Under a Raging Moon rcc-1

by Frank Zafiro

  Katie continued. “Look at the situation. You’re working hard, you work out, you don’t drink, right? She is the one who is treating you like hell. She cheated on you. Anyone would get mad. It’s understandable. It wasn’t right to hit her. You know that and so do I, but it isn’t something that you should go back to prison for. If you fight us, though, that is definitely where you will go. If you cooperate here, I can put all that in my report. I can call your P.O. We can work things out.”

  She watched him carefully.

  “It’s your only chance, Steve.”

  Steve stared at her intently throughout her entire speech. A long, tense moment of silence followed.

  It didn’t work. He’s going to fight and someone is going to die here tonight.

  When he spoke, he spoke carefully, the edge out of his voice. “You’d really call him and explain?”

  Katie let out an inward sigh. “Yes. Absolutely.”

  Steve sighed, then nodded slowly. “Okay. What do you want me to do?”

  Katie directed him to turn around and quickly handcuffed him. It required two pairs of handcuffs linked together because of his size and broad back. The small, silver cuffs looked frail on his large wrists. Katie imagined that he could snap them if he wished.

  “Steve, you made the right decision,” she told him.

  “I hope so.”

  “Is that how it works?” Julie chirped at Katie. “You are all willing to go to bat for a woman-beater?”

  “Did you ever hit her before tonight, Steve?” Katie asked him quietly.

  “No. Never.”

  Katie turned to Julie. “He said you hit him tonight, too, Julie.”

  “I did not. He’s a lying ex-con.”

  “Has he ever hit you before, Julie?”

  “Yes. All the time. I’m a battered woman.”

  “What you are is a cheater who got caught,” Katie told her stiffly.

  “We’re not married!”

  Katie stared at her, disbelieving.

  Steve spoke up, his voice neutral again. “Officer, can we go? I’d like to leave and never come back here again.”

  “Sure.” Katie led him toward the door.

  “YOU FAGGOT!” Julie screamed.

  Steve stopped, turned his head slightly and said in the same even voice, “My mother was right about you, Julie. You’re just a little bitch.”

  Julie gave a shocked sound.

  “I agree,” Katie said, and led Steve out the door.

  “I heard that, you dyke!” Julie screamed after her. “I am going to file a complaint! What’s your badge number?” She tried to follow them, but Chisolm stopped her.

  “Ma’am,” he said in the same flat voice he had used before. “You might want to shut that sewer of yours, or I will take his word for it and arrest you for assault. Then you can make that complaint from jail. You understand me?”

  Katie grinned at Julie’s silence.

  “Good,” Chisolm said. “Now go back inside and close your door.”

  Katie heard a moment of silence, the scuffle of feet, then a loud slam.

  “I’m glad someone can shut her up,” Steve muttered.

  Katie struggled not to laugh. Not only was the situation perversely funny to her, but the relief of stress from a few moments ago made her giddy. She barely managed to hold her laughter inside.

  She reached her patrol car, searched Steve and put him in the back seat. When she closed the door, Chisolm appeared beside her again.

  “Jesus, Tom, will you stop sneaking up on me?” she joked.

  Chisolm grinned for a moment, then turned serious. “Well done,” he said with a nod. “Very well done.” Then he turned and walked toward his car.

  “Thanks,” Katie said. She watched him go and felt a flush of pride. Chisolm was one of the most respected street officers on the department, if not the most. He didn’t throw compliments around lightly.

  Katie slid into the driver’s seat of her patrol car. She felt good.

  “Officer?”

  Katie glanced at Steve in the rear-view mirror. “Yes?”

  “Thanks.”

  Katie nodded. “Okay, Steve. We’ll work it out.”

  Steve nodded, then stared out the window.

  Katie started the car and headed toward the jail. She felt a pang of guilt, because she knew that even with her phone call to Steve’s probation officer, he was almost certainly going to be revoked. She hadn’t lied to him exactly, but she’d sold him a false bill of goods. Was that all right? Did her half-lie serve a greater good, protecting her and Chisolm, not to mention Steve himself, from a dangerous confrontation?

  She knew the answer was yes, but she couldn’t shake that small sense of guilt. Despite her elation at the success of the call and Chisolm’s compliment, it ranked as quite possibly the longest trip to jail she’d ever made.

  2210 hours

  Kopriva waited restlessly for the data channel to return his driver’s check. The car in front of him wasn’t a maggot car, but the woman blew through the light at Division and Indiana right in front of him, so he stopped her. Usually, he would have let her go with a warning.

  Usually.

  But tonight he was grumpy.

  Katie had not even looked his way all through roll call. He watched for her down in the sally-port as he waited for a car, hoping to make a plan to get coffee at two or three in the morning, once things slowed down, but she didn’t show up before he had to leave.

  “Baker-123.”

  Kopriva clicked the mike, an informal response that most dispatchers frowned upon. But, Janice manned the data channel tonight, and she didn’t mind.

  “Wilson is not in locally. DOL is clear through 1998 with lenses.”

  Kopriva clicked the mike again. He’d already written the ticket for failing to stop for a steady red light. He exited his vehicle and approached Wilson. The date on her driver’s license put her at forty-three, but she looked ten years younger, dressed in slacks and a business-like blouse. He hadn’t smelled any alcohol on her breath and figured she just worked really late.

  Or maybe she was fooling around with some guy. Who knew?

  “Mrs. Wilson,” he recited, “this is a notice of infraction for failing to stop at a steady red light at Division and Indiana. Please sign here.” He held out the ticket book and a pen, indicating the line for her signature. “Signing is not an admission of guilt, only a promise to respond within fifteen days.”

  “But that light was yellow,” she protested, not reaching for the proffered ticket book.

  “It was red, ma’am.”

  “Well, I would like to tell you my side of the story.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t care about your side of the story. You failed to stop for the light. I am citing you. Please sign.” Kopriva did not raise his voice.

  “That isn’t fair,” she told him. Her eyes narrowed and her face tightened.

  “Ma’am, one of your options is to go to court and tell the judge your side of the story.”

  “No. I won’t sign it.”

  Kopriva paused, staring at her.

  “I won’t sign it,” she repeated.

  Kopriva suppressed a sigh. “Ma’am, if you do not sign this, I will be forced to write you a criminal citation for failing to sign a notice of infraction. If you refuse to sign that, you will be booked into jail.”

  She looked at him, obviously shocked at the word ‘jail.’ “Oh, that is just ridiculous.”

  “It’s the law.”

  She considered, and then reached for the ticket book. She angrily scrawled her name on the ticket. “I want your name and badge number,” she insisted.

  “It’s on the ticket,” Kopriva told her, handing her the driver’s copy. He walked briskly back to his car.

  Sitting behind the wheel, he shut off the spotlight with his left hand and punched the button to extinguish the bright take-down lights on top of the car. The woman signaled, paused, and pulled out into traffic. Kopriva slid the ticket
in the visor above him.

  He didn’t feel any better.

  He reached for his mike to clear the stop when a shrill tone broke over his radio.

  2215 hours

  Patrol Captain Michael Reott sat at the head of the table. He’d just finished a short introduction outlining what he hoped to see any task force accomplish. He also covered some of the pitfalls he hoped such an endeavor would avoid. Lieutenant Hart, Lieutenant Saylor and Sgt. Michaels occupied seats at the table with him. Michaels sat in for the vacationing Lieutenant Powell.

  “So what options do we have?” Reott said, signaling that he’d finished talking for awhile.

  Hart pounced on the opening. “Sir, the media is skewering us over this. We need to be high profile on this task force. Back them off a little bit.”

  Reott paused, considering the logic.

  Saylor disagreed. “Cap, the newspaper is going to bash on us no matter what. That’s a given, but the television media has been pretty fair. I mean, the guy has gotten away with how many armed robberies? Fourteen, fifteen?”

  “Fifteen,” Hart supplied.

  “Fifteen, then,” Saylor allowed. “Plus, he’s shot at cops and now he’s killed a guy.”

  “What’s your point, Rob?” Reott asked.

  “The point is we have to get this sonofabitch before he kills someone else. Telling everyone that we are forming a task force takes away the element of surprise. If he watches TV and sees a news report, he’ll be more cautious. We need to capitalize on his carelessness.”

  Reott considered, but did not commit. “What about the copy-cats?”

  Hart jumped in. “A highly publicized effort on our part will deter further copy-cats. They will be too afraid of getting caught.”

  “What’s to fear?” Saylor asked. “This guy is fifteen-for-fifteen.”

  “And the only copy-cat is oh-for-one,” Hart shot back.

  Saylor shrugged. “Even so, you can expect more copy-cats the longer this goes. Which is why we have to shut this guy down.”

  Reott looked at Michaels, who gave a shrug. “We need to catch him, that’s all I know. What are the detectives doing? We don’t want to step on their operations.”

  Hart spoke up again. “My plan won’t have any negative impact on whatever the investigative division is doing.”

  “Which doesn’t look like much,” Saylor said wryly.

  Reott shrugged. “They’ve been as successful as we have.” He motioned to Hart. “Lay out your plan.”

  Hart beamed. “Thank you, Captain. My plan is to ask for volunteers during the hours Scarface has hit the most, twenty-two hundred to zero two hundred hours. Seven total cars. Five cars will sit off on particular stores. We’ll rotate which ones throughout the shift. At the same time, two cars will cruise between the five selected stores as a mobile response to augment patrol. Radio silence is to be observed. All units will use their regular call signs if they have to break radio silence. A code-word will be used, which will be given out at roll-call. If a surveilling unit sees a robbery shaping up, they get on the air, call the code-word and location. Instead of a time-delay, we get started before the robbery is even completed.”

  He leaned back, obviously pleased with his plan.

  Saylor nodded his approval. “It’s a good plan. The unit on surveillance has to be extra careful, though, as far as engaging the suspect. Keeping a visual on him would be best, even if he gets out of the store before patrol arrives. At least this way, we might get a good perimeter set up and force him to go to ground. Then we could bring in the K-9 for a track.”

  Reott pursed his lips. “Okay, but do you foresee any liability issues with that unit basically watching a robbery take place?”

  “No,” both lieutenants responded simultaneously. Saylor motioned for Hart to continue.

  “It’s a matter of officer safety, sir,” Hart told him. “We can’t expect a plain-clothes officer to engage an armed robber with no back-up, if all he’s doing is taking the money. We might take some heat in the press, but we’d come out all right.”

  “If the guy starts shooting, that’s a different story,” Saylor added. “No cop will stand by while that’s happening.”

  Reott, nodding, mulled over Hart’s explanation for a few moments, then looked at all three and continued. “I think we’ll go with Alan’s plan. It’s sounds like a good one and it’s better than the wait-and-react we’ve been doing.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Hart said.

  “Choose your people and brief them carefully,” Reott instructed. “I’ll okay the overtime with the Chief.”

  “And the media?” Hart asked.

  Reott considered, “Let’s keep this quiet unless the word on the task force leaks out. Then we’ll invite them in and give them the inside scoop if they keep it quiet until we catch the guy. Make ’em an ally for once.”

  Saylor and Hart both nodded. Reott felt a sense of accomplishment for his diplomatic effort.

  The phone rang. Michaels, being the junior man, automatically answered it. He listened for a few seconds, then replaced the receiver.

  “He just hit again,” the sergeant said. “Number sixteen. Time delay is only two minutes.”

  Damn, Reott thought. This guy is making us all look like fools. “Okay, Gentleman,” he said. “We have a plan. Do whatever it takes to catch this guy. You have my full support.”

  Interlude

  Fall 1994

  “I don’t really believe in counseling, doc. That’s all.”

  “Why is that?” The doctor kept any hint of disapproval out of his voice.

  The man shrugged. “I think that it is the refuge of the weak. A man should be able to deal with his own demons.”

  “And a woman?”

  “Same thing.”

  The doctor paused, considering. Thirty minutes had passed in the session and although the officer had begun to open up, little had been accomplished. He always had the option of requiring further sessions, but he knew full well how the administrators at the Police Department would interpret that. Still, the officer’s mental health rated as his primary concern, not his law enforcement career.

  “Every man is an island, then?” he asked the officer.

  The officer nodded. “Who can you truly count on? I’ve been hung out to dry before.”

  “Beginning when?” The doctor asked, think that perhaps a look at the officer’s childhood would reveal something noteworthy.

  The officer didn’t bite. “Let’s just say I learned to fend for myself a long time ago and leave it at that, all right?”

  The doctor didn’t push the matter, though clearly something existed there. He returned to the previous point. “In your profession, you are required to help a variety of different people, correct? Many of whom are undeserving or whose irresponsibility has caused the situation which you now must deal with. Am I right?”

  The officer nodded. “Very accurate.”

  “Okay,” the doctor continued. “So let’s say there is a woman. She is very young, gets married. Her husband is abusive, but she won’t or can’t leave him. Maybe she has caused the situation or maybe she hasn’t, but now she is stuck. He hits her. You come to the scene and arrest the husband for assault. She is now free to take action. She is no longer a prisoner of her own fear. There is a window of opportunity for her, and it is your action that empowered her. Is this accurate as well, officer?”

  “Yes. Sometimes.”

  “Was it wrong of you to help her?”

  “No.”

  “Wrong of her to accept your assistance?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “So now she can face her own demons.” The doctor leaned back and watched the officer’s face.

  The officer remained impassive. Finally, he sighed. “I see your point.”

  “Good.”

  There was a pause, then the officer asked, “You want to hear something?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m a little angry at the
administration. They haven’t stood by me very well. And I did nothing wrong.”

  The doctor detected bitterness in the officer’s voice. He could also sense a great deal more under the surface, but he expected that and didn’t see a problem with it.

  “Go on.”

  “Nothing more to say on that, doc. They should have been calling a press conference and damning the newspaper for the accusations it made. Instead, they open an IA investigation? And do you know the questions they asked me in IA? They all but called me a racist. It’s one thing coming from the jackals at the newspaper. It’s something else entirely when it comes from your own agency.” The officer shook his head. “I did my job and this is my thanks.”

  “But you are here.”

  “So?”

  “So you do not intend to resign over it.”

  The officer paused. “Probably not. Maybe.” He sighed heavily. “I don’t know.”

  The doctor watched him for several long moments as the officer stared at his own shoes. He cast a surreptitious glance at his watch and decided to get to the heart of the matter.

  “Tell me about the man you killed, officer.”

  The officer looked up then, steel and fury in his eyes. “He tried to kill me. He’s dead. What else do you want to know?”

  EIGHT

  Tuesday, August 23rd

  Day Shift

  1614 hours

  Karl Winter tucked his shirt into his pants and buckled his belt. The jangling sound carried in the quiet locker room. Winter had caught a late DV call that turned into a huge mess. He’d only just finished the paperwork. As he changed, he’d been watching Sgt. David Poole, who sat on the long bench that ran down the center of the aisle between the lockers. He’d been there when Winter walked in at the end of the shift. He continued to sit and stare at his open locker, completely lost in thought, the entire time Winter changed his clothes only five lockers away.

  “Sarge?” Winter finally said. “You okay?”

  Poole turned slowly to face him but didn’t answer.

  Winter’s eyes narrowed with concern.

  “Dave?”

  “I’m fine, Karl.” Poole answered in a dry, croaking voice. “Just tired. Lots of reports to read at the end of shift.”