Heroes Often Fail rcc-2

by Frank Zafiro

  “He’s clear,” Lindsay said. “Got a couple of Forty-Eight entries from last year, though. Big surprise there. Oh, and no protection orders.”

  “Thanks,” Chisolm said, gathering up Kevin’s belongings and placing them in a large plastic baggie that he removed from his back pocket.

  “You going to jail?” Lindsay asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Not the Psych Ward?”

  “Nope.”

  “He hit you or something?”

  Chisolm shook his head and sealed the plastic baggie.

  “What, then?”

  Chisolm walked around to his driver’s door. “Theft.”

  “Theft?”

  “Yep. He didn’t pay admission.”

  Lindsay snorted. “That’ll get dumped by the prosecutor in a heartbeat, Tom. It’s not even worth the time.”

  “You finding many vans up south tonight, Bill?”

  Lindsay’s mouth hung open in surprise. Chisolm slipped into the driver’s seat and started the car. He pulled away from the curb, leaving Lindsay in that pose.

  Chisolm drove toward the jail. He glanced up into his rear-view mirror and saw that Kevin was staring at him.

  “You did me ugly, brother,” Kevin said gruffly.

  “Just keeping you out of trouble,” Chisolm said.

  Kevin shook his head adamantly. “No way. You’re a traitor. You’re doing me worse than those rotten dinks ever did.”

  “You’ve gotta listen to your doctor, Kevin. You’ve gotta take your meds.”

  “He’s my goddamn son!” Kevin raged at him and slammed his face into the plexiglass shield between the drivers compartment and the back seat. The self-inflicted blow seemed to faze him momentarily. His eyes unfocused, then he leaned back and said nothing.

  Chisolm drove the rest of the way to jail in silence, too.

  0244 hours

  Katie MacLeod stared at a picture of Amy Dugger on a swing, her black hair trailing behind her as she was caught sweeping toward the camera lens. She bore the irrepressible smile of youth, of innocence. It was a smile that didn’t know grief, didn’t know worry, didn’t know death or sex or tragedy. That smile just knew the pure joy of swinging back and forth with a parent watching.

  The quiet tick of the clock on the mantle marked the slow passage of time for Katie. She had long ago given up wondering if she drew this assignment because of her gender. If it was true or if it wasn’t, she wasn’t mad about it any more. And, much to her surprise, she wasn’t bored either.

  Kathy Dugger had finally drifted off to sleep on the couch, wrapped in a fluffy blanket. When Katie had suggested she go off to bed or get a larger blanket, the woman had refused. But she’d been considerate enough to tell Katie why. The blanket was the one Amy wrapped herself in when she watched cartoons on Saturday mornings.

  Katie had struggled to keep her composure when she heard that and was barely successful.

  Since Kathy had fallen asleep, Katie tried to move around as little as possible. Her leather gear creaked loudly when she walked or shifted in her chair. She’d made a pot of coffee and sipped cup after cup while reading the last three months worth of Cosmopolitan and Family Circle magazines. She took three compatibility tests in the magazines to see if Kopriva was her “true love” and all three told her something different. The first little quiz said he was trouble, the second put them in the “Might Make It” category and the third, from Cosmo, told her to “Jump his bones on the way to the altar!”

  What about Stef, though? They had a nice thing, didn’t they? It was slow, it was simple, but it was nice. And it was exclusive. And fairly secret, she believed.

  What more did she want?

  For that matter, what more did he want?

  Katie sighed and sipped her coffee. Those were her mother’s favorite questions, too. She pretended she didn’t care about the answers to them, but she knew she did.

  She worried about Kopriva. She wasn’t sure he was going to recover fully enough to return to patrol. If that happened, what would he do? And how would he handle her still being on the job? He didn’t seem to be so macho that it would end up being a problem, but you never knew. Not until it happened. And it wouldn’t be the first time she’d run into problems with a man over her profession.

  They were both only twenty-five, she reminded herself. Plenty of time to figure things out.

  Plenty of time.

  She stared at Amy Dugger’s picture and wondered how much time the little girl had left. Or if her time had already ran out.

  The thought depressed her and she returned to her magazine. She read over the words, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Kopriva and about Amy. She wished for the clock to tick faster and for morning to come.

  TEN

  Tuesday, March 14, 1995

  Day Shift

  0601 hours

  Amy Dugger woke from a dream of her mother to the man with scary eyes. She opened her mouth to yell, but his hand clamped down over her lips. His skin was damp and he was shivering.

  “Ah, none of that,” he whispered huskily. “No loud noises or you’ll be hurting your mommy. Get it?”

  Terrified, Amy nodded.

  He removed his hand slowly from her mouth and smiled at her. She suppressed a shudder. “Good girl,” he told her.

  Amy stared up at him, unable to avoid his scary eyes. “What time is it?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

  “It’s early yet. It’s what I’ll call our special time, Amy. Time for just you and me.”

  Amy squirmed. “I’m hungry.”

  “Really? Well, if you’re a good girl, I will make you some pancakes. I’ll even make the special ones with mouse ears. Have you ever had those, Amy?”

  She nodded. Her mother made them all the time. How had he known about special pancakes? Amy swallowed and blinked. What else did he know?

  He reached down and pushed her hair back from her face. His hands were cold and clammy on her forehead and she shivered. A look of delight went across his face.

  “Are you excited?” he whispered, leaning his face down toward her. She could smell the stale beer on his breath.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Sure you are,” he said. His smile now matched his eyes, both crazily raining down upon her. “Say it. Say you’re excited.”

  “But I’m not. I’m scared.” Tear sprang to her eyes.

  His smile hardened into a line and he glared at her. “If you’re not excited, then I’ll just have to go hurt your mommy.”

  He started to get up, but she grabbed his clammy hand. “No!”

  His eyes fixed upon her. He didn’t finish standing, but neither did he sit back down. “Then say it,” he told her.

  Amy cringed, but she forced her mouth to work. She couldn’t let anyone hurt her mommy.

  “I’m excited,” she muttered, though she didn’t know what she was supposed to be excited about. Maybe the pancakes.

  “Say it like you mean it!”

  She recoiled from his words, but forced herself to pretend. “I’m excited!”

  He smiled again and sat back down next to her. “Good. So am I.”

  Amy said nothing, but said a short prayer in her head like her mommy had taught her to do.

  Thank you, God, for not letting him hurt my mommy.

  He leaned into her again and she was overwhelmed by that same smell of stale beer. She detected another smell, too, that reminded her of her father’s face after he shaved in the mornings, except the odor was not as pleasant.

  “Now, Amy,” he told her, stroking her hair. “We are going to play a little game. And you can’t stop playing, no matter what, or I will have to go and hurt your mommy. Do you understand?”

  His scary eyes were boring into her. She swallowed and nodded at him.

  How bad could a game be?

  “Good,” he whispered.

  She could see that he was shivering, too.

  “Very, very good,” he whispered, and
then she found out how terrible his game was.

  0700 hours

  The security guard at the Public Safety Building opened the doors at two minutes before eight o’clock. Officer Will Reiser hadn’t turned the sign for the police front desk to “open” yet and the Senior Volunteer that worked in the information booth was still in the bathroom. All in all, the place was completely unprepared for the man who marched in with a dozen followers.

  “I want to see the Chief of Police!” he announced in a booming voice that could only belong to an orator of some kind. In this case, it was Bishop Reginald Hughes who owned the voice and frequently made great use of it decrying the inequities that faced the black community in River City. The source of these inequities, according to the Bishop, was often the doing of the police department.

  Will Reiser recognized him and immediately regretted agreeing to work the front desk for Officer Mark Ridgeway that day. Ridgeway was still bitter over his divorce and wasn’t much good at talking to people delicately to begin with. A shift at the front desk was like the gulag for him. The previous time back in January had resulted in three demeanor complaints.

  Still, at least Ridgeway probably earned those complaints. What Reiser saw coming at him was bound to be a complaint no matter what he did.

  “Did you hear me, sir?” the Bishop said in a voice several decibels higher than necessary. “I wish to meet with the Chief of Police. If he can take the time to talk with a few colored people, that is.”

  Reiser bristled at the comment. Say what you want about the Chief, he thought, but the one thing he isn’t is racist. He even goes to your meetings.

  He looked at the Bishop. The black man was tall and dressed sharply in a modest suit. The dozen or so people behind, all black except for one white woman, appeared to have been riled up before his grand entrance. Reiser was surprised there weren’t film crews present.

  The Bishop’s eyes shifted down to Reiser’s sign. “Are you open for business, officer? Or are you closed to the black man?”

  Reiser said nothing, but changed the sign. Then he looked up at the Bishop.

  “What can I help you with today, sir?”

  “I told you that already,” the Bishop said. “I need to talk to the Chief of Police for the River City Police Department. I desire an audience with him posthaste.”

  Reiser considered, then asked, “Regarding what?”

  The Bishop looked both shocked and pleased at the same time. “That would be none of your business, officer, but since you went and asked, anyway, I will tell you.” He glanced around at his followers and the nearly empty lobby. A few lawyers and clients were drifting toward their early court appearances. The Bishop returned his gaze to Reiser. “I want to talk to him about how his officers are singling out the black people in this community for harassment and humiliation! That is what I want to talk with him about!”

  There were several shouts of agreement from the group behind him.

  Reiser asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

  “An appointment? An appointment?” The Bishop looked at Reiser with wide eyes, then back at his constituency. “Does justice need an appointment? Does freedom need an appointment?”

  The group yelled out in agreement and several of the cries were punctuated with anger. Behind them, a single news reporter burst through the front door with a cameraman scrambling after her. “Roll film, roll film,” she yelled at the cameraman. The security guard tried to contain him and force him to go through the metal detector but the reporter brushed him aside, already talking into her cell phone.

  “This is Shawna Matheson,” she snapped into the receiver. “I need to go live, right now!”

  The Bishop leaned in toward Reiser. “Or is it just the black man that needs an appointment to see the white Chief of Police?”

  Reiser picked up the phone and dialed.

  0709 hours

  Kopriva sipped his coffee and picked up the next tip sheet. He read through it and sighed. He doubted it would be any good, but he picked up the phone anyway and dialed.

  After three rings, a male voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, sir. This is Officer Kopriva, River City PD. I’m calling you about the tip you called in last night.”

  “Oh, yeah. Did they find that girl?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Oh. So, is there a reward?”

  “For what?”

  “A reward,” the man repeated. “Like, if my tip is what helps you guys find the girl, then is there a reward for that?”

  Kopriva’s stomach burned. “Other than knowing you saved a little girl’s life and returned her to her parents, you mean?”

  “Yeah, other than that,” the man answered, unfazed.

  Kopriva shook his head in disgust. “I think they’re still trying to put something together,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” Kopriva glanced down at the tip sheet. He was tempted just to hang up on the guy because he was fairly certain he was just a gold digger, but he decided to ask a couple of questions first. “It says on the tip sheet that you saw a little girl in the passenger seat of a blue van on I-90 at about noon yesterday.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you get the license plate?”

  “No, I didn’t. I mean, I looked at it, but I didn’t write it down.”

  “Do you remember any part of it?”

  “No. But if you come across the van and tell me the plate, I know I’ll remember if that was it or not.”

  I’ll bet you would, Kopriva thought. He looked at the tip sheet and saw that all the facts listed were generic or directly out of the press release. An idea struck him.

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your name. What is it?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. “I…I thought that I could just use a code name…”

  The code name on the tip sheet was “Reptile.” Kopriva found it appropriate.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he told Reptile. “Here’s the thing. When we put out these press releases to the general public, you know that we always hold some stuff back, right?”

  “Yeah,” Reptile said.

  “Do you know why?”

  “So that if, like a crazy dude comes in and says he did it, then if he don’t know that stuff, then you know he’s full of crap, right?”

  “Exactly. Now, it sounds to me like you could be an important witness in this case, so I’m going to do something I’m not really supposed to do.”

  “What?”

  “If I do this, you can’t tell my boss, all right?”

  “Sure, brother. I’m cool.”

  Kopriva took a breath. “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m sure. What is it?” Reptile’s voice was eager.

  “Well, we think that this guy that took the little girl had a partner. And we have a description of her. What I want to do-“

  “Some babe helped him do it?”

  “It looks that way,” Kopriva said. “Now, what I want to do is give you that description and ask you if you saw that woman. Okay?”

  “Sure,” Reptile said.

  Kopriva looked up at the ceiling. He already knew the guy was a liar and he knew what he was going to say when the description was complete. He should just hang up, but he decided to be sure.

  “She was a blonde woman, about twenty-eight years old, with long hair and long nails. And…”

  “What?”

  “Well, I don’t know how else to say it. She had very large breasts.” Kopriva waited a beat, then asked, “Now, sir, I need to know something. Did you see that woman in any way in connection with that van you saw yesterday?”

  There was no hesitation. “I sure did,” Reptile said. “She was the one driving the van.”

  Kopriva hung up the phone.

  0711 hours

  In the lobby of the police department, Lieutenant Alan Hart held up his hands in a placating gestur
e. “Now, Bishop, there’s no need to speak to the Chief about this.”

  Bishop Hughes crossed his arms theatrically. “And what mighty white man are you to make this decision?”

  Hart’s eyes widened slightly, but he lowered his hands and answered. “I’m Lieutenant Hart. I’m in charge of Day Shift Patrol.”

  “It doesn’t sound to me like anyone is in charge of any shift of patrol,” The Bishop shouted.

  “Oh, I can assure you, my men are under control,” Hart told him. “They listen to me.”

  “So you’re responsible, then?”

  Hart paused. “Uh…”

  “You’re responsible for this assault on the civil liberties of the black people in this city?” The Bishop continued, waving his arms. “You orchestrated this monstrous — ”

  “No, no, no!” Hart pleaded, punctuating each protest with the palms of his open hands. “I’m just saying that my men follow orders.”

  The Bishop’s eyes flew open. His eyebrows rose in delight.

  Officer Will Reiser’s jaw dropped. He resisted the urge to bring the palm of his hand to his forehead.

  “Following orders?” The Bishop nearly screeched. “Following orders? Is that what you said?”

  “I only meant-”

  “So the jack-booted storm troopers of the River City Police Department should be forgiven because they were only following orders from the master?” He waved his arms in dramatic sweeps. “And I suppose you’ll tell me next that all black people need to report to relocations camps? Or would you prefer death camps?”

  Hart tried to mouth a word, but no sound came out.

  “Unbelievable!” The Bishop scoffed. He turned to the small but growing assembled group and appeared to notice the camera for the first time. He drew himself up and stared directly into the camera. “I’m glad the citizens of this town are seeing this police department for what it really is. A man of my stature can’t even get in to see the Chief of Police over a matter of Constitutional violations against an entire race of people. Instead I have to stand here and be threatened by one of his minions!”

  Hart cleared his throat. “I…I didn’t threaten you.”

  The Bishop whirled back to face him. “Oh, you most certainly did. And on camera, no less.”