Valiant

by Bradley Carter

  6. THE BUTTERFLIES

  Squatting one hundred fifty pounds, I have three more reps left. To keep anyone from bothering me, I leave my earphones in, but with no music playing. Grunting through the end of my leg workout, I set the weighted bar back on its rack and lay flat on a floor mat. My skin glistens with sweat. With each stomach crunch, muscles ache more and more, like being covered with smoldering lead. Nonetheless, pushing through pain is what strengthens you. Muscles tear inside and their healing is what makes them stronger.

  A couple of gym jocks pass by. One of them steps over my feet and chuckles, whispering something to his friend. They both look down at me, but not at my eyes. They move on and I stand to make my way to the treadmill.

  Sweat squishes my earphones, so I take them out. The belt turns faster and faster underneath my feet. Each thud of my sneakers keeps the same rhythm. I have to stay focused. It’s too easy to get burned out when you’re running in the same spot and never getting anywhere. Your mind gets bored. If I watch how fast the machine runs, it will only push me to go faster. If I watch the clock, real time seems to go by a lot slower. Instead, I focus on the big red button at the bottom of the machine’s control panel—Emergency stop.

  A younger college girl steps on the machine next to me. The two jocks across the room watch while they lift weights. The girl sets her gym bag on the floor between us and on the side is her embroidered name—Mia.

  She’s twenty-one years old, tall, dainty and tan. Her straight brown hair drapes down her back and ends at the top of navy-blue gym shorts. Her sports bra is red with a cherry printed in the middle of the back. Her fingernails are painted as red as that cherry. Her smooth legs go all the way to the ground where her feet are cradled in baby-blue sneakers.

  She looks at anything and everything with her blazing hazel eyes as if she’s trying to seduce it. She keeps her face slightly tilted down, looking up through her long eyelashes that are like the cilia of a Venus Flytrap.

  I can feel Mia watching me while I keep running and squinting glares at the two gawking dumbbells across the room lifting dumbbells.

  “Oversized children with no shame,” says Mia.

  There’s nothing I have to say to her. I keep facing forward as she begins her workout. My eyes become more focused on the red stop button.

  “First you ignore my text messages,” she adds, “and now you won’t speak to me in person? I thought we had a better relationship than that.”

  The flushing in my ears and heat from my face are not because of my cardio workout. There are so many things I could say, so many hurtful words, but I don’t want to make a scene.

  I smack the red button. The belt comes to a quick halt, but not before I step off and walk away.

  The parking gate opens to the lot filled with empty police cruisers. As one of them pulls up next to the sidewalk, I hustle up the steps toward the glass doors of a brick building. The cool breeze feels refreshing, but a bit chilling since my sweat hasn’t dried yet.

  Passing by the multiple conversations held between navy-blue uniforms, I make my way through the hall and to the locker room. Walking in my opposite direction are two officers who couldn’t make me being the topic of their conversation any less obvious.

  “I heard she joined SWAT,” one says, looking a me and then to his friend.

  Then his friend tries to keep his voice low.

  I don’t have to listen close to know what the other says. They whisper the same words I’ve overheard between men since the academy.

  “She’s so fucking hot. I’d let her throw me down and use those handcuffs on me anytime.”

  When comments like these get repeated enough, they grow stale. After enough times, you become immune. You learn to ignore them. But why let these boys feel they can get away guilt free?

  Turning and walking backward, I shout, “Hey, rookies!”

  Both men stop, look back to me, and snicker as each of my middle fingers wave to them. I bite my bottom lip and spin around to walk forward again.

  At the end of the hall is an office belonging to Detective Spencer. It’s impossible to get to the locker room without passing by. I find it unusual for his door to be closed. I can only see him through a glass window, between open blinds. He paces with his phone pressed against his ear.

  Spencer is a few years older than me. Some of his gray hair has come early for a guy his age. He runs his hand through it, leaving it a mess. Small patches of his facial scruff show the gray as well. Growing up, I had always heard my mother say, “You’re turning me gray,” any time I stressed her out. The conversation Detective Spencer is having doesn’t look like it’s going too well. He drops the phone on the desk and sighs, wiping his hand over his mouth. His tie is loose and shirt is untucked on one side. Against the wall are boxes filled with file folders. His desk is a mess of handwritten notes, scattered papers, and empty coffee cups. It’s what he would call ‘organized chaos.’

  Seated in one of his office chairs is a woman. Her curly primped blonde hair falls to the shoulders of her red leisure suit. She holds a photograph in her lap, and in her other hand, a tear soaked tissue.

  Occupying a chair next to her is Reverend Jonas. Whatever the topic of conversation is behind closed doors, if it involves a Chaplain, it’s never good. Still, I know the woman’s grief is in comforting hands. If anyone understands pain and loss, it’s Reverend Jonas.

  Standing, he’s close to six feet tall, a few inches taller than me. His broad shoulders hold toned arms. Underneath his black clergy robe, he wears a black turtleneck shirt tucked into a pair of blue jeans. On his feet is the least expensive brand of white tennis shoes. To a stranger, on the outside, he appears meek, quiet, and shy. To anyone who knows him, that heart of his has grown strong from his own tragedy. Reverend Jonas lost his family to the hands of El Toro.

  The only way through this is to keep your faith.

  Those words must have been what carried him through the grief. It’s the same advice he gives to everyone in the midst of hard times. Still, they’re only words.

  Throughout his struggle, Jonas believed God was testing him. Measuring his faith. It’s hard to comprehend a higher power that would weigh so much pain on one man. Though he’ll never admit to it, I know Jonas still feels an everlasting guilt. Had he been at home when his family was taken, he could have stopped it. He could have protected them.

  He and his wife met in Haiti, where they both served as missionaries. She became pregnant and the two decided to move home to settle down to raise a family. Six years ago, Jonas was hired as the choir director for the church, but when the previous Reverend passed away, he was immediately offered the spot.

  It was a Friday evening and Jonas was working in his church office, wrapping up his notes for his Sunday sermon. The phone rang and when he answered, there were strange muffled sounds, like someone covering their hand over the receiver. Then came the soft whispers of his wife telling him someone had come to the house. She told them their two kids were hiding under a bed, and he needed to come home right away. The wife had already called the police, who were on the way, but no one would make it there in time. Her whispers turned to screams, and faded away as though she were being dragged from the telephone.

  Jonas rushed home to find his life had been forever changed. He was insistent with the detectives to see the bodies before they were carried off by the coroner, but there was only one.

  A mother will give her life to protect her young, which is exactly what his wife had done. She was found brutally beaten in the hallway of their home. An industrial strength zip tie had been pulled tight around her neck. Her head was a dark purple and her eyes were bulged and bloodshot. Long strands of her light brown hair had been ripped out by the roots and strung along the floor beside her dead body. The bedroom belonging to the two children was found empty.

  After his wife’s funeral, after months of missing person posters and disparity, Jonas returned to the church to find his peace. He devoted himself
to helping others through their suffering. He became a Chaplain for the Kansas City Police Department and the surrounding jails and prisons. Anything to keep his mind occupied and to limit his time spent in an empty home.

  Jonas has always said he finds a strong sense of purpose giving criminals an option to change their lives and to lead them on a path to redemption. Personally, I think he’s been searching for something more. He’s been listening, hoping to learn what other evil men know about the man who destroyed his life.

  As the investigation of his wife’s murder grew cold, and the search for his abducted children began to wither, Jonas felt the police could no longer do anything. He believed it was up to himself to find closure. Underneath his pale skin, deep in his heart, he wants to find El Toro as much as anyone else, maybe more. Although, if you were to ask him, he’ll deny it.

  There’s a thin line between forgiveness and revenge.

  With his hand on the shoulder of the woman in red, Jonas catches me watching him through the window and gives me his friendly smile. I lift my hand and smile back.

  To a lot of people, he’s a good man, a good friend. To me, he’s become more like family. I can talk to him about anything and trust his discretion. The good Reverend’s advice has seldom been wrong. His words are often comforting. Knowing what I know about him, you could say my heartbreak is nothing compared to his. My personal struggles couldn’t hold a candle to his misery. Still, putting my life back together is something that requires action, not faith. It’s hard to trust anything outside of my own power to make things right.

  In the locker room, I take a quick shower. My black shorts, tank top, and sports bra peel away from my skin. The faucet squeaks from the handle. Cold, lukewarm, then hot. Stepping in, my toes flinch as they touch the cold ceramic floor. It takes a few seconds for them to warm. The water begins to steam, but I don’t bother adjusting the temperature. Somehow I feel I deserve the pain it inflicts.

  With my head down, I let the liquid seep through my long hair. I watch streams fall across the ink in my skin. It trickles along the sleeve tattoo on my left arm that goes down my back and halfway down my left thigh. It splashes against a nautical star on my wrist, and flows over the Chinese Mandarin symbol for ‘mother’ on my right shoulder. Droplets splatter against my daughter’s name on my right ankle. I take a moment to try and clear my mind, but it doesn’t take long for thoughts to cloud it up again.

  When you close your eyes and focus hard enough, you can see things in the darkness. Images your brain tries to project. Sometimes you see faces that were once familiar. Other times it might be memories you’ve tried to forget. Faded secrets hiding in the shadows.

  I can still hear a man’s voice as if he were right in front of me.

  “If I let go, he will die!”

  The breathing through my nose becomes heavier. Drops of water fall from my lips as mimic my own recalled words: “I’ll put a bullet through the back of your goddamn skull!”

  Everything turns red, like blood spraying on a blank wall. It’s not as vivid, but still a horrible memory, something I had experienced not so long ago. Something I thought I had let go of, but for whatever reason, still lingers.

  It’s part of the job. The things we see, things we experience. We each deal with them in our own ways. Some cops are able to move on to the next call, never giving the one before a second thought. Others wait to drown themselves in liquor before bed and come back to work the next day with a fresh perspective.

  My thoughts leap to another memory. The sight of a dead girl found in a ditch. Her skin is purple across her face and ears and down to her neck, where a black cable zip tie had stopped her blood from circulating to her brain. Echoing through my head are the screams of the girl’s mother when Officer Cole brought her to the scene. Imagining myself as the one crying out makes my chest ache.

  Gasping, I snap back.

  My eyes spring open.

  Relief washes over me like the water from the shower.

  The faucet squeaks again. The puddles beneath my toes seep into the drain. Metal rings slide across the silver bar as I fling open the curtain and step out.

  The mirror is still foggy. Wiping its surface, my wet towel leaves streaks and smudges. It’s still hard to see myself straightening tangles with my comb. A shed of loose hair here and there. The moisture in the air leaves my towel sticking to my skin. Once my reflection clears up, I pause, staring at the woman in front of me.

  “This is who you are,” I say. “This is what you are doing, even if you have to go it alone.”

  In front of an open locker, I change into uniform. Navy-blue tactical pants and dress shirt. Black boots laced up along the ankles. A 9mm Glock holstered on my black duty belt that’s strapped around my waist. Two sets of handcuffs in pouches fastened to the back. I straighten my collar, release a deep breath, and close the locker.

  Roll call only lasts a few minutes before a shift begins. This is where the opportunity lies for myself and the other officers to touch base with the higher-ups. We gather at a table, like students in a classroom. I take an empty seat next to one of my zone-partners—Dax.

  As the sergeant speaks to the room, I catch one of the rookie officers leaning forward to peek at me from behind his friend. Dax gives him a dead stare until the guy’s face straightens and he looks away. Dax is about the size of both guys put together. His arms are big enough to rip the sleeves of his shirt. His head is shaved bald, and when he gives someone his evil eye, it can be intimidating.

  Covering my mouth and clearing my throat, I try not to laugh.

  Detective Spencer makes his way in and waits for the Sergeant to finish taking attendance. As the Sergeant steps away, Spencer nods and stands behind the podium. Our ears perk up. Some of the officers adjust their posture and sit up straight, giving their undivided attention to the man at the front of the room.

  We all know why he’s here; he has new information about El Toro and the missing children.

  The Detective tells us The A Corporation has reported three stolen utility vans. Throughout our beat, we are to pay special attention to any company vehicles we come across on the streets. He wants us to pay special attention to vans of any kind, to look for signs of a company decal being removed. Paint discoloration. Scratches. Altered license plates. Vans parked in suspicious locations. Drivers not wearing a company shirt.

  If anyone in this room were to say the tiny hairs on the back of their necks are not standing up; they would be lying. Some of them know the terror associated with the missing vehicles. Others, like the rookies, want to be the hero and can’t wait to start scouting the city with hopes of cracking the case.

  Before dismissing roll call, Detective Spencer pauses, hesitant to use his next words.

  “Be extra careful tonight,” he says. “Watch each other’s backs.”

  The room erupts in a roar of conversations. The sounds of chairs scooting back as each officer stands from their seat. I’m quick to gather my things, but my jacket falls from the table. I lean down to pick it up, and when rise up again, Detective Spencer is gone.

  I pass by his office once more and see that it’s empty.

  No Detective. No Reverend Jonas. No lady in a red leisure suit.

  Outside, parked next to my patrol car and leaned against his own, is Dax. Police work is not like on television. Officers are assigned their own squad car, but we patrol the same areas and work together. Seeing Dax’s bulging muscles, I can’t imagine having enough room to share in a car anyway. I’m much smaller, but you would also have to consider room for his big heart. I know it sounds cliché, but he’s like a great big teddy bear.

  With his arms crossed, he watches me jogging down the steps.

  “Here comes my new favorite SWAT officer. Still not sleeping well? It shows.”

  I toss my jacket over my shoulder and unlock the driver’s side door of my own patrol car.

  “Sleep?” I ask. “I don’t know what that is.”

  Dax ch
uckles and shakes his bald head.

  Finding a good partner is a like finding a gem. Most people become jaded in this field. They develop a grim outlook on life, and sometimes, they bury it deep inside where it grows and eventually consumes them. I’ve always found being compatible with your coworkers can make things bearable. Over time you learn to trust them, not only to do their job well, but also with your own life. Even when you’re not on the clock and not in uniform, they still have your back. Anytime Dax is on shift, I never consider this job as ‘work.’ With him around, the stress seems to fade away.

  As I turn the key and the engine hums, an uneasy feeling comes over me along with an extra appreciation for such a great partner. I know Dax will always have my back, and he know he doesn’t have to babysit me. Still, something feels wrong. Something tingles my nerves.

  There’s something about the way Detective Spencer spoke to us. Something in his voice, like he knows something the rest of us don’t, but can’t tell us.

  The abductions are no secret to anyone.

  So why would things be different from any other night?

  Why the warning to stay extra careful?

  Why the butterflies in my stomach?

  Seeing Reverend Jonas comforting the parent of another victim could mean things are getting worse. Whatever the case, this grim feeling sticks with me.

  7. BURN THE BULL (Part 2)

  KANSAS CITY, KANSAS - 2013

  With a solid case against the Captain for war crimes and torture, it didn’t take long for the court-martial trial to end. He was dishonorably discharged and sentenced to life in a maximum-security prison with no possibility for parole.

  The tip that led to his capture had come anonymously, and despite Lieutenant Schaeffer’s refusal to testify, it was clear to the Captain who had ratted him out.

  The same day the Captain set foot in his new prison cell, Lieutenant Schaeffer was returning home to find an empty house. The living room television and lights had been left on. The front door closed, but unlocked. On the kitchen counter was a cutting board with a knife lying next to whole vegetables and packages of hamburger buns. In the refrigerator, trays of raw beef patties sat on the shelves. A bucket of melted ice and bottles of cold beer sat outside on the back patio. Hanging on the wall were picture frames with the faces of Schaeffer and his wife and their two teenage children. What was expected to be a cookout with neighbors, friends and family, was nothing but an empty home.