by Frank Zafiro
“So, now we’re in hot water.”
“That guy was an asshole.”
“So were we.”
Battaglia shrugged. “It’s small time, Sully.”
“That’s why Hart wants to see us?”
Battaglia snorted. “Hart will make a mountain out of a mole-hill.”
“True,” Sully agreed. “But he’ll make sure you get suspended for that mole-hill, too.”
Battaglia nodded. “You’re right. Now let’s go work.”
Sully stared at him in surprise. “How can you shrug it off like that?”
Battaglia removed his side handle baton and slid it into the holder on the passenger side of the patrol car. Then he looked up at Sully. “I figure, what the hell can I do about it now? So let’s go work.”
Sully met his gaze, his mind processing Battaglia’s words. Then he shrugged, too. “You’re right.”
“I know.”
“Let’s go.”
Battaglia nodded. “Now you’re talking. And you know what?”
“What?”
“Screw Hart,” Battaglia said.
Sully smiled. “Yeah. You’re right. Screw him.”
Battaglia nodded again and dropped into the passenger seat. While Sully checked the exterior of the vehicle, Battaglia loaded the shotgun and racked a round into the chamber. Between the two of them, the car was ready for service in less than two minutes.
Without a word, Sully fired up the engine. As they zipped out of the basement and up the ramp, Battaglia cycled the lights, sirens and the air horn.
They headed out into the night.
Thursday, April 18th
0129 hours
Katie MacLeod cruised slowly toward the call without any urgency. According to Radio, some mental guy was breaking up his house, talking with Mental Health, and then the line went dead. Katie was cautious when dealing with mentals, or Forty-eights, as they were called in police jargon. It seemed like they were always doing some whacked-out thing or another. In most cases, it was impossible to reason with them. But the majority of them were too smart to be manipulated, too. She just hoped that this one hadn’t cut himself or done something foolish like that.
The worst of it was, it was her call. That meant that she would likely be the one taking a trip up to Sacred Heart Hospital where the Mental Health wing was located. It also meant a marginally long report justifying why she committed the guy for mental evaluation.
Maybe she was getting ahead of herself. Maybe this guy wasn’t too bad. It was always possible they could check on him, work things out and then clear the call without a report.
Katie arrived on scene and parked one house away. As she exited the car, she saw Matt Westboard whip around the corner and cruise to a stop one house away in the other direction. As he approached, he said, “Good. Now we have him surrounded.”
Katie nodded, smiling. “The question is, is this one going to be a run-of-the-mill forty-eight, or is this one going to excel and be a ninety-six?”
“Let’s hope for low numbers,” Westboard said as they walked up to the porch.
At the door, Westboard knocked, but there was no answer. Both officers waited for almost a minute, listening intently. Katie looked at Westboard, who shrugged. Katie reached for the doorknob and turned it. It was unlocked.
Katie hesitated. She always did in a situation like this. For one, it was a big issue for an officer to make a warrant-less entry into someone’s house. Were the circumstances exigent? Did an emergency exist? Would the officer do more harm from walking away than from making an entry? Such issues were always gray to the street officer who had the responsibility of solving the problems in the field. To an administrator, they were easily defined from the comfort of his office at the police station the following day. They were even clearer yet to the lawyer in a courtroom. And, she thought, the issue was crystal clear to the journalist slamming the cops for making the ‘wrong’ choice…which was whatever choice the officer made, regardless.
Westboard watched her, waiting. Katie knew what he was thinking. Since it was unlocked and entry did not have to be forced, they should go in. If the door had been locked and no noise came from inside the house indicating an emergency, they would probably search for an alternate way in without breaking anything. They did have an obligation to make sure the forty-eight inside hadn’t cut his wrists open or something.
Of course, forty-eight or not, the man had a constitutional right against unreasonable entry into his home.
Hell.
“What do you think?” Westboard asked.
Katie sighed. “I can’t walk away. This guy called for help. If he’s hurt…”
Westboard nodded. “I’m with you.”
“Okay, then.” Katie pushed the door open slowly. “River City Police!” she announced loudly, hoping the neighbors could hear and would make good witnesses. “We received a 911 call. Is everyone all right?”
There was no answer.
Katie caught Westboard’s eyes. The veteran gave her a nod. They made entry to the house quickly. Katie’s hand rested on her pistol, just in case.
“Anybody home?” She called out.
No answer.
The house had been torn apart. She saw broken glass all over the small living room. A typewriter sat on the coffee table. Plates and glasses, some broken, were scattered throughout the house. Katie could detect the unmistakable pungent smell of body odor.
“Bathroom and bedroom are clear,” called Westboard from the others side of the tiny house. He was back at her side in a few moments. “Bathroom mirror is smashed. A little blood in the sink, nothing major.”
Katie nodded and moved into the kitchen. A phone with no receiver hung on the wall. In the far corner of the kitchen sat a man, his legs splayed straight out in front of him. He had thinning gray hair and a full beard. Katie couldn’t tell his height for sure, but given his huge belly, she guessed that he weighed over two hundred pounds. He sat staring, expressionless, the phone receiver pressed to his ear. A torn cord dangled from the useless receiver.
“Hello, sir,” Katie said softly, not wanting to startle him.
The man gave no response.
Katie continued to watch him. She noticed drying blood smeared on his hands. She guessed that he had probably punched the mirror and nicked his fingers and knuckles.
She heard Westboard rustling through some mail on the counter.
“You find a name, Matt?”
“Still looking.” He held up a piece of junk mail. “Unless his name is Current Resident.”
Katie smiled slightly, watching the man stare off into space. Then his head rotated slightly. His eyes fixed on her.
“Dan,” was all he said.
“Sir? Your name is Dan?”
“Yeah. Dan.”
“Dan, are you okay?”
“Yeah. Dan.”
“Okay, Dan. What’s your last name?” Katie spoke slowly and in an even voice. Though he appeared harmless, she knew that forty-eights could radically change moods at any moment.
“Danny. Danny Boy.”
Katie paused. “Are you hurt, Dan?”
Dan gave her a quizzical look. He stuck his index finger deep into his mouth and pulled it out, making a popping sound. He kept the phone to his ear with the other hand.
“It’s Dan Steiner,” Matt told her. He showed her an envelope. “It’s from Mental Health.”
“Nancy is my counselor,” Dan said.
“Nancy?”
“Yeah.”
“Nancy what? What’s her last name?”
“Sinatra. Nancy Sinatra.”
Katie took a deep breath. She heard Matt checking the refrigerator and cupboards. She knew he was checking to see how much food Dan had, if any. A person could only be committed to the Mental Health Ward at Sacred Heart if they met certain criteria. Being suicidal, homicidal or unable to care for themselves were the most common reasons police officers encountered.
“What’s goin
g on tonight, Dan?” she asked. “Are you upset?”
Dan shook his head slowly.
“Why did you break up the house?”
“They called me.”
“Who?”
“Nancy Sinatra at Mental Health.”
“Did that make you mad?”
“I was reading.”
“All right,” Katie said. “I can understand that. No one likes to get interrupted when they’re reading. Are you hurt?”
But Dan was staring at the wall again and did not answer.
“Plenty of canned food and goodies in here,” Matt told her. “Even so, with this behavior…”
“I agree. He needs to go up to the hospital.” Katie wasn’t dreading the report now nearly so much as she was dreading the possibility of Dan refusing to go. If he fought, he would be a handful. Forty-eights sometimes seem almost supernaturally strong and didn’t always respond to pain compliance techniques.
“I have to go now,” Dan said suddenly into the phone receiver. “My friends are here.”
Dan pulled the phone away from his ear and slowly lumbered to his feet.
Great, Katie thought. He stood about five-ten and his upper body was as broad as his middle. He’ll be as strong as an ox.
Dan walked directly towards Katie, staring at a spot past her shoulder. His expression was benign. She and Westboard stepped aside cautiously and allowed him to pass.
Dan hung up the phone and turned to face them.
“My friend is sad.”
“Why?” Katie asked.
“I had to hang up. He’s lonely.”
“I see.” Katie thought for a moment. “Dan, you said I was your friend, didn’t you? You told your friend on the phone that I was your friend, too, right?”
“Him, too,” Dan motioned at Westboard.
“Yes. Him, too.” Katie struggled not to grin. The guy was funny. “Dan, would you like to take a ride with me? Up to Sacred Heart Hospital?”
“In a police car?” Dan grinned, child-like.
“Yes. To see Nancy.”
His face fell. “Nancy?”
“Yes. In my police car.”
Dan shrugged. “Yeah. Of course, I’m supposed to call Fred back.”
“He’ll be okay.”
“Yeah.”
Katie found a light jacket for Dan and handed him his tennis shoes. It took him almost five minutes to put them on. He tied each bow meticulously.
“Okay.” He stood up. “Ready.”
Katie led him out of the house. As they were halfway down the walk, Katie remembered to ask him where his house keys were so that they could lock the house.
“They are in hyper-space,” Dan said matter-of-factly.
“Great.” She cast a glance backward at Westboard.
He mouthed the words, “I’ll look.” Katie nodded her thanks.
Once at the car, she paused again. Department policy stated that everyone an officer took into custody and transported must be handcuffed. This applied whether the custody was benevolent or an arrest situation. However, Katie knew that the rule was occasionally violated when it better suited the situation. For instance, the rape victim she transported the previous night had ridden in the front seat with her.
Still, she could, actually should, handcuff Dan. He might remain cooperative for the ride, but he could go ballistic in the back of her patrol car. Uncuffed, he could cause a lot of damage, maybe hurt himself, to say nothing of being difficult to control once she stopped the car. She’d heard of it happening every so often to an officer. She was pretty sure that was a fun one to explain to a supervisor.
Then again, Dan had blood on his hands. In this age of communicable diseases that were blood-borne, Katie didn’t really like to touch someone else’s blood without rubber gloves.
Katie considered briefly, then said, “Dan, you know you have to behave in my car, right? Your best behavior?”
“Yeah. Best behavior.”
“I mean it, Dan. If you don’t behave, my boss will get very mad at me. He will ask me why I didn’t handcuff you. Do you want to be hand-cuffed?”
Katie saw horror enter Dan’s eyes. She worried that she’d said too much.
“No! Handcuffs hurt! Send them to hyper-space!”
Katie waved her hand and made a whooshing sound. “There—gone. They will stay in hyperspace, as long as you behave. All right?”
“Behave. Yes. All right.”
Katie opened the driver’s door and popped the security button in the doorjamb to release the door to the back seat. As she stepped away from the car, she said, “Okay, Dan, get in.”
Dan immediately climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Dan—” Katie protested.
Dan began pushing buttons on the computer and the radio keypad. He moved quickly to the steering wheel, moving it from side to side as he adjusted the wiper blades and the heater. Since the car was turned off, none of the instruments responded. He gave a tug on the shotgun in its secure slot and moved on to the car stereo, pushing several buttons and twisting a dial.
“Busy guy,” Westboard commented as he walked up. He handed Katie the house keys. “The place is locked up.”
“Thanks.” Katie said. She turned back to Dan. “Are you finished, Dan? Can we take a ride now?”
Dan sat still for a moment, staring through the windshield.
“Dan?”
His head rotated slowly toward her. “Of course, my favorite cat is an elephant,” he said.
“Mine, too. Now please get out of my seat and get in the back.”
Dan struggled out of the front seat and walked gingerly around the rear door and into the back seat. Katie shut the door.
“Sheesh. He is out there,” Westboard said. “I feel like we’re taking the Rainman into custody.”
Katie cringed. She knew Dan probably couldn’t hear them, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings or get him riled up. “At least he’s not violent,” she said. “Just…a little loony.”
“I’ll say.”
“Did you see any meds in the bathroom?”
“Nope. None in the bedroom, either. But you know that typewriter in the living room?”
“Yes.”
Westboard handed her a sheet of paper and said, “A book of poetry by Ralph W. Emerson was next to it.”
Katie looked at the sheet of paper. A single line was typed over and over about thirty times.
The strong gods pine for my abode.
“What poem is this from?” she asked.
Westboard shrugged. “Couldn’t tell ya. I didn’t see it on the page the book was open to.” He motioned to the sheet of paper. “There were about fifteen or twenty of those stacked next to the typewriter, though.”
“I wonder what the deal is with that?”
“Dunno. You want me to follow you up in case he gets excited?”
“No,” Katie said. “I’ll be fine. Thanks, Matt.”
“Enjoy the ride in the police car,” he said slyly and walked toward his own car.
Katie got into her driver’s seat. She pulled a baby wipe from her patrol bag and wiped everywhere Dan had touched. As she cleaned the steering wheel, she looked into her rear-view mirror at Dan. The bearded man was staring off at nothing again.
“Dan? What’s this from?” She held up the paper with her free hand.
Dan looked at her but didn’t answer.
“What poem?”
“I don’t know.”
Katie held back a sigh. She balled up the baby wipe and slid it into the small plastic garbage bag. Then she started the engine. Instantly the windshield wipers began to flap violently. The stereo blasted static. She quickly hit the right buttons to stop everything, feeling like a three-year-old had been playing in her car.
She glanced back at Dan. He stared back, unaffected and not at all curious.
“So you like Emerson, then?” she asked.
“To me, he tastes like ketchup,” Dan replied.
Katie
put the car into gear and reset her trip odometer. “Ketchup?”
“Ketchup.”
“What about T.S. Eliot?”
“Mustard.”
“Of course,” Katie said, smiling. She informed dispatch that she was en route to Sacred Heart with a forty-eight. On the way up, she wondered which poet tasted like mayonnaise.
0607 hours
Connor O’Sullivan sat in the lobby of the Internal Affairs office at 1098 West Mallon Avenue. Anthony Battaglia sat next to him in the corner. The dark-haired officer leaned into the wall and slept, snoring lightly.
How the hell can he sleep sitting in IA, Sully wondered. He must not think he did anything wrong. Either that, or he was consigned to his fate. Who knew?
Hart kept them both waiting. Sully figured that was how he showed his dominance. Hart was important. They were not. Therefore, they arrived early and waited for him.
At nine minutes past the hour, Lieutenant Alan Hart entered the lobby of the IA office.
Sully took one look at his thin, smug face and felt a stab of anger replace his concern. Battaglia’s light snore next to him gave him confidence.
Hart cast a disapproving look at the slumbering Battaglia. Then his eyes flicked to Sully. “You’re first,” he said in a clipped tone.
“Good,” Sully answered. “I’m ready.”
Hart turned stiffly on his heel and marched back toward the interview room without a word.
Sully stood and followed.
Screw Hart, he thought, and smiled.
Battaglia’s snores trailed after him.
0659 hours
Katie Macleod set her pistol on her nightstand and kicked off her shoes. The fog of sleep was already creeping in at the corner of her eyes. Other than Danny Forty-eight, the previous night had remained relatively quiet. She wondered if she were crazy or if she really had detected a slight sense of disquiet in the city last night. It had been a Wednesday evening, which was usually the busiest of the four true weekdays (she considered Friday part of the weekend—it was already in full swing by the time Graveyard shift came on duty). People slogged away for a couple of days, but then Hump Day came along. Many felt like they needed a little release, just enough to get them to the weekend. So the bars were a little busier. Domestic arguments went up, too.