Beneath a Weeping Sky rcc-3

by Frank Zafiro

“You find a name, Matt?”

  “Still looking.” He held up a piece of junk mail. “Unless his name is Current Resident.”

  Katie smiled slightly, watching the man stare off into space. Then his head rotated slightly. His eyes fixed on her.

  “Dan,” was all he said.

  “Sir? Your name is Dan?”

  “Yeah. Dan.”

  “Dan, are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Dan.”

  “Okay, Dan. What’s your last name?” Katie spoke slowly and in an even voice. Though he appeared harmless, she knew that forty-eights could radically change moods at any moment.

  “Danny. Danny Boy.”

  Katie paused. “Are you hurt, Dan?”

  Dan gave her a quizzical look. He stuck his index finger deep into his mouth and pulled it out, making a popping sound. He kept the phone to his ear with the other hand.

  “It’s Dan Steiner,” Matt told her. He showed her an envelope. “It’s from Mental Health.”

  “Nancy is my counselor,” Dan said.

  “Nancy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nancy what? What’s her last name?”

  “Sinatra. Nancy Sinatra.”

  Katie took a deep breath. She heard Matt checking the refrigerator and cupboards. She knew he was checking to see how much food Dan had, if any. A person could only be committed to the Mental Health Ward at Sacred Heart if they met certain criteria. Being suicidal, homicidal or unable to care for themselves were the most common reasons police officers encountered.

  “What’s going on tonight, Dan?” she asked. “Are you upset?”

  Dan shook his head slowly.

  “Why did you break up the house?”

  “They called me.”

  “Who?”

  “Nancy Sinatra at Mental Health.”

  “Did that make you mad?”

  “I was reading.”

  “All right,” Katie said. “I can understand that. No one likes to get interrupted when they’re reading. Are you hurt?”

  But Dan was staring at the wall again and did not answer.

  “Plenty of canned food and goodies in here,” Matt told her. “Even so, with this behavior…”

  “I agree. He needs to go up to the hospital.” Katie wasn’t dreading the report now nearly so much as she was dreading the possibility of Dan refusing to go. If he fought, he would be a handful. Forty-eights sometimes seem almost supernaturally strong and didn’t always respond to pain compliance techniques.

  “I have to go now,” Dan said suddenly into the phone receiver. “My friends are here.”

  Dan pulled the phone away from his ear and slowly lumbered to his feet.

  Great, Katie thought. He stood about five-ten and his upper body was as broad as his middle. He’ll be as strong as an ox.

  Dan walked directly towards Katie, staring at a spot past her shoulder. His expression was benign. She and Westboard stepped aside cautiously and allowed him to pass.

  Dan hung up the phone and turned to face them.

  “My friend is sad.”

  “Why?” Katie asked.

  “I had to hang up. He’s lonely.”

  “I see.” Katie thought for a moment. “Dan, you said I was your friend, didn’t you? You told your friend on the phone that I was your friend, too, right?”

  “Him, too,” Dan motioned at Westboard.

  “Yes. Him, too.” Katie struggled not to grin. The guy was funny. “Dan, would you like to take a ride with me? Up to Sacred Heart Hospital?”

  “In a police car?” Dan grinned, child-like.

  “Yes. To see Nancy.”

  His face fell. “Nancy?”

  “Yes. In my police car.”

  Dan shrugged. “Yeah. Of course, I’m supposed to call Fred back.”

  “He’ll be okay.”

  “Yeah.”

  Katie found a light jacket for Dan and handed him his tennis shoes. It took him almost five minutes to put them on. He tied each bow meticulously.

  “Okay.” He stood up. “Ready.”

  Katie led him out of the house. As they were halfway down the walk, Katie remembered to ask him where his house keys were so that they could lock the house.

  “They are in hyper-space,” Dan said matter-of-factly.

  “Great.” She cast a glance backward at Westboard.

  He mouthed the words, “I’ll look.” Katie nodded her thanks.

  Once at the car, she paused again. Department policy stated that everyone an officer took into custody and transported must be handcuffed. This applied whether the custody was benevolent or an arrest situation. However, Katie knew that the rule was occasionally violated when it better suited the situation. For instance, the rape victim she transported the previous night had ridden in the front seat with her.

  Still, she could, actually should, handcuff Dan. He might remain cooperative for the ride, but he could go ballistic in the back of her patrol car. Uncuffed, he could cause a lot of damage, maybe hurt himself, to say nothing of being difficult to control once she stopped the car. She’d heard of it happening every so often to an officer. She was pretty sure that was a fun one to explain to a supervisor.

  Then again, Dan had blood on his hands. In this age of communicable diseases that were blood-borne, Katie didn’t really like to touch someone else’s blood without rubber gloves.

  Katie considered briefly, then said, “Dan, you know you have to behave in my car, right? Your best behavior?”

  “Yeah. Best behavior.”

  “I mean it, Dan. If you don’t behave, my boss will get very mad at me. He will ask me why I didn’t handcuff you. Do you want to be hand-cuffed?”

  Katie saw horror enter Dan’s eyes. She worried that she’d said too much.

  “No! Handcuffs hurt! Send them to hyper-space!”

  Katie waved her hand and made a whooshing sound. “There-gone. They will stay in hyperspace, as long as you behave. All right?”

  “Behave. Yes. All right.”

  Katie opened the driver’s door and popped the security button in the doorjamb to release the door to the back seat. As she stepped away from the car, she said, “Okay, Dan, get in.”

  Dan immediately climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Dan-” Katie protested.

  Dan began pushing buttons on the computer and the radio keypad. He moved quickly to the steering wheel, moving it from side to side as he adjusted the wiper blades and the heater. Since the car was turned off, none of the instruments responded. He gave a tug on the shotgun in its secure slot and moved on to the car stereo, pushing several buttons and twisting a dial.

  “Busy guy,” Westboard commented as he walked up. He handed Katie the house keys. “The place is locked up.”

  “Thanks.” Katie said. She turned back to Dan. “Are you finished, Dan? Can we take a ride now?”

  Dan sat still for a moment, staring through the windshield.

  “Dan?”

  His head rotated slowly toward her. “Of course, my favorite cat is an elephant,” he said.

  “Mine, too. Now please get out of my seat and get in the back.”

  Dan struggled out of the front seat and walked gingerly around the rear door and into the back seat. Katie shut the door.

  “Sheesh. He is out there,” Westboard said. “I feel like we’re taking the Rainman into custody.”

  Katie cringed. She knew Dan probably couldn’t hear them, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings or get him riled up. “At least he’s not violent,” she said. “Just…a little loony.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Did you see any meds in the bathroom?”

  “Nope. None in the bedroom, either. But you know that typewriter in the living room?”

  “Yes.”

  Westboard handed her a sheet of paper and said, “A book of poetry by Ralph W. Emerson was next to it.”

  Katie looked at the sheet of paper. A single line was typed over and over about thirty times.

  The
strong gods pine for my abode.

  “What poem is this from?” she asked.

  Westboard shrugged. “Couldn’t tell ya. I didn’t see it on the page the book was open to.” He motioned to the sheet of paper. “There were about fifteen or twenty of those stacked next to the typewriter, though.”

  “I wonder what the deal is with that?”

  “Dunno. You want me to follow you up in case he gets excited?”

  “No,” Katie said. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, Matt.”

  “Enjoy the ride in the police car,” he said slyly and walked toward his own car.

  Katie got into her driver’s seat. She pulled a baby wipe from her patrol bag and wiped everywhere Dan had touched. As she cleaned the steering wheel, she looked into her rear-view mirror at Dan. The bearded man was staring off at nothing again.

  “Dan? What’s this from?” She held up the paper with her free hand.

  Dan looked at her but didn’t answer.

  “What poem?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Katie held back a sigh. She balled up the baby wipe and slid it into the small plastic garbage bag. Then she started the engine. Instantly the windshield wipers began to flap violently. The stereo blasted static. She quickly hit the right buttons to stop everything, feeling like a three-year-old had been playing in her car.

  She glanced back at Dan. He stared back, unaffected and not at all curious.

  “So you like Emerson, then?” she asked.

  “To me, he tastes like ketchup,” Dan replied.

  Katie put the car into gear and reset her trip odometer. “Ketchup?”

  “Ketchup.”

  “What about T.S. Eliot?”

  “Mustard.”

  “Of course,” Katie said, smiling. She informed dispatch that she was en route to Sacred Heart with a forty-eight. On the way up, she wondered which poet tasted like mayonnaise.

  0607 hours

  Connor O’Sullivan sat in the lobby of the Internal Affairs office at 1098 West Mallon Avenue. Anthony Battaglia sat next to him in the corner. The dark-haired officer leaned into the wall and slept, snoring lightly.

  How the hell can he sleep sitting in IA, Sully wondered. He must not think he did anything wrong. Either that, or he was consigned to his fate. Who knew?

  Hart kept them both waiting. Sully figured that was how he showed his dominance. Hart was important. They were not. Therefore, they arrived early and waited for him.

  At nine minutes past the hour, Lieutenant Alan Hart entered the lobby of the IA office.

  Sully took one look at his thin, smug face and felt a stab of anger replace his concern. Battaglia’s light snore next to him gave him confidence.

  Hart cast a disapproving look at the slumbering Battaglia. Then his eyes flicked to Sully. “You’re first,” he said in a clipped tone.

  “Good,” Sully answered. “I’m ready.”

  Hart turned stiffly on his heel and marched back toward the interview room without a word.

  Sully stood and followed.

  Screw Hart, he thought, and smiled.

  Battaglia’s snores trailed after him.

  0659 hours

  Katie Macleod set her pistol on her nightstand and kicked off her shoes. The fog of sleep was already creeping in at the corner of her eyes. Other than Danny Forty-eight, the previous night had remained relatively quiet. She wondered if she were crazy or if she really had detected a slight sense of disquiet in the city last night. It had been a Wednesday evening, which was usually the busiest of the four true weekdays (she considered Friday part of the weekend-it was already in full swing by the time Graveyard shift came on duty). People slogged away for a couple of days, but then Hump Day came along. Many felt like they needed a little release, just enough to get them to the weekend. So the bars were a little busier. Domestic arguments went up, too.

  Not last night, though. The streets were nearly bare all night. When she drove by the bars in her sector, she noticed some closing early for lack of customers, well before the required two o’clock. There weren’t many cars out and fewer pedestrians. Overall, she had the sense of a city that was nervous.

  It’s probably just me.

  Probably. She’d taken the rape report from Maureen Hite. She’d heard the radio news reports calling this guy the Rainy Day Rapist. She was probably just amplifying what she saw due to her own behind-the-scenes knowledge.

  Right?

  Or was it because she was nervous?

  Because of what happened.

  The thought came to her unbidden and unwelcome. Once it had sprung up in the early morning light, though, she took a hard look at it.

  Was that the reason?

  Katie unbuttoned her jeans and wriggled out of them, tossing the clumped denim into the laundry hamper in the corner of her room. She did the same with her shirt and underclothing, then pulled the long blue flannel pajama over the top of her head. As the warm material slid down her ribs and hips, a shudder went through her.

  Do I even want to think about this?

  Robotic, she pulled the shades closed on the bedroom window. The bedroom darkened. Natural light seeped around the corners of the window shades and splashed weakly against the wall. More light spilled in through the open bedroom door.

  Katie closed the door and slid beneath the covers of her bed. The initial coolness of the sheets gave way as her body warmed the bed. She resisted shivering, afraid that if she started, she might not stop.

  I thought I was over this.

  She knew that was a lie the moment she thought it, though. What happened to her wasn’t like the flu. She wasn’t going to “get over it” and “just move on.” She knew enough from the police training she’d received on the subject to know that was true.

  Still, everyone deals with the trauma differently. Some were devastated. Some survive. Some leave it behind. Some face it. Some embrace it.

  And some push it deep down, don’t they, Katie? But it doesn’t always want to stay down deep, does it? Not this, not the child on the bridge, not a dozen other things that you face but yet do not face.

  She closed her eyes tightly and exhaled.

  And just like she had always done when the pressure became too great, she let the images and emotions wash over her. She opened her mind and heart, spread her spiritual arms wide and accepted everything that came.

  All the ugliness followed quickly.

  Phil. That’d been his name. An upperclassman at Washington State University. They’d met at a party. Katie recalled the thrill of that first kiss with him. Such a naive emotional reaction. Because next came the groping hands and the refusal to stop.

  Don’t be a goddamn tease.

  The back bedroom sanctuary had quickly become a prison. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t move. He’d slapped his palm over her mouth, mashing her lips into her teeth, almost like a grotesque antithesis of that first kiss just minutes before.

  Then what felt like cold steel being driven into her.

  You’ll do what I say, tease.

  How long had that gone on? How long did it take him? She imagined it was a thousand years of staring up at the textured ceiling in the dim light of that bedroom. And when he’d finished, the dead weight of his spent body disgusted her even further. She tried to wriggle out from beneath him. He didn’t resist, finally pushing himself up and buckling his pants.

  You liked it. Don’t forget that.

  Like she could ever forget what happened. How stripped and vulnerable she felt. How much courage she had to raise just to slink out of the house and run to a pay phone. Too afraid to even call the police, she’d dialed her mother’s number, praying the woman would be awake and not drunk.

  She had been awake, but Katie could hear the slur in her mother’s sleepy hello. It didn’t seem to matter, though, because she spilled out the entire story on the phone, rushing her words, using them to fight off the tears that wanted to return.

  And then her mother answered.

  Well
, at least you weren’t a virgin.

  The words struck Katie like a sheet of freezing water. The threat of tears was immediately staved off. Without a word, she hung up the phone.

  After that, she never told anyone else.

  Not the police. Not a single friend. Not any of her lovers. None of her brothers and sisters in the badge.

  No one.

  Not ever.

  Her mother never mentioned the rape, either. At first, Katie thought that was because she didn’t know how to deal with it or what to say. She could understand that. But when her mother expressed only confusion at why Katie would change her college major from veterinary science to criminal justice, she realized that it wasn’t discomfort at all.

  Her mother had simply been too drunk to even remember the conversation.

  That left only two people in the world who knew the truth about what happened. She doubted that even Phil remembered it the way it really happened. His bashful glances her way over the next term told her that he was either too intoxicated to have a clear memory of the event or he wanted it to appear that way. She wondered what he told his friends about it and about her. She even wondered how he rationalized things in his own mind in order to deal with it.

  Or maybe it was easy for him. Who knew?

  Sometimes Katie thought the whole thing was her fault. If only she hadn’t gone to the party. Or had a few drinks. Or danced with him. Or kissed him. If she’d avoided any one of those things, then the rape would never have occurred.

  Other times, she wanted to scream out in frustration. She wanted to claw back at the images of him on top of her. She wanted to take back what he tore from her.

  Most of the time, she wanted it to have never happened. And that was how she dealt with it every day since it happened. She simply pretended it happened to someone else. After all, no one else knew about it and Katie MacLeod planned on keeping it that way forever. Even if it meant facing down these memories every so often, when it was too difficult to keep them tamped down inside anymore.

  Even if it meant passing through them again to take away their potency.

  Everyone deals with trauma differently, she knew. And sometimes even the same person deals with it differently at different times.

  Some people faced things head on, absorbed the pain and moved on.