virtually never prayed. Well, now he was trying. He wasn’t sure of the benefits or what he was trying to accomplish, and he didn’t tell a soul. But if there was something there, something more, something he’d been missing, he was willing to pursue it.

  Boone was still angry. He still had deep, unanswerable questions. But he wanted to do his part. In some weird way, Boone wanted to be available and open if God really wanted to communicate with him. And that wasn’t all. He wanted relief, rest, some sense of peace and happiness. He would never be giddy, as he had been when he had it all—the job he’d always wanted, a beautiful wife, a precious child. But down deep he hoped there was some modicum of something out there—anything—that would spark something in him.

  He was doing as Brigita Velna had deduced. He had created a routine, a structure, a life for himself that protected him from outside forces. And there were benefits. He was as healthy as he had ever been—fit, toned, chiseled even. And he was back in the groove on the job, able to corral his emotions and perform his job the way it was supposed to be done.

  He was being recognized again, and while that didn’t bring the same joy it brought when he had been able to share it with Nikki, there was some sense of satisfaction in it, of having accomplished something.

  “I know this is y
our day, Jack,” Boone said while tending a steak in Jack’s oven. “And you know I’m thrilled for you, but what happens to me now? Who do I get stuck with as a partner, and how long do I stay assigned to the Siberia of day watch?”

  “You’re gonna love me,” Jack said, having changed into a robe and planted himself behind a TV tray, turning on a Cubs game from San Diego. “I mean, I haven’t got you transferred yet; that’s going to take a while. But I think I convinced Jones to switch you back to nights. And I laid it on thick for Lang, too. I told him the only thing you were going to miss was working for him.”

  “Beautiful. Not true, but beautiful. No sense burning that bridge, that’s for sure.”

  “You like Lang, don’t you? I mean, he did you right on that motorcyclist murder suspect.”

  “Oh, no question. But I can’t say I want to stay on days just to work for him.”

  “Looks like your new partner’s gonna be Fox.”

  “Garrett Fox from OCD?”

  “Yeah, he’s been through the wringer, undercover for too many years. Wants back in uniform, if you can believe that.”

  “Wants?” Boone said. “Or is being forced? He’s got a reputation.”

  “Don’t we all? He can be a hothead, thinks he knows it all and is God’s gift to police work, but you can work around that. If you could put up with me—”

  “Don’t start, Jack. Everybody envied me getting to ride with you, and you know it.”

  “Hey! You know I get to wear a suit and tie and share a secretary with Galloway?”

  “For real?”

  “Yeah, I’ve met her a few times down there. Got a funny first name and some kinda ethnic last name. ’Bout your age. Young mother.”

  “I think you’re going to want to get a handle on her name before you become her boss, Jack.”

  For the next six months, everything Garrett Fox did made Boone more eager to transfer into the Organized Crime Division. For one thing, Boone missed Jack. Despite his rough edges, Jack was a cop’s cop and—for all his ability—humble. No one had ever described Garrett Fox as humble. Maybe he had been so good undercover because he knew how to keep his mouth shut. But now he was making up for it.