Heroes Often Fail rcc-2

by Frank Zafiro

  “Hey, girl,” he said.

  “Hey,” she said back, her voice froggy from crying and thick with sleep.

  “You feel better?”

  She stretched and sat up. “A little.”

  “Good.”

  Katie stood and went to him in the chair, curling up on his lap and kissing his cheek. Then she nestled her head into his neck. She felt the warmth of his skin and could smell the remnants of his Irish Spring soap. When he wrapped his arms around her, she pressed closer to him, enjoying the strength in his arms and his hands.

  “Thanks for taking me home, Stef,” she whispered.

  He caressed her back with his hands. “You’re welcome.”

  She sat curled in his lap, silent and thoughtless.

  1738 hours

  “-criminals instead of honest, tax-paying citizens, goddamit!”

  Browning heard Nancy Henderson’s shrill voice the moment he opened the front door. Tower and Billings followed him into the house. Willow and a rookie he didn’t know stood in the living room like statues, ignoring Nancy. He noticed that she was drinking another beer and had taken over Fred’s place in the chair. Fred sat sullenly on the couch.

  Nancy noticed him. “Did you get your little search warrant, Mister Big Shot?”

  Browning tossed a copy onto her lap. “That’s your copy,” he said and held up the original for her to see. “This is signed by Judge Webster.”

  Nancy ignored the packet of papers on her lap and leaned forward to look at Browning’s original.

  “Right here,” Browning pointed at the judge’s signature.

  Nancy Henderson snarled at him and spat at the document. The spittle landed on the paperwork before Browning could pull it aside.

  “Fuck you and that judge,” she said and spat again, this time on the floor at Browning’s feet.

  Browning gave her a quizzical look. “You know you just spit on your own floor, right?

  Nancy smiled sarcastically and raised the can of beer to her lips.

  Browning turned to Willow. “When that can is through, she gets no more while we’re here.”

  “That’s the same can as before,” Willow told him.

  “You think I’m an alcoholic!” yelled Nancy. “A kidnapper and an alcoholic? Oh, I am going to sue the shit out of you. All of you!”

  “Keep them in their seats,” Browning instructed Willow. Then he waved to Tower, who took a photograph of the room.

  “You can’t take pictures in my house without permission,” screeched Nancy. “That’s a violation of my rights!”

  Browning pointed to the videotape on top of the television.

  Tower photographed the tape. “This is going to get old really soon,” he muttered.

  Tower picked up the tape and handed it to Detective Ted Billings, who put it in a brown paper evidence bag.

  “Going to?” the overweight Billings wheezed. “I’d say that particular exit is already in our rear-view mirror.”

  Browning said nothing and continued his search.

  1910 hours

  Lieutenant Crawford shifted the lit cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. He blew large puffs of acrid blue smoke out in Browning’s direction.

  “Basically, you’ve got nothing,” he said.

  Browning shrugged. “We’ve got the tape. We’ve got pictures.”

  Crawford scowled. “Nothing.”

  Browning didn’t answer. Crawford was right. It wasn’t much.

  “Tell me about the attic again,” Crawford ordered, blowing out another puff of blue smoke.

  “It looks mostly unused. There’s boxes and crap everywhere and the place is dusty. The dust is mostly settled, except in the entryway and a spot about fifteen feet from the door in the center of the room.”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “I can show you.”

  Crawford shook his head. “Just tell me.”

  “Well, it looks like there was a box or a chest or something there not too long ago. And it looks like one or both of them made a few trips to it recently.”

  “How recently?”

  “Hard to say. Probably within a week.”

  “What else?”

  “There were some broken items up there, too.”

  Crawford’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of broken items?”

  “A lamp and an old china doll.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  Browning shrugged. “With this woman, who knows? But both items were broken recently.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not in the attic.”

  “Any outbuildings?” Crawford asked through another blue cloud.

  “There’s a detached garage. There’s some junk, but room enough for their car.”

  “And you did an AVR on both of them?”

  Browning nodded. “No vans registered to either one.”

  Crawford took a deep breath and sighed. “Sounds like you crapped out here.”

  “As far as evidence goes, yeah.”

  “Pull the others and let’s go,” Crawford said.

  Browning returned to the living room and motioned to the two detectives and two uniforms there. “We’re finished,” he said to them.

  “Didn’t find what you were looking for, Mr. Big Shot?” Nancy said sarcastically.

  “Thanks for your cooperation,” Browning intoned calmly.

  Nancy got out of her chair and followed the five men as they filed outside. “That’ll teach you to harass innocent people!” she shouted at them. “Wait until my attorney gets a hold of you!”

  None of the men answered. As Browning closed the small gate at the end of the walkway, he heard Nancy Henderson burst into tears.

  “Find my little grandbaby,” she sobbed. “Please?”

  Browning didn’t answer.

  Willow and the rookie uniform drove away, probably already snagged by Dispatch for the next call. Tower and Crawford lingered at Browning’s car.

  “What do you think?” Crawford asked him.

  “I think they’re wrong,” Browning said.

  Crawford turned to Tower. The younger detective nodded in agreement. “She’s crazy, like Kopriva said, but I think she’s crazy like a fox. And he’s a creepy fucker.”

  Crawford puffed quietly on his cigar, thinking. Then he asked Browning, “No signs of a kid in the house?”

  “Except for the rented videotape, no.”

  “No blood, nothing?”

  “No.”

  “And they don’t own a van.”

  “No van.”

  Crawford drew deep on his cigar and let out the smoke in a long sigh. “I think we’re done here, detective.”

  “For now,” Browning said. “But I don’t think this is going to end well.”

  “They never do,” Crawford said. He turned and strode back to his car.

  Browning watched him go, then turned and met Tower’s eyes. He saw his own thoughts reflected back at him.

  “Just once,” he said, more to himself than to Tower. “Just once, I’d like one to end well.”

  2101 hours

  Lieutenant Robert Saylor stepped up to the podium in front of Graveyard Shift. The buzz of conversation faded.

  “Listen up,” he said. “There’s been a change of plans on the missing girl situation. Apparently, the witness was mistaken or lied about the description of the suspect.”

  There was a rustle as several officers drew out their pocket notebooks.

  “We’re definitely still looking for a blue van. No description on the driver. The suspect that grabbed the kid is a white male, slim to medium build, about six feet tall. That’s it on the description.”

  There was a hushed surprise from the graveyard officers.

  “So they still want us to stop blue vans, El-Tee?” Thomas Chisolm asked.

  Saylor nodded. “Yes. But we’re looking for a white male suspect now.”

  “In other words,” James Kahn said sarcastically, “back to n
ormal.”

  Saylor gave Kahn a hard look. “In other words, that’s the suspect description.”

  Kahn didn’t reply.

  Saylor continued. “Most of you know about MacLeod’s situation, but for those of you who don’t, here it is. She’s on administrative leave for a day or two after this morning’s incident.”

  The room became suddenly silent. Administrative leave was usually associated with two things. Most of the time, it meant that either a serious investigation, possibly criminal, was going on or an officer-involved shooting had occurred.

  “MacLeod had court today. While she was walking back from the courthouse she came up on a DV situation on the Post Street Bridge. The male half grabbed the couple’s baby from the female. When MacLeod tried to stop him, he threw the baby over the bridge.”

  The silence remained in the room for another beat, and then the place exploded with surprised shouts. Saylor held up his hands for quiet.

  “Emergency Services have been working the river all day, but they haven’t found the baby yet. The suspect’s in custody.”

  “Was he mental or something?” Battaglia asked.

  Saylor nodded. “I think so. Vietnam Vet.”

  Thomas Chisolm blanched. “He was a vet?”

  “Yeah, I think that was what the report said.”

  “What was his name?”

  Saylor glanced down at his notes. “His name was Kevin Yeager.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Chisolm muttered. Then, to Saylor, he said, “I just booked him into jail a day or two ago. He was down at the State Theater hassling the mother.”

  “What’d you book him for?”

  “Theft.”

  Saylor raised an eyebrow.

  “He didn’t pay before he went into the theater,” Chisolm explained. “It’s the only crime I had.”

  Saylor nodded in understanding.

  “And he’s out already,” Chisolm said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “That, ladies and gentlemen,” Officer James Kahn said, “is your criminal justice system at work.”

  And this time, Saylor didn’t give him a dirty look.

  2308 hours

  “Baker-122?” chirped the police radio.

  Connor O’Sullivan looked over at Battaglia. The dark-haired officer sat with his chin on his chest, dozing.

  “You going to get that?” Sully asked.

  Without opening his eyes, Battaglia’s hand snaked out and grabbed the mike. He brought it to his lips.

  “Twenty-two,” he said.

  “Fire is on scene with a vehicle fire near T.J. Meenach bridge, requesting police respond.”

  “Great,” Battaglia said. “Traffic control for the hose patrol.”

  He copied the call and replaced the mike without opening his eyes. Sully shook his head in mock disgust.

  “This is the nineties, you know,” he told Battaglia. “Cops aren’t supposed to sleep away the graveyard shift anymore.”

  “I’m not sleeping,” Battaglia said.

  “How do you figure that?”

  “I’m not sleeping,” Battaglia said, “because of all the Irish chatter in this car. Now, wake me up a block before we get there.”

  “Och aye, yer a useless feck, ain’tch ye?” Sully asked, but Battaglia was already breathing the even breaths of a light sleeper. He shook his head again, this time in wonder. He didn’t know how his partner was able to catnap like he did. He himself slept like a ton of bricks and couldn’t take a nap if his life depended on it. If he knew he had to get up in an hour or two, he couldn’t even fall asleep in the first place. But Battaglia could drop off at a moment’s notice.

  Sully swept down Alberta and crossed Northwest Boulevard. He approached the T.J. Meenach Bridge, which spanned the Looking Glass River at a place where it was low and wide. The rotating red lights of the fire trucks down below the bridge on Pettit Drive danced and winked in the darkness. Sully turned off before he reached the bridge itself.

  The cool, wet air from the river flowed through his open window. He nudged Battaglia as he pulled to a stop behind the fire truck. His partner woke up immediately and exited the car without preamble.

  A stocky Fire Lieutenant approached them, his hair tousled from sleep. “Evening, gents,” he said.

  Sully and Battaglia both nodded to him.

  “What’s up?” Sully asked.

  The Fire Lieutenant pointed at the charred hulk just off the roadway. “It’s definitely an arson job,” he told them. “Even with all the water we dumped on it, you can still smell the gasoline.”

  Sully and Battaglia stared at him, waiting. If it was an arson, the Fire Department had investigators for that. It wasn’t a police matter.

  “It’s burned pretty good,” the Lieutenant continued. “I don’t know if there will be any evidence, other than for the arson itself.”

  “What other evidence are you looking for?” Sully asked.

  The Fire Lieutenant shook his head. “Not us. You guys.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Dispatch didn’t tell you?”

  Sully shook his head. So did Battaglia.

  The Fire Lieutenant shrugged it off. “It doesn’t matter.” He pointed at the charred hulk. “Anyway, I don’t know what color it was, but that definitely used to be a van.”

  Sully and Battaglia exchanged glances, then looked back at the Fire Lieutenant.

  “You guys are looking for blue vans, right? For that little girl?”

  SIXTEEN

  Thursday, March 16, 1995

  Day Shift

  0531 hours

  Kopriva lost himself in her eyes. He felt her pulling him closer and deeper in every way she could-with her arms around his back, her heels behind his calves, her thighs against his hips. But it was her eyes that pulled him in the most.

  He lowered his face to hers and kissed her. The warmth of her lips and tongue washed over him.

  The light of early morning spilled through the window, filling the room with a dream-like quality.

  A small moan escaped her lips and her motions became more urgent.

  He matched her urgency. He felt the crescendo build slowly until it had reached its peak, first hers, then his and then they both sank into quiet stillness.

  Finally, he spoke. “I can stay, if you want.”

  She didn’t answer right away.

  “I have plenty of vacation left,” he said.

  Still, she didn’t answer. She touched the hair on his chest lightly with her fingertips.

  He respected her silence and lay still with her. He wondered again if she’d heard what he said to her before she drifted off to sleep the night before.

  Finally, she said, “I think I’d like to spend some time alone today. Just to work things out in my head.”

  “Whatever you need,” Kopriva said. “Take as much time as you want.”

  “I don’t have to go back to work until tomorrow night.”

  “If you’re ready.”

  Katie shrugged against his shoulder. “I’ll be ready. I just need some time alone.”

  0541 hours

  Neal Grady had been taking his walks along Ohio Avenue for at least fifteen years. He lived in West Central and the way the dirt road looped in a giant half-circle made it the perfect route for a walk. His wife, Betty, used to walk it with him every morning until she passed on three years ago. Now it was just he and his Labrador Buck that made the trek every morning.

  When he started his walk this morning, he was in a nostalgic mood. For him, being nostalgic wasn’t a good thing. He didn’t tend to remember happy things. Or rather, when he did remember them, what usually came to mind next was how much better those times were than now. And that was depressing.

  His sister, Ellen, was a diagnosed manic-depressive and sometimes he wondered if it ran in the family.

  This morning he took little joy in the view of the valley below or the Looking Glass River that flowed there. Instead, he focused on how there
were two new houses going up along the dirt road at about the center of his walk. There’d been at least five houses that went in the year before. Before long, Neal Grady feared, his entire route would be lined with houses.

  At least the houses were clumped together, he thought to himself as he strode sullenly past.

  “Buck!” he called the Labrador away from the front yard of the newest house that was being lived in. He wondered how they felt about having more neighbors.

  Things were better in the old days, he thought. When the only house on Ohio was the one that the city provided for the dam worker. It was quieter then.

  Buck barked and bounded ahead of him and past the final house. Neal Grady increased his pace temporarily to get past the goddamn metropolis that was springing up along his walk route. He banged his walking stick on the dusty road as he tramped past.

  That’s what was next, he figured. They’d pave the road. Or worse yet, tar and oil it. Forget the fact that ninety percent of the road still ran along empty fields and was just fine as a dirt road. Those new people were bound to complain to the city and those pansies down at City Hall would give in and oil the road.

  He continued around a bend, then slowed his pace. This was more like it. No houses for another mile and then the road would curve again and back into the populated area of West Central.

  The dark nostalgia stuck with him even after he passed the houses on his route. He remembered Betty and how she’d always called him an old curmudgeon when he’d complained to her about the first houses that had gone in along Ohio. He’d growled at her about having to find something sunny about everything. Now when he thought of that, he felt a stab of loneliness, and a little guilt, too. He wished he had treated her better when she was still with him.

  He walked along, thumping his walking stick on the dirt road, rolling in his dark thoughts, when he realized Buck was nowhere to be seen.

  “Damn dog,” he muttered and called out for him. “Buck! C’mere!”

  The dog answered him almost immediately with a bark. Neal spotted his head and tail about twenty yards ahead and in the field to his left.

  “Git over here!” he shouted.

  The dog barked back and started toward him. Then he turned around and trotted back to where he started.