Beneath a Weeping Sky rcc-3

by Frank Zafiro

  Monday, April 15th

  Graveyard Shift

  2101 hours

  The clock on the wall in the roll-call room read 2101 hrs when Lieutenant Robert Saylor stepped up to the lectern and said, “Okay, listen up.”

  Katie MacLeod had been making notes in her notebook from the crime analysis daily flyer. She finished scrawling the last bit of information on a wanted burglar before closing the flyer.

  “Psssttt,” Connor O’Sullivan said to her and pointed at the flyer. He mouthed “gimmee.” Katie played confused for a few seconds, then smiled and slid it to him.

  “Several stolen vehicles,” Saylor said, reading off a half-dozen license plates with descriptions. Katie made notes, as did most of the officers in the room.

  “Detective Finch has probable cause to arrest Kelly Carepi on first degree assault charges,” Saylor said. “He’ll have a warrant sometime tomorrow, but if you come across him before then, book him on Finch’s probable cause.” He read for a moment, then continued, “I guess this stems from the incident up on Dalke about a few nights ago. Who had that?”

  “I wrote the report,” said Officer Westboard from his seat next to Katie. “Just about everybody in Adam sector did additional reports, though.”

  “This is the thing with the golf club, Matt?”

  Westboard nodded. “Yep.”

  “It was actually a nine-iron, El-Tee,” said Thomas Chisolm. The veteran grinned at the lieutenant. His thin, white scar which ran from his temple to jaw melted into his laugh-lines. “I was clearing Holy Family when the call came out, so I went over there.”

  “A nine-iron, huh?” Saylor asked, willingly playing the role of straight man.

  Chisolm nodded. “Yeah. And you should’ve seen the divots all over the victim’s face. The guy must be a terrible golfer.”

  The roll call room rumbled with laughter as Saylor added, “That’s what handicaps are for, Tom.”

  When laughter subsided, Saylor asked Westboard, “Is this Cannon Street address any good for Carepi?”

  Westboard shook his head no. “It’s over a year old.”

  “Okay. Next item. It seems that the Chief and the Sheriff are in a pissing match about parking. So, until further notice, do not park your personal vehicles in the county lot.” He raised his hands to quell the uproar. “Hold on, hold on. I think this will blow over in a few days. Just park on Adams for now and walk the half-block.”

  Katie nodded to herself. She did that anyway. The police station was located right next to the county jail and there were windows in the jail that looked right out onto the county parking lot. She wasn’t too comfortable with the idea of inmates looking down at her as she parked her personal car and walked into the station. Or going home, for that matter.

  Saylor read the information on two escapees. Katie jotted down their information.

  “Detective Tower is working a stranger-to-stranger rape that happened in Clemons Park,” Saylor read from the clipboard. “No suspect description, but the victim was a jogger. So stop and do a field interview on any suspicious males in that area. Give Tower a heads up if you do.”

  He looked up at the assembled shift. “Anyone have anything for the shift?”

  No answer.

  “All right, then.” He stepped away from the lectern. The sergeants began the sector table meetings. Saylor strode to the Adam sector table and leaned down toward Katie.

  “MacLeod, stop by and see me before you head out, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.” She wondered what for, but didn’t ask.

  Saylor half-smiled, half-nodded at her, turned on his heel and left the room.

  “That’s it, MacLeod,” O’Sullivan said. “All your nefarious deeds have caught up with you.”

  Katie rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You know, you talk like a bad novel, Sully.”

  “He’s right, though,” Officer Anthony Battaglia said. “Why else would the lieutenant call you in there if it wasn’t to let you go?”

  “Maybe he wants to know how I put up with all your bullshit.”

  Battaglia shook his head. “Nah, he’s firing you.”

  “It’s the axe fer ya, lass,” Sully said in exaggerated Irish brogue.

  “What size shirt do you wear, Katie?” Battaglia asked, hammering on the age-old cop joke. “I’ll buy it from you when they let you go.”

  “Gee, thanks, Batts,” Katie shot back. “You want to buy my bra, too? It’s about your size.”

  There was a rumble of laughter at the table.

  “All right, that’s enough,” Sergeant Miyamoto Shen said, shaking his head and smiling. “This crew is way too loose. You’re going to get me in trouble with the lieutenant.”

  The platoon quieted down. Shen ran through a few administrative items and released them.

  Katie stood and walked to the lieutenant’s office. At the door, she hesitated before knocking. She wondered what he could want, but drew a blank. Never one to avoid confronting issues, she raised her hand and rapped on the door.

  “Come in,” Saylor called.

  Katie opened the door and stepped into the small office. Saylor finished signing some paperwork and looked up.

  “Please, sit down,” he said, gesturing toward the chair in front of his desk.

  Uh-oh. Sitting down is usually a bad thing.

  Katie took a seat and said nothing.

  Saylor folded his hands and smiled at her. “How’re you doing, MacLeod?”

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  Saylor watched her for a moment, nodding slowly. She wondered what he was thinking about. She’d been in some serious situations over the last couple of years, including being shot at by the Scarface robber. That hadn’t been nearly as bad as the incident on the Post Street Bridge when the mentally disturbed father dangled his own infant son over the edge. Katie pressed her lips together and tried to force the image from her mind before she saw him release his grip, letting the child tumble into the Looking Glass River hundreds of feet below.

  Did Saylor think she hadn’t rebounded from those events?

  A momentary anger flared in the pit of Katie’s stomach. If she were a man, would he be worried about-

  “Good,” Saylor said. “You seem fine. I know you’ve been through some traumatic experiences in the last couple of years. Some cops have trouble with that. You seem to be coping well.”

  “I am.”

  “Good,” Saylor repeated. “That’s good.”

  Katie waited, watching him cautiously.

  Saylor smiled again and reached for a file. “You put your application in for a Field Training Officer position last month. All the applications were reviewed by shift lieutenants and the captain has made his selections.”

  And I didn’t get it because you think I’m a basket case?

  Saylor extended his hand. “Congratulations, MacLeod. You were selected. You’ll get the two percent pay raise as soon as your first recruit is assigned to you.”

  Katie’s mouth fell open. “I got it!”

  Saylor nodded. “You got it. Shen gave you a great recommendation and your work speaks for itself. Congratulations.”

  A huge smile spread across Katie’s face. She reached out, took Saylor’s proffered hand and shook it. “Thank you. I…thank you, sir.”

  “Officer Ken Travis will be assigned to you in his third rotation,” Saylor told her. “He’s with Bates now.”

  “Travis? He’s the one that used to be a reserve?”

  “Yes.”

  Katie nodded. Travis had ridden with her on a couple of occasions. He was a solid troop and would be a good first recruit for her. It occurred to her that this was likely the reason Saylor made the assignment.

  “I won’t let you down, sir,” Katie said.

  “I know,” Saylor said.

  Katie left his office, gathered her patrol bag and seemingly floated down to the basement sally-port to get a car from swing shift. Sergeant Shen looked up at her from his clipboard.

  �
�How’d it go?” he asked, suppressing a grin.

  “I got the FTO spot,” Katie answered. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  Shen nodded. “I founded out when I came in tonight. But the lieutenant wanted to tell you himself.”

  “Well, thanks for whatever you said to him to make it happen, sergeant.”

  Shen shook his head. “All I did was tell the truth. You’re a good troop, MacLeod. You deserve it.”

  Katie felt a small surge of pride. Her cheeks warmed slightly. “Thanks,” she managed.

  “Hey, Sarge!” Battaglia interrupted from across the sally port. “Okay if Sully and I ride together?”

  Shen regarded him. “Didn’t you two ride together last night?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the night before?”

  “Yeah. So? We’re a good team.”

  Shen pretended to sigh. “Fine, fine. Ride together. But this is the last time.” He made a notation on the markup.

  “Last time until tomorrow, you mean,” Katie joked.

  Shen shrugged. “They do good work together. I’d like to see more two-officer cars out there, if we had the staffing for it.”

  “Hey, MacLeod!” Battaglia called. “How much for that shirt?”

  Katie waited until Shen glanced down at the clipboard and shot Battaglia the bird.

  “Promises, promises,” Battaglia said with a grin.

  “Nice comeback, Potsie,” Sully told him. He popped open the trunk and inventoried the contents.

  Katie shook her head and headed to an empty car near the end of the line. She passed Westboard, who was busy inspecting the outside of the car with his flashlight for any damage.

  “Forget Battaglia. I’ve got dibs on that shirt,” he kidded her. “What did the El-Tee want, anyway?”

  “Nothing much,” Katie said, before breaking into a huge smile. “He just wanted to tell me I got that vacant FTO position.”

  Westboard grinned and gave her a thumbs up. “Way to go! That’s great.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll buy you coffee later to celebrate,” he said.

  “Sounds good.”

  “See you then,” Westboard said and returned to inspecting the car.

  Katie continued down the line of cars. The last in line turned out to be one of the newest ones in operation. The faintest hint of new car smell still hovered inside. Katie strapped her patrol bag into the passenger seat and checked the car into service. After a quick check in the trunk and the exterior for damage, she opened the back door and searched the back seat where the prisoners were transported. She found nothing and that was a good thing. Sometimes prisoners dumped items back there.

  Katie cleared and reloaded the shotgun, tested the lights and then waited in line for her chance to head out the sally port. One by one, the police cars zipped out of the basement and onto the street. Their exit was punctuated by the chirp of tires and a quick siren test at the top of the sally port.

  The cool night air streamed through the windows, the clean smell of earlier rainfall riding on it. Katie turned the heater on low. She took a deep breath of the fresh air and prepared for whatever River City had to throw at her.

  2316 hours

  “Adam-122?”

  Officer Anthony Battaglia reached for the mike. “Twenty-two, go ahead.”

  “Respond to the area of 400 West Cleveland. Complainant states she saw a man in dark clothing acting suspicious in the alley. Requested police response. 400 block of West Cleveland.”

  “Copy,” Battaglia answered. “Is the complainant requesting contact?”

  “Negative.”

  Battaglia clicked the mike and hung it back on the holder.

  “That’s right near Corbin Park,” Sully said, flipping a U-turn and heading that direction.

  “Duh. So what?”

  “So, Corbin Park is just a little south of Clemons Park.”

  Battaglia clapped his hands together in slow, exaggerated applause. “Your orientation skills are impressive.”

  Sully shook his head. “Clemons Park is where that rape happened.”

  “What rape?”

  “Tower’s rape. The one the lieutenant mentioned at roll call.”

  “The lieutenant talks at roll call?”

  Sully sighed. “Yeah. You probably missed it, dreaming about linguini or something.”

  “Just like an Irishman,” Battaglia said. “Jealous because Italian food is good food.”

  Sully turned onto Post and headed north. “What are you talking about? Irish food is good food.”

  “Right.”

  “It is.”

  “Sure it is. That’s why there’s an Italian restaurant on every corner and there isn’t a single Irish restaurant in this city.”

  “Just because Americans don’t go ga-ga over Irish food doesn’t mean it isn’t good.”

  Battaglia began ticking off on his fingers. “Spaghetti, lasagna, chicken parmesan, baked ziti, pizza-”

  “Shut up.” Sully took a right onto Cleveland.

  Battaglia shrugged, looking out the window. “You’re just pissed because all you can offer up is haggis.”

  “Haggis is Scottish,” Sully corrected.

  “Same thing.”

  “Not even close. The two countries are separated by the Irish Sea. That’s like me saying Italy and Greece are the same even though the Adriatic Sea-”

  “Right there!” Battaglia said, pointing south.

  Sully braked. “Where?”

  “The alley there! Back up, quick!”

  Sully threw the patrol car into reverse and backed up into the intersection. As he cranked the wheel, Battaglia grabbed the microphone.

  “Adam-122 on scene,” he said. “Also.”

  Sully goosed the accelerator and the patrol car leapt forward.

  “The alley eastbound,” Battaglia said, pointing. “I saw a guy duck back into the darkness there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Adam-122, copy. Go ahead your also.”

  Battaglia pressed the mike button. “We might have that suspicious male here in the south alley on the six hundred block of Cleveland.”

  “Copy. Adam-112 to back?”

  “Copy.” Chisolm’s steady voice came through the radio.

  Sully rolled slowly down the alley, activating the overhead lights, bright takedown lights and the alley lights on the sides of the light bar. He turned on the spotlight and used his left hand to search with it between the houses as the car crawled forward.

  “What was he wearing?” Sully asked.

  “I didn’t get much of a look. Just dark clothing.”

  “White guy? Black?”

  “Coulda been purple for all I know,” Battaglia answered. “I didn’t get a good look.”

  Sully swung the spotlight past a parked car next to a chain link fence. The fence door stood open. He stopped and both officers exited the car.

  “Adam-122,” Battaglia reported, “we’ve got an open back gate about mid-block on the north side of the alley.”

  “Copy. The address?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered and rolled his eyes at Sully. “The house numbers are usually on the front.”

  There was a moment of radio silence while both officers approached the open gate. Then the dispatcher, Irina, came back.

  “Adam-122, what is the color and description of the house?”

  Battaglia glanced at the home. “Single-story, yellow with white trim. Mid-block.”

  Radio copied.

  Sully stepped through the gate and shone his powerful flashlight around the backyard. The well-maintained grass was wet from the recent rain. A few pinecones littered the yard, but it was otherwise clean.

  Battaglia joined him in sweeping the back yard with beams of light.

  “Hey,” Battaglia whispered.

  Sully followed the beam of light from Battaglia’s Mag-Lite. It illuminated a doghouse in the corner of the yard. The tips of a pair of tennis sh
oes protruded from the doorway.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Sully whispered back. He drew his gun and covered the doghouse.

  Battaglia grinned at him, then turned his attention back to the shoe tips.

  “Attention in the doghouse!” he bellowed. “River City Police Department! Come out with your hands where we can see them!”

  The shoes did not move.

  “We can see your shoes,” Battaglia told him. “Now come out of there or we’ll have the K-9 come in and get you out.”

  After a moment, the shoes moved outward, exposing a leg. Then the rest of a man’s body slid out, dressed in black jeans and a dark blue sweater.

  “Hands where I can see them!” Sully ordered him, shining his light directly into the man’s face.

  The suspect stood slowly, holding his hands above his shoulders, squinting and blinking into the bright flashlight beam.

  “Turn around,” Sully barked. “Hands on your head. Don’t move.”

  The suspect obeyed. Battaglia moved in and handcuffed him.

  A window slid open from the house. “What’s going on?” a woman’s voice asked.

  Sully held the flashlight up and directed the light down onto his own face and badge. “Police, ma’am. Everything all right in there?”

  “Sure, but-”

  Sully illuminated the suspect again. “Do you know this man?” he asked the homeowner.

  “No. Who is he?”

  “A fine question,” Sully quipped with a hint of brogue. “I assume he was trespassing then?”

  “I guess so,” the woman answered. “I mean, I don’t know him, so…”

  “Thanks, ma’am. We’ll figure it out and let you know if we need anything from you.”

  “Okay,” she said, her voice still sounding confused by sleep.

  “Where’s the dog?” Battaglia asked suddenly.

  “Huh?”

  “The doghouse,” he said, flashing his light on the suspect’s former hiding place. “Where’s the dog that goes with it?”

  “Oh,” the woman said. “He died last summer.”

  “I’m sorry,” Battaglia said.

  “He was fourteen,” the woman told him.

  Battaglia nodded. “Well, you might want to lock your gate. Or get a motion sensor light out here.”

  “Or a new dog,” Sully suggested.

  “Oh,” the woman said, still blinking sleepily. “Yes, that might be a good idea.”