OFFICER INVOLVED

by Lynch, Sean

  “Exactly. They make everyone who’s been involved in a lethal encounter attend counseling, no exceptions. Most departments put it right in their general orders. That way nobody gets stigmatized, because everybody has to go through it.”

  “Did you ever have to go through counseling?”

  “No,” Farrell said, “but looking back I wish I had. They didn’t have mandatory counseling back in those days, and I damned sure wasn’t going to ask for it. I was one of those macho types I told you about. Probably would have saved my first marriage.”

  “I never asked you,” Kearns said. “Were you involved in any on-duty shootings?”

  “Only one. I was a uniformed patrolman working a two-man radio car in Potrero Hill. It was before I shipped out to Viet Nam.”

  “Bad?”

  “You ever hear of a good one?”

  “I didn’t mean to-”

  “I know,” Farrell said, cutting him off. “I don’t mean to be flippant. It’s something I generally don’t talk about, and looking back, probably should have. That’s how I know about the scars these things leave.”

  “Sorry if I touched a nerve,” Kearns said.

  “Forget it. My shooting wasn’t a helluva lot different from yours yesterday,” Farrell went on, “except instead of my field training officer getting killed it was my partner, who also happened to be my best friend. I was the best man at his wedding and he was the best man at mine.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was like most of the things which happen to cops; it came without warning. It was just a routine traffic stop. Pulled over a vehicle for rolling through a red light. A minor traffic infraction. Next thing you know, two guys come out of the car with guns blazing. Turns out they’d robbed a jewelry store in the Mission District. Dispatch hadn’t even gotten the robbery call yet.”

  “How’d it go down?”

  “Driver had a forty-five pistol, passenger had a shotgun. It was my luck that I was driving that day, and my partner was taking the paper and working the radio. We used to switch off every other day. Consequently, I faced the driver, who was armed with the pistol, and my partner had to face off against the passenger who was using the shotgun.”

  “I take it your partner didn’t have much of a chance?”

  “None at all. First shot fired in the shootout was a twelve-gauge round into his chest.”

  “Your partner wasn’t wearing body armor?”

  “No cop did back in those days. This was about ten years before Richard Davis invented the lightweight Kevlar ballistic vest.”

  “Probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway with a twelve-gauge,” Kearns said. “I saw firsthand what a point-blank scattergun blast did to my F.T.O., and he was wearing a vest.”

  “With my partner down, that just left me and my revolver against two of them.”

  “Were you using that old .41 Smith & Wesson you let me borrow? The one I shot Raymond Cowell with?”

  “That’s the gun.”

  “Solid piece of ordnance.”

  “Saved my bacon that day, that’s for sure,” Farrell said. “I retreated behind our car, and took out the dude with the shotgun from cover. That .41 magnum dropped him like a bad habit.”

  “What about the other guy?”

  “I was lucky he wasn’t much of a shot. Once he saw his partner get killed, the cowardly bastard turned tail and ran. Jumped back into his car and sped off. It was just as well; by then I’d emptied my gun and was fumbling my way through a re-load with hands shaking so badly I’m amazed I didn’t drop my gun. We didn’t have such things as speedloaders back then. If he’d decided to rush me instead of splitting, I’d have been cooked.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “Not much more to tell. I got on the radio and summoned help, but it was too late for my partner. He died in my arms.”

  “What about the other bad guy?”

  “He turned himself in with his lawyer the next day,” Farrell said. “He got identified within hours of the shootout on the basis of previous jobs they’d pulled.”

  “He must have known the entire San Francisco Police Department would be gunning for him,” Kearns said.

  “That’s how it used to be done,” Farrell agreed. “As a fugitive cop-killer he would likely have been killed resisting arrest, whether he resisted or not.”

  They drove in silence for several minutes. “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Kearns finally said.

  “That’s how it goes when you’re a cop,” Farrell shrugged. “You know that as well as anyone. Best you can do, some days, is to be grateful you’re still alive at the end of your shift.”

  “Thanks Bob. Now I don’t feel so bad about seeing a psychiatrist.”

  “How could you? It’s not like yours isn’t easy on the eyes.”

  “She’s definitely a looker,” Kearns said. “A little old for my tastes.”

  “That’s because you’re a young, wet-behind-the-ears, uncultured, hayseed. You don’t appreciate a quality woman when you see one.”

  “I’m not a sophisticated man-about-town like you?” Kearns, said. “Is that what you’re implying?”

  “Maybe someday,” Farrell chuckled. “If you’re lucky.”

  “The day I need culture lessons from the likes of Bob Farrell will be the day I actually do eat my gun.”

  “By the way,” Farrell said, “when you go see the doctor tomorrow, if you don’t mind, I’d like to drive you?”

  “Not at all. I want a ringside seat at your humiliation.”

  Chapter 19

  When Farrell inserted the key into his apartment door he found it already unlocked. He nodded at Kearns, who was standing behind him, and both automatically retreated to opposite sides of the door. They drew their guns in the same motion.

  Farrell put his ear to the door and listened, but couldn’t hear any noise from within. He turned the handle as quietly as he could and parted the door a crack. From what little he could see of the inside of his apartment, there was nothing disturbed, and no sound. He motioned for Kearns to follow and they went in.

  Once inside, Kearns soundlessly closed and locked the door behind them while Farrell covered the hallway. They moved down the hall into the apartment, their guns ahead of them.

  When they reached the end of the short hallway, they could see into the kitchen and main room. To their right were the unit’s single bedroom and the bathroom. The bedroom door was open, the bathroom door was not.

  Kearns looked at Farrell. Farrell shrugged and pointed to the bedroom. Kearns nodded, and cautiously moved to the bedroom doorway. He peered inside, over his revolver. He saw nothing out-of-the-ordinary. He gave Farrell a thumbs-up ‘all-clear’ signal, and joined him outside the bathroom.

  Both put an ear to the door. The faint sounds of sloshing water was all they heard. Farrell gave Kearns another nod. The deputy took a step back from the door and covered with his revolver as Farrell grabbed the doorknob. He silently mouthed the words, “One, two, three!” and flung open the bathroom door.

  The woman in the bathtub shrieked and flailed as Farrell and Kearns rushed in.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Farrell exclaimed, equally startled. He pushed Kearns clumsily out of the bathroom ahead of him and closed the door. If he hadn’t, it was likely Kearns would have remained there frozen, his mouth agape, staring at the beautiful naked woman indefinitely.

  All Kearns got, as Farrell shoved him back out of the bathroom and closed the door, was a brief glimpse of the woman’s features. What little he saw, in the scant few seconds he was able to see, was remarkable and familiar.

  She had flaming ginger hair, swept up. Mid-twenties. Pale skin, mottled with freckles. Striking blue eyes. And a body an Ujena swimsuit model would have envied. Kearns recognized her instantly.

  “Dad!” she howled through the door. “You scared the shit out of me!”

  “I scared the shit out of you?” he said. “Are you kidding? Did you realize, Jennifer, we
could have shot you?” He and Kearns holstered their guns. They could hear her emerging from the tub.

  “Come on,” Farrell nudged Kearns. “I need a drink.” He led them into the kitchen.

  “For once, I agree with you,” Kearns said. Seeing Jennifer again, so unexpectedly and in the state she was in, rattled him.

  Farrell brought out a bottle of Jim Beam and two glasses. “Make mine a beer,” Kearns said. “I’m still shaking. I don’t know if I could handle anything stronger.”

  “Suit yourself. All I know, is that I picked a lousy day to quit smoking.”

  He handed Kearns a cold Anchor Steam from the refrigerator and poured himself three fingers of Kentucky bourbon over ice. Both men drank with grim expressions on their faces.

  “Did you see what I saw?” Kearns finally said.

  “Yeah,” Farrell said through clenched teeth. “I saw it.”

  “Somebody’s going to pay for that,” Kearns said, gripping his beer so tightly the muscles in his forearm strained the fabric of his shirt.

  “Bank on it,” Farrell said, his eyes blazing.

  What Farrell and Kearns were referring to was the large, swollen, purplish mass of flesh they’d seen over Jennifer Farrell’s left eye.

  Chapter 20

  Jennifer Farrell came out of the bathroom, her father’s robe wrapped around her. She’d let down her lustrous red hair and allowed it to sweep over her damaged eye. She consciously avoided looking at Kearns.

  “Hello, Honey,” Farrell said. He discarded his drink and hugged his daughter. She put her head on his shoulder. “Sorry about barging in on you in the bath,” he said. “Didn’t mean to give you a scare.” Kearns stared at his feet.

  “I’m the one who should apologize,” she said. “I let myself in and didn’t leave a note or anything.”

  “Why didn’t you call and let me know you were flying in from Omaha? I could have picked you up at the airport.”

  “Because I didn’t know I was coming until this morning. I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Forget it. It’s good to see you.” He parted her hair with a finger, examining her eye. “I have to admit,” Farrell said softly, “while the Veronica Lake look is quite appealing, it doesn’t really suit you.” Jennifer stared to cry.

  “Oh Dad,” Kearns heard her say before her voice was muffled in her father’s chest.

  Kearns knew it was time to go. He set his mostly un-drank beer on the counter and quietly went over to the couch, where the contents of his duffel bag were scattered. He tried not to overhear their conversation as he rapidly packed his belongings, but couldn’t help himself.

  “What’s-his-name did this, didn’t he?” Farrell asked. “Your fiancé?”

  “You know his name is Stephan,” she reminded him, wiping her nose on her wrist.

  Across the room, where Farrell could see him but Jennifer couldn’t, Kearns wordlessly mouthed “Stephan? Are you kidding?”

  Farrell shushed Kearns with a wave of his hand. “I remember his name. Has he hit you before?”

  “Never this bad,” she said.

  “So he has hit you before?” Farrell said.

  Jennifer looked up. “It’s not like that, Dad. He’s been under a lot of pressure lately.”

  “What kind of pressure could that spoiled punk possibly be under? Daddy didn’t buy him the latest sports coupe? His yacht sink into Lake Michigan?”

  “School’s not going so well,” she said. “His family expects a lot from him.”

  “Of course it’s not going so well,” Farrell said. “Daddy can’t buy his law degree for him. Stephan has to actually earn it, and to earn anything you need at least a microscopic fraction of a work-ethic, which he doesn’t possess.”

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this,” Jennifer said, stepping back from her father’s embrace. “You never liked him anyway.”

  “Never liked him? I only met him once, at dinner last fall, remember? He spent the whole night downing vodka martinis and leering at the waitresses. What’s to like?”

  “That’s an exaggeration.”

  “This explains why you didn’t come back to visit me in California for the summer,” Farrell said. “You stayed in Omaha to be poor little Stephan’s tutor, didn’t you?”

  Kearns knew what Farrell talking about. Jennifer had just completed her first-year of law school at Creighton University, which is where she’d met her fiancé. Normally during the summer break Jennifer would spend at least a few weeks in San Francisco with her father, and Kearns knew Farrell was looking forward to her visit this year immensely. So was he. He also knew Farrell was deeply disappointed when Jennifer called and told him she wouldn’t be coming out this year. She claimed she was behind in her studies, but Kearns knew Jennifer as a hard-working and highly intelligent girl, and Farrell had told him boastfully on more than one occasion that she was getting top marks. Apparently she’d stayed behind for the summer to help her boyfriend in his flagging studies.

  All Kearns knew about Jennifer’s fiancé was that he was from a very wealthy family. According to Farrell, Stephan’s father owned one of the more prominent law firms in Chicago.

  “Was it your idea to come out here, or Stephan’s?” Farrell asked.

  “What are you saying?”

  “That maybe Stephan suggested you take a powder. Suggestion might have even come from his daddy. It could tarnish the family’s sterling reputation if his son’s fiancé was seen walking around campus looking like an Everlast bag.”

  “I knew it was a bad idea coming here,” she said, pushing herself farther away from her father.

  “Then why didn’t you go to your mothers place? She lives in Omaha. It would have saved you an airline ticket?”

  Jennifer looked defiantly at her father but said nothing.

  “I already know the answer,” Farrell said. “It’s because your mother is so enamored with the possibility of you marrying Stephan, and becoming the wife of a pedigreed man hailing from a family of filthy-rich lawyers, that she’d overlook the fact that he did this to you. She’d fill you up with nonsense about every rose having a few thorns, tell you to go back and beg his forgiveness, and kiss and make up. Am I right?”

  “I’ll get dressed and get my things,” Jennifer said.

  She started to turn away but Farrell stopped her.

  “Please Jennifer, you don’t have to go.” He took her by the arm. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be,” she said, in almost a whisper. “You’re right.”

  Farrell took his daughter in his arms again and hugged her fiercely. “When I saw you hurt, I went a bit crazy, that’s all. I said things I shouldn’t have. You’ll understand when you become a parent. Please stay? I promise I won’t give you anymore grief about Stephan. Stay as long as you like. I’ll take you out to dinner and we’ll catch up.”

  “I’ll agree to stay on two conditions,” Jennifer said.

  “Name them.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more crap about Stephan, and I don’t want you doing anything to him.”

  “What do you mean?” Farrell asked innocently. “What would I do?”

  “I know you, Dad. You’re probably already cooking up an alibi and looking for a place to rent a wood-chipper. The only way I’ll stay is if you promise not to hurt him. If you won’t promise me that, I’ll leave right now.”

  Farrell took his daughter’s chin in one hand and kissed her forehead.

  “I promise,” Farrell said. “I won’t harm a hair on Stephan Ainsley’s head.” He looked directly into Kearns’ eyes, across the room. Jennifer still had her back to him. “Not ever. I swear.” He winked at Kearns.

  Kearns nodded an acknowledgement, picked up his duffel bag, and walked out of the apartment, closing the door behind him. He was surprised how flustered he’d become seeing Jennifer so unexpectedly.

  “Stephan Ainsley,” he said under his breath, as he headed out to his car. “Am I lo
oking forward to meeting you.”

  Chapter 21

  Kearns carefully climbed over the wrought-iron fence surrounding Paige’s townhome complex, to avoid tearing his only good suit. Paige resided in a gated community, and he’d already returned her key and the clicker which activated the electronic vehicle gate when he moved out. As a result, he was forced to park his car a half-block down the street outside the complex, and resort to hopping the fence to get in.

  He could have waited until another car with a clicker opened the electronic gate and followed that vehicle in, but decided not to. Bay Farm Island, the Alameda suburb which was home to Paige’s townhouse, employed a private security company to patrol the community, and he didn’t want to chance being stopped and hassled. Kearns had hopped the fence to get to Paige’s unit many times before, when he’d forgotten his key or there were no available guest parking spaces inside the densely populated complex.

  Kearns had a lot of practice hopping fences. Most people didn’t realize how much fence-hopping deputies and cops performed in the course of even a routine day of working the street. Alarm calls, welfare checks, searches for evidence, suspects, or missing persons, as well as the occasional foot pursuit, were all part of everyday life for a uniformed patrol officer, and climbing over fences was unavoidable.

  In Kearns’ case, as a rookie with an overweight and lazy field training officer, he’d gotten even more fence hopping practice than most beat cops. He was thankful for it tonight, however, as he was able to easily navigate the steel fence surrounding Paige’s townhome without much effort, despite the caution he exercised to prevent ripping his suit.

  Once in the complex, he walked through the parking lot towards Paige’s townhome. It was a past 7:00 P.M., and he’d timed his arrival to catch Paige at home. He knew her schedule, and guessed by now she’d returned from work at the D.A.’s office in Alameda. He guessed she was probably grabbing a quick bite, changing, and would be off to the gym by eight, per her usual routine.

  The purpose for the visit was not a social call, and Kearns felt sheepish for having to return and bother Paige so soon after moving out, but he had no choice.