by Frank Zafiro
His eyes followed her motion towards the gun, and he moved to cut her off.
* * *
The 9-1-1 transfer popped up on Janice Koslowski’s screen. As always, the urgency of the call was indicated by the red font and the blinking letters. With a few quick keystrokes, she opened the call. Calmly, she read the text.
Female voice states she “needs police here now.” Male voice in background calling her “a bitch.” Phone dropped. Open line, sounds of struggle.
Janice looked at the address. It was immediately familiar, but it took her a moment to remember why she knew it. Then she gasped. Without pause, she depressed her microphone lever and spoke.
* * *
“Any available units,” the car radio crackled. “Code Ninety-Nine at 5610 North Calispel. Officer MacLeod’s residence. All available units, respond.”
Gio slammed on his brakes and cranked the wheel, whipping his patrol car around. Then he buried the accelerator. The police cruiser leapt forward, the engine opening up with a throaty roar as he headed north.
* * *
Get the gun!
Katie reached the dresser first. She grasped the pistol by the grips and popped the snap with her thumb. With her bloody left hand, she clutched at the holster and pulled.
The holster slipped from her hand.
He reached her, his free hand lashing out at her. The blow caught her square in the nose, driving her back into the wall. Stunned, she flailed at the holster. Her wet fingers were beginning to go numb. She found one of the belt loops and pinched. With her right hand, she jerked the gun from the holster.
Another crushing punch thundered into her face, this one flush in the eye. Stars ricocheted through her vision. A forceful slap knocked the gun from her hand and sent it clattering away.
He took a fistful of her hair and yanked, pulling her forward to the ground. Her vision cleared just as he jammed her face into the wooden floor of her bedroom. She felt his knee between her shoulder blades. The weight of his body pressed down on her, pinning her to the ground.
“Not so tough without a gun, are you?” he taunted her. “Without that, you’re just another worthless bitch.”
Katie struggled to breath. She flailed with her arms, trying to find purchase on something, trying to dislodge him from his position of control.
He chuckled darkly. “You can try as much as you want. It won’t matter. I’m stronger than you. Much stronger.” His voice took on a faraway note. “Finally, I’m much stronger than you.”
Think, Katie! Don’t let him beat you! Think!
“Cops,” Katie wheezed,” are…coming…”
She felt his motion shift and heard his voice nearer to her ear. “Maybe so. Maybe they’ll even catch me this time. But not before I lay the whammo on you.” He pressed the cold blade against her cheek. “So it really doesn’t matter, does it?”
Katie stopped struggling. She let out a whimper of fear.
“That’s more like it,” he said. “Now, don’t move.”
The weight slid off her shoulders, but the blade remained resting against her face. He tore aside her robe, baring her skin. He paused for a moment. Katie felt his knife hand tremble. A cold, sick feeling broke out through her entire body. She pushed it away. Instead, she focused her anger.
Then she heard the clattering noise of his belt unbuckling.
Now! It has to be now!
Katie waited.
The unmistakable sound of a zipper descending seemed to fill the room.
You can’t let this happen. Not again.
Next came the rustle of his jeans as he pushed them over his hips.
Now!
Katie waited.
When she felt the rigid warmth of his erection brush against her bare buttocks, she twisted away from the knife. Whirling and sitting up, she swung her left hand blindly, fingers extended. The knife edge of her hand caught him in the temple.
He grunted in surprise.
Katie didn’t stop. She reached out with both hands and gouged her fingertips into his eyes.
A primal scream erupted from his mouth. He lashed out madly with the knife, clipping her in the shoulder with the point of the blade.
Katie yelped and let go. She scrambled backward across the wooden floor until her back slammed into the wall.
“You fucking cunt!” he yelled. His empty hand rubbed at his eyes while he held the knife out in front of him, slashing defensively from side to side. “You blinded me!”
Katie heard her own breath racing in and out of her lungs. She watched him in horror as he rose to his feet.
Where were the police?
Crouching in the corner, with the bed to her left and the wall to her right, she felt like a trapped animal. She told herself that she should get up, scramble over the bed and run out of the house. Before she could react, she heard a siren in the distance. Momentary relief washed over her.
He removed his hand from his face. Blinking, he looked around the room. For a moment, she wondered if he’d be able to see her. Then he cocked his head slightly and his gaze locked onto her.
“I hear them coming,” he rasped. “And I can still see you.”
Katie tensed herself to leap to her feet.
“You’re fucking dead, bitch,” he growled, and stepped forward.
At that moment, Katie spotted the dark black metal of her gun resting on the floor, slightly underneath the bed. She lunged for it, clutching it in her bloody hands.
His heavy thudding footsteps seemed to shake the world as he drew nearer.
Range-master Sergeant Morgan’s booming voice over-shadowed even that sound as she remembered his frequent advice for taking down an enemy combatant.
Fire into the pelvic girdle.
She tightened her grip on the gun.
Break the body’s support.
Katie swung the gun toward his advancing figure.
If a man can’t walk, he can’t fight.
Without aiming, she pointed the pistol toward his waist and slapped the trigger.
The gun barked in her hands, the muzzle flashing.
He didn’t stop.
She fired again. And again. The gun bucked in her hands as she brought the sights back to bear on his pelvic girdle. She blasted a fourth time, then a fifth.
He paused, then stumbled brokenly backward. With a loud crash, he collapsed to the ground only a few feet from her. His arms and chest shuddered.
Katie indexed, placing her trigger finger along the side of the pistol. She stared at the quivering heap of evil on her bedroom floor through the sights of her gun. Rage suffused her. Her own hand trembled with fury.
He tried to rape me.
He tried to kill me.
In my own home.
He should die.
With some effort, she steadied her hand. The unmistakable yelp and wail of police sirens rose in volume as they grew closer. The acrid smell of cordite and the coppery odor of blood filled her nostrils. Katie drew a bead on the back of her attacker’s head, her trained eye focusing on the front sight. She moved her finger from the indexed position onto the trigger.
He should die.
A gurgling breath leaked out of his mouth.
Katie pressed the trigger slightly, swallowing in anticipation. She could do it. She knew she could. All it would take is for her to apply few pounds of pressure on the trigger and a 186-grain bullet would blast into the back of his head.
Blood coursed down her fingers and dripped from her extended hands onto the floor. The dollops that landed on the wooden floor seemed louder than her own breathing, louder than the approaching sirens.
All she had to do was squeeze. Kill him. Kill the memory of Phil. Just another pound or two of pressure and the gun would explode with the same fury and pain she’d carried with her all these past years. The blast would fill the room. The gun would leap backward in her hands. The bullet would sizzle through the air, impact his head and end his miserable life. No one would know any better.<
br />
She would feel good about it.
She would be free.
She could do it.
Another wheezing breath came out of him.
He should die.
Katie MacLeod lowered her gun.
1026 hours
Gio screeched to a halt in front of Katie’s house. He leapt out of the patrol car, leaving the engine running and the door standing open. He sprinted up her walkway, his long legs eating up the ground quickly. At the same time, he drew his sidearm on the run. At her door, he stopped and checked the knob.
Locked.
Gio drove his shoulder into the door.
It didn’t budge.
He cursed loudly, stepped back and delivered a powerful, thrusting kick directly next to the doorknob. With a crash, the doorjamb shattered. The door swung open and Gio dashed inside, his gun extended in front of him.
“MacLeod?” he shouted. He scanned the living room and kitchen for any movement. The bathroom door stood open, the remnants of steam still visible on the mirror. Another siren drew closer, followed by another set of tires screeching to a stop.
He could detect the unmistakable scent of fired gunpowder hovering in the air. And something else, too, but it was a moment before he recognized the odor.
Blood.
“MacLeod?” he shouted again. “Where are you?”
The only room that remained was the bedroom. He shuffled toward it, his gun trained on the doorway.
“I’m in here,” Katie called out weakly. Then, a moment later, she added, “Code Four.”
Gio lowered his gun but didn’t holster. He strode quickly into the room. Katie sat with her back to the wall on the far side of the bed. She’d drawn her knees up to her chest and wrapped herself in her bloodstained terry cloth robe. Her wrist rested on a raised knee. A still-smoking automatic dangled from her hand.
“Are you all right?” Gio asked.
Katie didn’t answer. Instead, she stared at the ground in front of her. Gio followed her gaze, moving around the foot of the bed.
In front of her lay a man, collapsed in a twisted heap, a bloody knife still clutched in his hand.
Gio covered the man with his own gun and brushed the knife away with his foot. The blade skittered and spun across the wooden floor. Then he reached for his radio.
“Adam-254, situation is Code Four here,” he transmitted. “I need medics to this location.” He hesitated, then added, “Two ambulances.”
“Copy.”
“And start a supervisor,” he said. “This is an officer-involved shooting.”
Behind him, Gio heard the stomping of heavy feet. Before him, he heard the rasping, gurgling breath of the downed suspect. He ignored both sounds. Instead, he stepped over the bent form and knelt in front of Katie. His uniform blocked her view of the attacker. Gio looked into Katie’s eyes. He waited until their focus shifted and met his own.
“You did it,” he told her softly. “You’re okay.”
Part V
AFTERMATH
RIVER CITY, WASHINGTON
I sit and savor that I’m alive
Abandon the world to die and thrive
Moment by black moment passes me by
Beneath a weeping sky.
Rebecca Battaglia
TWENTY-ONE
Friday May 9th
1406 hours
Detective John Tower stood on the fringe of the crime scene. He watched as Detectives Finch and Elias from Major Crimes worked the scene. The pair was an efficient tandem and he knew he shouldn’t resent them for being inside the yellow tape, examining evidence and espousing theories. It was their job. Moreover, this was an officer-involved shooting, so it fell under the purview of Major Crimes. It wasn’t their fault he was on the sidelines, so he shouldn’t be pissed at them for it.
But he was.
He stood at the front of his car, sipping terrible convenience store coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The acid in the foul brew made his stomach gurgle in protest, but he ignored it. Instead, he watched the hustle and bustle of the crime scene. Watched Elias direct Diane from Forensics and other support personnel this way and that. Watched Finch’s careful contemplation. He watched it all happen outside the residence and then he watched it all drift gradually inside as a careful, measured, recorded process.
A few minutes later, Ray Browning arrived. The compact, cocoa-skinned detective gave Tower a soft, sympathetic smile before ducking under the yellow crime scene tape.
Tower didn’t smile back.
He knew he shouldn’t resent Ray, either. But he did.
Lieutenant Crawford stood inside the crime scene perimeter, overseeing the activity but giving very little direction. Everyone knew their job, so little was necessary. He glanced over at Tower. Even at the distance of forty yards or so, Tower could read the disgust plainly on the lieutenant’s face.
Everyone knows their job, all right.
Tower held Crawford’s gaze, refusing to look away.
And my job is to stand here and watch. To have it rubbed in my face.
Crawford stared back until one of the crime scene photo-graphers approached a few moments later and asked him a question. He broke away and spoke with her. After that, he studiously ignored Tower.
“I had him,” Tower whispered. “I fucking had him, and I blew it.”
A dark green Lincoln pulled to a stop across the street. The Prosecuting Attorney, Patrick Hinote, exited along with Julie Avery. Both approached Tower. Hinote offered his hand. Tower shook it without much conviction.
Avery greeted him with a nod.
“Not how we’d have planned it, huh?” Hinote remarked, motioning toward the house.
Tower shook his head.
“What do you know?” the Prosecutor asked.
Tower took a sip of the brackish coffee. He eyed the lawyer for a moment, then said, “He attacked one of our officers. She shot him. They’re both up at the hospital.”
Hinote nodded, his expression calm and open. When Tower didn’t continue, he asked, “I’m sure there’s more to it than that, right?”
Tower motioned toward Crawford. “You can get it from him.”
Hinote gave Tower a confused look, but said nothing. Without another word, he turned and headed toward the lieutenant.
Tower watched him go. Then he peeled off the plastic lid on his cup and dumped the remainder of his coffee onto the black asphalt of the street. Turning, he headed toward the car.
“Wait.” Julie Avery’s voice stopped him as he opened the driver’s door.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “What?”
Avery cleared her throat. “You said the officer was up at the hospital?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he all right?”
“She,” Tower corrected. “And I don’t know.”
“She? Who was it?”
“Katie MacLeod.”
Avery’s eyes widened slightly. “She was the decoy, right?”
Tower nodded.
“And he attacked her?”
“That’s what I said.”
Avery walked around the nose of his car and to the passenger side. She tried the door handle, but it was locked. “Open it,” she instructed Tower.
“Why?”
“Because I need a ride to the hospital, that’s why.”
Tower regarded her for a moment, then nodded. He flipped the door lock switch. Avery opened the passenger door and got into the car without a word. Tower did the same. He started the car and drove away from the crime scene.
1442 hours
Beeps.
He heard beeps.
Not pleasant ones, either. No, these were insistent, shrill, accusatory beeps. He listened to the machine that made them, knowing in his rational mind that there was no emotion behind the monotonous sounds. But his rage wouldn’t listen.
He heard his mother.
You are the reason my entire life has been wasted.
His father.
You little whore’s son. You’ll never be shit.
Maybe they were both right.
Beep… Beep… Beep.
He pushed the medication button in time with the beeps.
He wanted to go away.
He stared at the machine. He thought of how close he’d come to…to becoming something. Would his father have ever been proud? Would he admit who the better man was? Oh, he wouldn’t show it, but if he found out his little Jeffie was the Rainy Day Killer, there’d have been a spark of pride that would’ve inevitably fired off in the old man’s chest.
If the old man was still alive, that is.
A weak smile touched his lips.
Of course, if he was in hell, looking up, he’d have been proud, too.
But now what was he? A failure. Just like his mother said, like his father said. Even the kids in school, all those years ago, had been right. He was a broken failure, destined for prison. Still only the Rainy Day Rapist, a ridiculous name.
Motion flashed in the doorway. The dark blue of a police uniform swaggered toward him. The creak of leather seemed to dance with the beeping of his machine, with his mother’s cruel tones, his father’s harsh voice.
A leathery face appeared next to his. A closely cropped mustache seemed to be almost burned into the man’s upper lip. The sour stench of coffee and cigarettes rolled off his tongue as he growled out his words.
“What the fuck are you smiling about, you piece of shit?”
Jeffrey forced his smile wider, a ball of spite beginning to grow in his belly.
The old cop smiled back, but his eyes were as cold as death. Jeffrey could see that even though the man was undoubtedly assigned to guard him, he’d much preferred to have throttled him. The hard eyes said it all.
“The doctor says one of MacLeod’s bullets hit your spine,” the cop whispered gruffly. “He says you might be a cripple.”
A cripple? Somehow, the karma didn’t surprise him. Why not? Everything else bad has happened to him. Why not that, too?
“I hope not,” the cop said to him. “You know why?”