by Frank Zafiro
“Just like an Irishman,” Battaglia said. “Jealous because Italian food is good food.”
Sully turned onto Post and headed north. “What are you talking about? Irish food is good food.”
“Right.”
“It is.”
“Sure it is. That’s why there’s an Italian restaurant on every corner and there isn’t a single Irish restaurant in this city.”
“Just because Americans don’t go ga-ga over Irish food doesn’t mean it isn’t good.”
Battaglia began ticking off on his fingers. “Spaghetti, lasagna, chicken parmesan, baked ziti, pizza—”
“Shut up.” Sully took a right onto Cleveland.
Battaglia shrugged, looking out the window. “You’re just pissed because all you can offer up is haggis.”
“Haggis is Scottish,” Sully corrected.
“Same thing.”
“Not even close. The two countries are separated by the Irish Sea. That’s like me saying Italy and Greece are the same even though the Adriatic Sea—”
“Right there!” Battaglia said, pointing south.
Sully braked. “Where?”
“The alley there! Back up, quick!”
Sully threw the patrol car into reverse and backed up into the intersection. As he cranked the wheel, Battaglia grabbed the microphone.
“Adam-122 on scene,” he said. “Also.”
Sully goosed the accelerator and the patrol car leapt forward.
“The alley eastbound,” Battaglia said, pointing. “I saw a guy duck back into the darkness there.”
“Okay.”
“Adam-122, copy. Go ahead your also.”
Battaglia pressed the mike button. “We might have that suspicious male here in the south alley on the six hundred block of Cleveland.”
“Copy. Adam-112 to back?”
“Copy.” Chisolm’s steady voice came through the radio.
Sully rolled slowly down the alley, activating the overhead lights, bright takedown lights and the alley lights on the sides of the light bar. He turned on the spotlight and used his left hand to search with it between the houses as the car crawled forward.
“What was he wearing?” Sully asked.
“I didn’t get much of a look. Just dark clothing.”
“White guy? Black?”
“Coulda been purple for all I know,” Battaglia answered. “I didn’t get a good look.”
Sully swung the spotlight past a parked car next to a chain link fence. The fence door stood open. He stopped and both officers exited the car.
“Adam-122,” Battaglia reported, “we’ve got an open back gate about mid-block on the north side of the alley.”
“Copy. The address?”
“I don’t know,” he answered and rolled his eyes at Sully. “The house numbers are usually on the front.”
There was a moment of radio silence while both officers approached the open gate. Then the dispatcher, Irina, came back.
“Adam-122, what is the color and description of the house?”
Battaglia glanced at the home. “Single-story, yellow with white trim. Mid-block.”
Radio copied.
Sully stepped through the gate and shone his powerful flashlight around the backyard. The well-maintained grass was wet from the recent rain. A few pinecones littered the yard, but it was otherwise clean.
Battaglia joined him in sweeping the back yard with beams of light.
“Hey,” Battaglia whispered.
Sully followed the beam of light from Battaglia’s Mag-Lite. It illuminated a doghouse in the corner of the yard. The tips of a pair of tennis shoes protruded from the doorway.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Sully whispered back. He drew his gun and covered the doghouse.
Battaglia grinned at him, then turned his attention back to the shoe tips.
“Attention in the doghouse!” he bellowed. “River City Police Department! Come out with your hands where we can see them!”
The shoes did not move.
“We can see your shoes,” Battaglia told him. “Now come out of there or we’ll have the K-9 come in and get you out.”
After a moment, the shoes moved outward, exposing a leg. Then the rest of a man’s body slid out, dressed in black jeans and a dark blue sweater.
“Hands where I can see them!” Sully ordered him, shining his light directly into the man’s face.
The suspect stood slowly, holding his hands above his shoulders, squinting and blinking into the bright flashlight beam.
“Turn around,” Sully barked. “Hands on your head. Don’t move.”
The suspect obeyed. Battaglia moved in and handcuffed him.
A window slid open from the house. “What’s going on?” a woman’s voice asked.
Sully held the flashlight up and directed the light down onto his own face and badge. “Police, ma’am. Everything all right in there?”
“Sure, but—”
Sully illuminated the suspect again. “Do you know this man?” he asked the homeowner.
“No. Who is he?”
“A fine question,” Sully quipped with a hint of brogue. “I assume he was trespassing then?”
“I guess so,” the woman answered. “I mean, I don’t know him, so...”
“Thanks, ma’am. We’ll figure it out and let you know if we need anything from you.”
“Okay,” she said, her voice still sounding confused by sleep.
“Where’s the dog?” Battaglia asked suddenly.
“Huh?”
“The doghouse,” he said, flashing his light on the suspect’s former hiding place. “Where’s the dog that goes with it?”
“Oh,” the woman said. “He died last summer.”
“I’m sorry,” Battaglia said.
“He was fourteen,” the woman told him.
Battaglia nodded. “Well, you might want to lock your gate. Or get a motion sensor light out here.”
“Or a new dog,” Sully suggested.
“Oh,” the woman said, still blinking sleepily. “Yes, that might be a good idea.”
“Thanks for your help tonight, ma’am.”
“Okay,” she said and slid the window shut.
“She’ll think this was all a dream in the morning,” Sully chuckled. He squatted down and flashed his own light into the interior of the doghouse. “Empty,” he reported.
Battaglia nodded and took the suspect by the shoulder. “Let’s go, Rover.” They lead him back to the car, where Battaglia removed the man’s wallet.
“Hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”
“Finding out who you are.” Battaglia removed the man’s driver’s license and dropped the wallet on the hood of the car. Then he reached for his shoulder mike. “Adam-122 to Adam-112.”
“Twelve, go ahead.”
“Tom, can you contact the complainant and ask her if she knows a guy by the name of Victor Preissing.”
“Affirm.”
Battaglia switched to the data channel and gave the dispatcher Preissing’s information for a warrant check.
“What’s your story?” Sully asked Preissing.
“No story,” Preissing told him. “I’m, uh, just out for a walk.”
“Just out for a walk?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s why you ducked back in the alley when you saw our car, huh?”
“I didn’t duck into the alley. I was already headed this way.”
“Headed on your way to go hide in a dog house, were ya? I could probably work up a burglary charge on that.”
Preissing’s shoulders slumped. “I got scared when I saw the lights.”
“Why?”
He licked his lips. “I’m from L.A. The cops used to beat me up all the time for no reason. So I got scared.”
Sully snorted in disbelief.
“No shit,” Preissing said.
“No,” Sully answered. “Just shit. Where are you walking to tonight?”
“Just around. Tak
ing a walk.”
Sully’s radio crackled as Chisolm checked out on scene at the complainant’s residence.
Battaglia read Sully the address on Preissing’s license.
“That’s clear on the other side of town,” Sully said. “Why are you way over here taking a walk?”
“It’s a free country.”
“That,” Sully told him, “is known in police parlance as a non-answer. It indicates deception.”
Preissing shrugged and swallowed nervously.
“I’ll ask again. Why are you taking a walk at eleven-thirty at night clear across town from where you live?”
Preissing’s eyes darted back and forth between the two officers. “I like Corbin Park. It’s a nice place to walk.”
“Oh, that’s believable,” Sully said. “Do you have any warrants, Mr. Preissing?”
“I’ve never been arrested.”
“Guess what?” Sully said. “That wasn’t my question. You can still have a warrant out for your arrest whether or not you’ve ever been arrested before.”
“So what?”
Sully turned toward Battaglia. “He’s starting to sound like you. I’m definitely arresting him.”
Before Battaglia could answer, Chisolm’s voice came over the radio. “Adam-112, that would be a negative on the complainant knowing Preissing.”
Sully copied.
“Put him the car,” he said to Battaglia. “Then we’ll figure this out.”
Battaglia patted down Preissing, checking for any weapons.
“You can’t hold me,” Preissing said.
“Sure we can.”
“On what probable cause?”
“You’re acting suspicious.”
“That’s not a crime. I want my lawyer.”
“Trespassing is a crime,” Sully told him. “Just because Rover’s dead doesn’t mean you can move into his dog house.”
Preissing stared at Sully. “Is everything funny to you?”
Sully grinned at him. “No, but your situation here sure is.”
“What’s your badge number?” he demanded.
“Get in the car,” Battaglia said and slid Preissing into the back seat of the patrol car.
“Why do you have to fuzz them up like that?” he asked after he’d slammed the back door and stepped away from the car.
“That’s my job. Just like it’s your job when I’m searching them. It’s called cooperation. You know, teamwork?”
“Whatever. What do you think about this guy?”
“Data channel come back yet?”
Battaglia shook his head. “Not yet. You think he’s a peeping tom?”
Sully frowned. “Sorta feels a little like that, don’t it?”
“Sorta. But not quite. He’s too confident.”
“I agree. Not milquetoast enough. But definitely suspicious.”
“Definitely.”
“No question the guy was up to something.”
“Definitely.”
“He looks too old to be out prowling cars,” Sully observed.
“No backpack, either.”
“And no burglar tools of any kind.”
“Nope.”
“Big goddamn mystery.” Sully sighed. “So we’ll do a field interview report for Tower on him.”
“Definitely.”
“Who knows? Maybe he’s the rapist.”
Battaglia shrugged. “And maybe I’m Vito Corleone.”
“You wish.”
Thomas Chisolm pulled into the alley. He parked behind their patrol car and got out. On his way past their car, he peered into the back seat at Preissing.
“You recognize him, Tom?” Sully asked.
Chisolm shook his head. “What’s this guy’s story?” he asked them.
“We were just discussing that.”
“You come up with any answers?”
“Not really,” Sully said. “He almost acts like a peeping tom, but not quite. He’s got no backpack for prowling cars or burglar tools on him.”
“Maybe he dumped them after he spotted you guys,” Chisolm suggested.
Sully and Battaglia both raised their eyebrows and looked at each other.
“Why didn’t you think of that?” Battaglia asked.
“Because I’m Irish,” Sully told him.
Chisolm chuckled. “I’ll check.” He turned and walked westward down the alley, shining his light and looking in trash cans.
“Adam-122?”
“This better be good,” Battaglia muttered and keyed the mike. “Go ahead.”
“Preissing is in locally with a clear driver’s license. His only entry is a domestic order of protection.”
Both men smiled at each other in triumph.
“Why didn’t you think of that?” Sully asked.
“Because I’m Italian,” Battaglia answered.
Halfway down the alley, Chisolm stopped searching and strolled back toward the patrol cars.
Battaglia asked the dispatcher, “Who is the protected party?”
“Lorraine Kingston,” Irina advised them.
“That’s not the complainant,” Chisolm told them as he approached. “Her name was Sandy something.”
“What’s Lorraine’s address?” Battaglia asked into his shoulder microphone.
“405 West Cleveland.”
Sully smiled. “Sandy the Neighbor spotted Victor the Stalker and called it in.”
“Probably,” Battaglia agreed. He keyed his mike. “Pull a copy of the protection order and give me the terms, please.”
“Already done,” Irina replied. “He is restricted from being within two city blocks of Lorraine Kingston’s home or business, as well as being restricted from contacting her in any fashion.”
“Copy,” Battaglia said and turned to Sully and Chisolm. “Well, it doesn’t get much easier than that, does it?”
“Should we do a show-up?” Sully asked. “Get Sandy the Neighbor over here to ID Preissing?”
“On a misdemeanor?”
“It’s a domestic violence. You know how they are about DVs.”
“They who?”
“Sergeants, prosecutors,” Sully smiled. “Italians. You name it.”
Battaglia sighed, not taking the bait. “Look, we caught him within the two blocks. Let’s just book him.”
Sully shrugged. “Fine. What about the trespass?”
Battaglia frowned. Sully raised his hands in apology.
“I’ll go back and get the rest of the neighbor’s information,” Chisolm said.
“Thanks, Tom.”
Battaglia popped the back door. “Get out,” he told Preissing.
“About time,” Preissing said, stepping out of the car awkwardly. “Now take off these cuffs before I call my lawyer.”
“How about you call him from jail, smart-ass?” Battaglia said.
“Huh?”
“What were you doing over at Lorraine’s house?” Battaglia asked. He began to search Preissing, removing items as he came across them.
“Lorraine who? What are you doing?”
Sully shook his head and clucked his tongue while Battaglia searched. “The stupid routine isn’t going to impress the judge.”
“Maybe it’s not a routine,” Battaglia said.
“I want my lawyer,” Preissing said. “Joel Harrity. Right now.”
Battaglia finished his search. “Like I said, call him from jail. Now get back in the car.” He guided Preissing into the back seat and closed the door.
“Lorraine who,” Sully muttered. “What an idiot.”
Battaglia gathered Preissing’s property. “No way is this guy Tower’s rapist,” he told Sully. “He’s just a loser stalking his girlfriend.”
Sully shrugged. “Still worth an FI.”
“Waste of paper.”
The two got into the patrol car. Sully reset the mileage on the odometer and put the car in gear. Battaglia advised dispatch, “Adam-122, we’re en route to jail with a male for a protection order violation.
Mileage is reset.”
“Copy.”
Battaglia reached for the stereo. “Country, you figure?”
Sully shook his head. “Heavy metal.”
“Forget that. That shit hurts my head.” Battaglia turned on the stereo and channel surfed. When he landed on the oldies station, a familiar tune came through the speakers. He grinned broadly and turned it up, fading the volume to the rear.
“Classic,” Sully said.
“Fitting, too,” Battaglia answered, laughing at his own joke. He sang along with the chorus. “Well if you feel like loving me...if you got the notion...I second that emotion.”
“Turn that shit down!” Preissing yelled from the back seat, his voice muffled by the music.
Both officers grinned. Sully took over. “Hey!” he sang, “So if you feel like giving Lorraine a lifetime of devotion...I second that emotion!
“That’s fucking harassment!”
“Hey!” Sully and Battaglia crooned together. “I second that emotion!”
“You guys are assholes,” Preissing hollered.
Sully looked at Battaglia and shrugged. Battaglia shrugged back.
“He’s probably right,” Sully said.
“Screw him,” said Battaglia. “He’s going to jail.”
FOUR
Tuesday, April 16th
Day shift
0911 hours
Detective Tower tapped his pen against the open file folder. His left hand curled around a cup of coffee. He’d read and re-read the contents in the hope that something new would jump out at him, but all he’d succeeded in doing was giving himself a headache.
He took a sip of coffee and reviewed Giovanni’s report again. Although the use of the unique term “whammo” was interesting, he didn’t see any plausible avenues for investigative follow-up. He’d conduct a follow-up interview with Patricia Reno in a day or two, as well as review the medical evidence, but he was skeptical that anything new would come up.
He pulled out the FI written by Officer O’Sullivan the previous night. Victor Preissing sounded promising at first, but as soon as he read about the old girlfriend, his heart sank. The guy was stalking his ex-girlfriend, that was all.
Tower pursed his lips. Maybe. But maybe he was striking back at his ex-girlfriend through another woman. Psychological transference or whatever the textbooks called it. It happened.
Tower frowned. He doubted it. Still, it was worth checking out. Hell, everything was at this stage, since he didn’t have anything else to go on. Any minute now, the Crawfish would be—