by Frank Zafiro
Elias turned his head, made eye contact with each of the men, and gave a nod. The patrol officer behind me muttered a code into his radio to alert the officers stationed at the back door.
I let my left hand fall away from my gun grip and flexed it nervously. Elias gave three exaggerated bobs with his head. On the third bob, the patrolman with the door ram swung it back like a sledgehammer.
“River City Police!” Elias boomed. “Search warrant!”
The ram crashed into the door just below the knob. The jamb shattered. Elias dashed through the door, repeating his cry. I followed, automatically yelling out the entry mantra.
“Police!”
“Search warrant!”
“Show me your hands!”
“Down on the ground!”
I’ve always wondered if, in the surprise of the entry and amidst the cacophony of sound, suspects were able to make out the specific commands we shouted at them. Or did they simply hold their hands up and go to their knees out of some kind of conditioned response, ingrained by years of watching television cop shows?
I shook my head, dashing the thought away. Like it mattered, anyway. And an unfocused mind was what got cops killed.
I moved through the house on Elias’s tail. There were a pair of longhairs in the living room seated on the couch. Both had frozen and were staring at us in surprise, the first with a bong in his hands and smoke curling upward, and the other with a spoon full of Cocoa Puffs poised mid-way between the bowl and his mouth.
One of the uniforms covered them and Elias and I moved on.
We found them in the bedroom, both half-naked and stupid with sleep and hangover. I recognized the woman as a prostitute and a heroin junkie, though I couldn’t recall her name. She clambered out of bed in a short T-shirt and no panties. I glanced at the blonde swatch of hair below her abdomen almost involuntarily, and then up at her washed-out face. She blinked rapidly at me, as if she couldn’t decide if she were awake or dreaming.
The man in the bed was my brother.
He sat up, shirtless, and raised his hands above his shoulders. On the scarred nightstand next to the bed lay a bent spoon, needles, and a black 9 mm. I heard Elias’s voice raise an octave when he ordered him away from it.
My brother leaned his tattooed upper body away from the gun and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He seemed stunned and unsure whether to show compliance by moving slowly or quickly. His eyes were fixed on Elias and the .357 Magnum pointed at him.
He wore a pair of boxer shorts. I was oddly grateful for that small measure of dignity that was preserved. Once he stood, Elias ordered him to face away and go to his knees. As he turned, his blue eyes caught mine. They almost passed me by, seeing just another cop in a raid vest, then recognition registered. He turned away too quickly for me to see anything else.
I covered him while Elias put on the handcuffs. My jaw clenched at the sound of the ratcheting clicks. Meanwhile, the uniforms swept through the rest of the small house. Elias paused, checked the tightness, and then used his cuff key to double-lock the restraints.
Officers hollered “clear” from all through the house. The adrenaline level in the place took a precipitous drop. Elias kept a hand on my brother’s shoulder and so he remained kneeling and facing the wall.
I holstered my gun. I wanted to vomit, but I knew I wouldn’t.
Couldn’t.
Elias glanced back and checked on me. I gave him my best “rock solid” look back. Then he pointed at my brother’s hands. I craned my neck forward, looked down at them, and shrugged. Elias removed a penlight from his pocket and shined it down on the cuffed hands. Flecks of blood were on the fingers and a single, dry smear sloped across the back of my brother’s hand.
I swallowed and said nothing.
Cameron Whitaker from Forensics came in a few moments later. Elias pointed at my brother’s cuffed hands. Whitaker’s eyebrows raised and he nodded knowingly. Expertly, he slid paper evidence bags over both of my brother’s hands, zip-tying them at the wrist to preserve the evidence.
Still, I said nothing. Elias and my brother echoed my silence. The only sounds in the house were the low, muted cop conversations, the shuffling of feet, and the tinny tick of the cheap Walmart clock hanging above the bed.
Finally, it was time to move him. Elias stood him up and he cooperated. When he turned to face me, I expected a tear or two, but his eyes were dry. Sad, but dry. His hair was askew and his face haggard and drawn. He’d been big when he first got out of prison, but not anymore. The drugs had worn him down.
He looked me directly in the eye.
“Joey,” he said, his voice even.
“Frank,” I said, and my voice was thin.
Elias waited a moment out of respect, to give us a chance to say whatever it was we had to say. I didn’t know if there would be anything to say across the gulf of choices and time and loss that was between us. Maybe my brother felt the same way, because he was quiet for a long moment.
I saw Elias shift his weight to move forward and escort him from the room. But then my brother spoke and Elias paused again.
“You remember that record Dad used to play all the time?” he asked, his voice clear.
I nodded.
“That song, Joey. You remember that song?”
I nodded again.
Our dad played Springsteen’s Nebraska album over and over again when we were kids. We both must’ve heard it a thousand times by the time we graduated in the late ’80s and got out of that dark, depressing, motherless house. He made a big deal every time the song “Highway Patrolman” came on, because it was about brothers and family. It was about a cop named Joe and his troubled brother, Frankie. It was never about us, I don’t think, until we made ourselves into that song.
“I got a brother named Frankie,” my brother half-sang, “and Frankie ain’t no good.”
I swallowed and didn’t answer. I hated that song. I hated this house. I hated going through that door, the absolute worst door I’ve ever had to pass through.
When I didn’t answer, Elias nudged my brother forward and they left the room. My brother brushed by me and I smelled the putrid odor of his addiction, the musk of the woman’s sex that hung on him, and cigarettes. I breathed it in anyway, hoping and wishing for just a scant whiff of little-boy hair that I remembered while we lay together and slept in the bedroom we shared as kids.
Nothing feels better than blood on blood, Springsteen’s voice rasped in my head.
I felt tears prickle in my eyes.
I wiped them away and left the room.
PAUL HIERO
Paul Hiero barely appears in the first two River City novels. His biggest scene in the third one is as a sniper in the clock tower during a sting operation. There is little hint of what is waiting for him in his future. The first part of that dark future is played out in short stories.
“Running into Darkness” is another one of those interconnected stories. James Kahn appears in a minor role in the first four River City novels. He is an integral piece of the plot in “The Meat-Cutter’s Wife,” but this version of the event is told by his partner, Paul Hiero. It is the event that starts Hiero down the path of destruction.
In “If Only,” we find Hiero further down that aforementioned path. He continues down in the yet unpublished novel, Some Degree of Murder.
Hiero is an interesting character to me. He responds to his ill fortune more slowly than Stefan Kopriva does in the novels, but only the reader can decide who will fall further. And, lastly, he provides a warning claxon to Detective John Tower as the latter experiences some slippage in his future.
Running into Darkness
“Baker-127?”
Kahn swore at the radio. We were parked up the street from Sliders, the newest north side hot spot. Kahn liked to check out the women who came to the club for Ladies’ Night. Our marked patrol car wasn’t exactly low profile and many of the women noticed us. Some studiously ignored our presence, others cast a f
lirtatious glance our way, or even a bold smile. A couple stopped by and leaned in the driver’s side window where Kahn chatted them up.
I reached for the radio. “Nothing lasts forever, lover boy,” I told him, and answered up.
Kahn glowered at me.
“Respond to 813 East Sinto,” the dispatcher recited. “Complainant is watching a suspicious car parked in front of the neighbor’s house. The vehicle is a green Ford Maverick with two occupants, white males. 813 East Sinto.”
I copied the call. “Change Sinto to North Market and that could be you,” I teased Kahn.
A gold Honda cruised by slowly with three white males, looking at us. Kahn glared back at them impatiently and gave them a dismissive wave. “Dumbass kids,” he grumbled, slamming the car into gear. “And this is a bullshit call.”
I shrugged. He was right. “I’d rather stop those punks in the Honda.”
He chirped the tires pulling away from the curb and headed north. “I’d rather stay here and watch the scenery.”
“Big shock there,” I said. “Uh, Jimmy, where you going? Sinto is way south.”
“I know.” He motioned toward Sliders with his head, causing his thick hair to flop. “If I have to leave, I’m driving by first.”
I sighed.
“What, Paul?” Kahn asked, not looking at me. He leaned to the right and peered at the women lined up on the sidewalk, waiting to get into the club. “You gay all of the sudden?”
A brunette in a white blouse and short black skirt stood at the door, flirting with the doorman. My guess was she wouldn’t have to wait long to get in.
“No,” I murmured, admiring the curve of her hip and lines of her legs. “Not quite.”
We passed the club and it was Kahn’s turn to sigh. “Aw, well. Shame to miss out on all that trim.” He took a left and drove a block to Haven. Then he gave me a look I couldn’t decipher and turned left again. “Happy now?” he asked.
“Why?”
“We’re heading south, Captain Compass.”
I chuckled. “I’m surprised you know your directions at all. Don’t you find your way around by using the clubs as landmarks?”
“Keep talking. When was the last time you got laid?”
I laughed a hollow laugh. “What month is it?”
“Divorce-u-ary,” Kahn said. “Dump that ice queen and come out with me. You’ll be so deep in tail, you won’t even remember why—”
“Baker-127?”
I reached for the mike. “Go ahead.”
“Complainant called back and stated that the occupants of the vehicle appear to be smoking something from a pipe of some kind.”
“Oh,” Kahn said sourly. “A felony. Well, hold everything. I’ll hit the lights and we’ll run code.”
I smiled at his sarcasm. “Copy,” I told dispatch.
“Complainant is requesting an ETA.”
“You’re kidding me!” Kahn barked at the radio. “When we get there. That’s the ETA. Tell her that, Paul.”
I keyed the microphone. “ETA three minutes.”
“Copy.”
Kahn shook his head. “Softie.”
I didn’t answer. He could pretend he was the big tough skirt-chaser all he wanted. I’d been with him on the calls with the abused children, the missing Alzheimer patient, the rape victim. I’d seen who the softie was.
We rode in silence. I thought about what Kahn said about my wife. Maybe he was right. He’d been miserable for years in an unhappy marriage. He’d treated everyone like hell, even some cops, and received more complaints than the rest of his platoon combined. After he divorced her, he was a happier person. And an irredeemable hound dog.
River City flitted by. At Empire, Kahn took a right.
“Illinois is quicker,” I said.
“You driving?”
“If I was, we’d get there quicker.”
Before we even made it to Crestline, the radio crackled again. “Baker-127, you can disregard. Complainant reports that the car has driven away.”
“Should we see if County has their helicopter up?” Kahn asked, his voice slathered in sarcasm. “Maybe they could track the guy.”
“She’s just doing her job.” I pressed the mike button. “Copy. Did he want contact?”
“Of course he will,” Kahn answered for me. “All the busy-bodies do.”
“Negative. I’ll show you clear.”
I smiled at Kahn, who shrugged. “Exception that proves the rule,” he sniffed.
“Copy,” I told dispatch.
Kahn swung the car in a U-turn and headed back east on Empire.
“Where you going?”
He looked at me like I was an idiot. “Back to Sliders. It’s almost closing time. All the women will be leaving.”
“Oh, come on,” I complained. “Let’s do some RPW tonight.”
“Like what?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. A traffic stop or something.”
Kahn snorted. “Boring.”
“Hey.” I assumed a mock lecturing tone. “More cops die every year on traffic stops than any other type of call.”
Kahn pumped a loose fist above the steering wheel. “Whatever. You’re telling me you’d rather write tickets, answer DVs or some other real police work than look at the exiting beauties of Ladies’ Night?”
“It’s not what I’d rather do. It’s what I’m being paid to do.”
“You get paid either way.”
I pointed to the street sign. “If you’re going north, at least take Regal. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Your idea of ‘lucky’ and mine are so very far apart,” Kahn sighed, but he turned left and headed north on Regal Street. Although it was a residential street, many of the intersections were offset and the cross streets had the stop sign, making it tempting for drivers to zip along like it was the freeway. And since it wasn’t a main arterial, this made it especially attractive to drivers without a valid license. Any car on the street after midnight was dubbed in violation of “The Felony Regal Law” by our platoon. It was prime hunting ground.
Kahn hummed while he drove and drummed the steering wheel with his thick fingers. I watched out the window, ostensibly for violations or anything suspicious. The noise Kahn made sounded vaguely familiar.
“Who sings that?” I asked him.
He thought about it for a moment. “Uh…I think it was Fleetwood Mac.”
“Fleetwood Mac?”
He hummed for a few more seconds and then nodded. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
“How about we keep it that way?”
Kahn narrowed his eyes in mock anger. “Oh, you’re a funny guy tonight. I see how it is.”
He slowed for the four-way stop at Diamond. A gold Honda approached eastbound. Kahn stopped. I narrowed my eyes at the car. It looked like the same gold Honda we’d seen earlier. It didn’t even bother to slow down, blasting past the stop sign and turning north on squealing tires.
“Jesus!” Kahn yelled. He stood on the accelerator. The large-block Police Interceptor engine answered with a throaty roar. The patrol car leapt forward after the speeding Honda.
I reached over and grabbed the mike. Kahn hit the overhead lights.
“Think he’ll run?” I asked, getting ready to transmit our location.
The brake lights of the Honda flared red. The car slowed suddenly and pulled to the side of the road.
“Nah,” Kahn guessed. “Just dumbass kids.”
I radioed in our location and the vehicle plate. The dispatcher copied as Kahn centered the spotlight on the car. The powerful beam illuminated three figures inside the vehicle.
I narrowed my eyes at them. “Is that the same—?”
As soon as the Honda lurched to a stop, the passenger door flew open. A young male hopped out and bolted away from the car. His white windbreaker flashed in the patrol car’s spotlight and then receded in the dim streetlight.
Kahn let out a curse.
“Cover the car!” I told him and
pushed the heavy passenger door open. I piled out, took two short steps to get up to speed and then stretched my legs out to hit a full sprint. My Maglite banged against my buttocks as I ran. I reached back and snatched it without breaking stride and powered past the gold Honda, carrying the flashlight like a runner’s baton.
The familiar buzz of adrenaline set my arms and legs singing. I focused on the white patch streaking along in front of me. My boots padded lightly on the cement as I barreled ahead.
“Police!” I shouted. “Stop!”
The figure didn’t break stride.
My radio crackled with Kahn’s transmission. “Baker-127, my partner is in foot pursuit, northbound. Suspect is a white male, medium build, wearing a white jacket.”
“Copy.”
“You better stop!” I yelled to the fleeing male. “If you make me catch you, I’m bringing an ass-kicking with me!”
The figure slowed for a moment and I thought my bluff might work. Instead, he cut hard to his right, heading between two houses. I veered to my own right and made up several yards of ground on him.
My radio buzzed. “L-191, what is the crime on the passenger?”
Lieutenant Hart? A shot of anxiety ripped through my stomach. What the hell was Internal Affairs doing out at this hour?
And why was I chasing this guy?
Neither house was fenced. The suspect ran into the alley and wheeled north. I leaned forward and kicked up my pace.
Why was I chasing him? Because he was running.
“Suspect wasn’t wearing a seat belt.” Kahn’s voice came from the radio at my hip. “Probably has warrants.”
I allowed myself a momentary smile. Let Hart chew on that.
The runner was fast. He burst out of the alley and across the street. I’d made it halfway across the street when he hit the opposite sidewalk. He seemed to have a moment’s indecision about which way to go, then renewed his sprint straight up the alley to the north.
The streetlights didn’t project into the dark alley. I shined my light on the suspect. The bright stream of light bounced and jostled as I ran. I thought about yelling at him again, but I was breathing hard now and I didn’t want him to hear that. The sharp bite of being winded cut into my lungs.