RCC03 - Beneath a Weeping Sky

by Frank Zafiro

  Down in the basement, Sully and Battaglia were in rare form. While waiting for the cars to come in from Swing Shift, they fired ethnic barbs back and forth.

  “What do you call an Italian with his hands in his pockets?” Sully asked.

  “What?” Battaglia asked with a scowl.

  “A mute,” Sully answered, laughing.

  Westboard and Katie chuckled along.

  “Yeah?” Battaglia said. “Well, you know that God invented whiskey strictly so that the Irish wouldn’t rule the world.”

  Sully snorted. “Like the Italians ever ruled anything.”

  Battaglia snorted back. “Ever hear of Rome, Paddy?”

  “Yeah, in a book about ancient history.”

  “At least we had an empire.”

  Sully affected his best Irish brogue. “And a grand empire ‘twas, lad.”

  “You know what you call an Irishman underneath a wheelbarrow, Sully? Huh? A mechanic, that’s what.”

  “Yeah? Well, you know what’s black and blue and floating in the Irish Sea?” Sully grinned. “A guy who told one too many Irish jokes.”

  Battaglia grinned back and fired him a middle finger. “Like I’m afraid of you ovah heah,” he said in Brooklyn-ese. “You get outta line, I’ll just call Vinnie the Moose and –”

  “Would you shut the fuck up?” Kahn snapped from nearby.

  Everyone fell silent. The barrel-chested veteran stood holding his patrol bag, scowling at Battaglia.

  “Huh?” Battaglia asked, obviously surprised.

  “You heard me. I said you should shut the fuck up.” Kahn’s low, gravelly voice rumbled and echoed throughout the sally port. “Really, give it a try. I’m sick of your Robert DeNiro, Godfather bullshit. So you’ve got an Italian last name and dark hair. So what?”

  “Jimmy –”

  “Don’t ‘Jimmy’ me, you goofball prick. Drop the act. This is River City. It isn’t Brooklyn.”

  Battaglia stared at Kahn in shocked surprise. Sully chuckled uneasily. Kahn turned on him next.

  “This isn’t Boston, either. You’re about as Irish as my goddamn boots. And I’m sick of listening to you two ass monkeys jibber-jabber like this isn’t serious work we do here. It isn’t a fucking joke. If the two of you realized that, if you didn’t treat this job like one long goddamn stand up routine, then maybe MacLeod wouldn’t be standing here looking like Rocky Balboa warmed over.”

  Kahn gave each of them a hard stare. Then he muttered, “assholes,” and strode off to the far end of the sally port to wait for the first car to roll in. He didn’t look back.

  “What was that all about?” Battaglia whispered.

  Sully didn’t reply. He glanced sheepishly at Katie, then down at the ground.

  “Jesus,” Battaglia continued. “If the guy isn’t chasing tail, he’s a giant grouch. What’s his problem, anyway?” He looked from Sully to Westboard to Katie.

  No one answered.

  SEVENTEEN

  Saturday, April 27th

  0726 hours

  He spotted her as soon as she walked through the glass doors of the police department. With so little traffic on the street this early on a Saturday morning, he opted to park a half-block away to surveil the exit. He worried that he might not recognize her at that distance, but as soon as she pushed open the door, he knew.

  There was still a vestige of a limp in her stride. And maybe just a trace of the shuffle he’d seen when she was playing the role of prey. As she turned and walked in the opposite direction, he stared after her. He watched her ponytail bob and bounce with each step. He thought about making it into a handle.

  His eyes drifted down her body. He admired the tight curve of her hip, the upward turn of her ass. Dark, angry lust seethed in his loins.

  He gripped the steering wheel and watched her.

  Almost a block away, she stopped next to a Jeep, opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat.

  He smiled. Now he knew what she drove.

  A puff of clear exhaust spurted out of the tailpipe of the Jeep. He sat and watched while Katie the Bitch Cop warmed up the engine. His palms were cool and sweaty. He wiped them on his slacks. He waited.

  After a few minutes, her Jeep’s brake lights flashed, then the vehicle nudged forward into the street. He watched her go, then started his own car and eased onto the street. The sparse traffic forced him to follow her at a distance of several blocks as she headed up Monroe. He watched carefully, prepared for any turn signal from the Jeep.

  The Jeep continued due north, not turning, not slowing. He hung back, hoping she wasn’t suspicious of him. Hoping she wasn’t vigilant at this time in the morning, after working all night.

  Was she going home? He was counting on it, but you never knew with cops. Or whores. Maybe she was going to a bar. Or over to some guy’s house.

  Maybe there was a man waiting at home for her.

  He curled his lip. If that were the case, he would take care of that problem, too.

  Finally, when she hit Rowan, almost five miles from the police station, she turned right.

  He waited until she was out of sight, then sped up to almost fifty miles an hour to close the distance between them. At Rowan, he braked and turned. As soon as he turned onto Rowan, he saw her Jeep a block and a half to the east.

  He followed.

  At Calispel, she slowed and turned to the left. He slowed as well, watching her. She stopped in front of a small brick house three houses north of the intersection. He stopped, too, pulling up against the curb on Rowan. He was in the bicycle lane, but with so little traffic, he didn’t worry.

  She stepped out of her Jeep and headed up the walkway to the small brick house. He stared after her until after she’d unlocked the door and gone inside.

  It was a small house, but not too small for two people. She could be shacking up. He had to be careful and remain aware of that possibility. But there were no other cars parked right in front of the house, only hers. The houses on each side of hers had driveways. One led to a carport, the other to a garage. Poor Katie the Bitch Cop had to park on the street.

  Unless there was a garage in back.

  He put the car in gear and cruised forward, past the intersection. Mid-block, he spotted the alley that ran north/south behind the house. The alley was evenly paved with asphalt, not very common in River City. Most of the alleys he’d seen were still made up of hard-packed dirt or gravel and were bumpy as hell. As he turned into the alley, he enjoyed the smooth progression northward. He counted houses, slowing as he reached the third one.

  A small chain link fence. That was all. No garage. No second car.

  Probably no man in the house.

  He glanced down at the towel on the seat beside him. Wrapped inside of it was a knife that would put Rambo to shame. More than anything, he wanted to put on the brakes. He wanted to stop in the alley, take that knife and jump the fence. Go inside. Find that fucking cunt. Grab onto that handle of hair and give her the banging of her life. Then slit her throat. Watch her life flow out onto the floor.

  His hands trembled. His hardness strained against his slacks. He realized he was smiling.

  No.

  He couldn’t take any chances. He had to plan it out better. Look what happened the last time he went on impulse. They almost caught him in their little trap.

  No, this time he’d watch. He’d plan.

  This one was worth waiting for.

  He rolled northbound through the alley. His hands continued to quiver, even as he turned out of the alley and back onto the street.

  She’s going to get what she’s got coming, he told himself. What they all have coming.

  Soon.

  Not soon enough by half, but soon.

  As he drifted back toward Division Street, he tried to sort out the beginnings of a plan, but the details eluded him. All he could see was that bouncing pony tail. All he could hear was her defiant voice. All he could feel was the satisfying smack of his knuckles against her ch
eek. All he could smell was her fear.

  He rolled his head around, stretching the tight muscles in his neck. His breath came in and out in small quivering gasps. His erection ached.

  He had to do something. This was too much.

  At the first convenience store he saw, he pulled into the parking lot.

  0805 hours

  Katie peeled off the last of her clothing. She rubbed her sleepy eyes, causing a twinge of pain in her bruised face. Ignoring that, she found her flannel pajamas and slipped them over her head.

  Bed was going to feel good. Her entire shift had been one stupid call after another. Westboard was overly protective, asking her about a dozen times how she was doing. On a fight call outside an apartment complex, Kahn had all but ignored everyone, his eyes still full of cold fire. His words seemed to have spurred Sully and Battaglia into a guilt-ridden state, which she was fairly certain they compounded while talking about it as they drove around during the shift. As a result, both of them apologized to her several times whenever their paths crossed on calls. When it came time for a lunch break, Katie talked Westboard into going somewhere with just the two of them so she could avoid more apologies.

  She looked forward to forgetting about all of that in the coma-esque sleep of a graveyard officer. Putter the cat was fed and watered. Her alarm was set. She made sure the shades were pulled and secured in the bedroom. All that remained was to slide between the blankets and–

  The telephone rang.

  Katie sighed, annoyed. Then a tickle of anger sparked in her chest.

  It had to be Stef.

  She thought about letting it go to the machine. Then she thought about changing her phone number so he couldn’t call her anymore. The prospect of his actions forcing her to give up the same number she’d had since first coming to River City pissed her off, so on the fourth ring, she snatched the receiver.

  “Hello?” she asked, not trying very hard to keep the irritation out of her voice.

  The sound of traffic in the background immediately confirmed her suspicions. It was Kopriva, calling on a payphone. She wondered if he’d been up drinking all night. The thought of listening to his self-pitying slur made her clench her jaw.

  He didn’t say anything right away.

  “Hello?” she repeated.

  Still no reply.

  “Listen,” Katie said, letting all of her anger flood through her voice, “this is bullshit, Stef. I told you not to call me anymore.”

  A car horn honked in the background, followed by the sound of an engine racing by.

  “I wasn’t kidding about the no-contact order, Stef. I can get one on Monday.”

  No answer.

  Katie sighed. “Just leave me alone, all right?” She waited another moment for a reply, then started to hang up.

  “Katie?” came a voice from the phone receiver.

  She brought the phone back to her ear. “Stef?”

  There was a low chuckle. “No. Not...Stef,” he said in a hissing stage whisper.

  She recognized the voice. Fear lanced through her stomach. For a moment, she thought it might be Phil, coming back from college to haunt her –

  You liked it. Don’t forget that.

  —or to try to do that to her again. But after that frantic moment, her mind cleared. She knew who it was.

  “Are you there, Katie?” he whispered into the phone.

  She swallowed hard before she spoke. When the words came out, she tried to put an edge to them. He couldn’t know that she was afraid.

  “I’m here. What do you want?”

  He laughed then. The sound grated against her nerves. She closed her eyes and bit her lip.

  “I want you, bitch.”

  Think, Katie! Do something!

  “When I find you, Katie, I am going to lay the whammo on you.”

  Say something!

  “You’re going to get it good.”

  She cast her eyes around the room, her mind racing.

  “And you’ll like it, too. Count on that, bitch.”

  You liked it. Don’t forget that.

  His echoing words cut through her fear and found her anger. Who the hell did he think he was? She clenched her jaw, then spoke in a tight voice. “I don’t think you have the balls,” she told him.

  There was a pause.

  Good. I surprised him.

  She forged ahead. “In fact, I think you’re a giant chicken shit. You only go after weak women because you’re weak yourself. You don’t have the guts to come after a strong woman like me because you know I’ll kick your ass. You know—”

  “BITCH, I WILL FUCK YOU UNTIL YOU CRY!” he screamed at her.

  “I don’t believe you,” Katie goaded him. A flare of satisfaction went off in her chest, settling down her body in a warm glow. The tables were turned and she liked it. “I think you’re all talk.”

  “I WILL CUT YOUR FUCKING TITS OFF!”

  “You’re a coward,” she told him, ignoring the graphic visual.

  There was another pause. She heard his heavy breathing in the receiver. The sound of traffic in the background was again audible.

  How do you like that? she thought. Not used to a woman who fights back? A grim battle smile spread across her face.

  “You’re nothing but a coward,” she repeated. “And I know it.”

  “Really?” he whispered into her ear, his voice full of barely controlled rage. “Well, I know something, too.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “I know where you live, bitch.”

  Then he hung up.

  Katie’s smile melted away.

  1039 hours

  Captain Reott leaned back in his leather chair, giving Detective Tower a hard look. “This really hasn’t gone as you planned, has it, Detective?”

  Seated next to Lieutenant Crawford, Tower shifted in his chair and looked away, his jaw clenched. “There’s been some setbacks,” he admitted.

  “Setbacks?” Reott repeated, surprise and sarcasm plain in his tone. “In order to have setbacks, don’t you have to have some progress to be set back from? Where’s the progress on this case? All I’ve seen is more women being raped and botched operations.”

  Crawford cleared his throat. “All due respect, Captain, Detective Tower is my responsibility. I’ll do the ass-chewing, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind,” Reott said. “Because now one of my patrol officers is the target of this whack job pervert.”

  “What would you have done differently, sir?” Tower asked quietly through his clenched teeth.

  “Lots. For starters, how about catching the guy?” Reott snapped.

  A silence settled into the room. Reott gave Tower a hard look. The detective was unshaven and wearing a pair of jeans and a wrinkled shirt along with a Seattle Mariners windbreaker. His eyes held a desperate, haunted look that worried Reott. He made a mental note to bring it up with Crawford after Tower left. This case had almost certainly become too much for one detective to handle, though he knew that was Crawford’s call.

  Finally, Reott rubbed his own eyes and sighed. “All right,” he said. “I guess there’s no profit in casting blame here. Everyone’s doing the best they can with what they’ve been given. The question now is, how do we move forward?”

  “As far as the rapes go,” Tower said, “I’ll keep working the case. Something will break.”

  Reott glanced at Crawford, but didn’t reply.

  “I interviewed MacLeod for about an hour this morning, after the phone call,” Tower continued. “She recognized the voice, so it was definitely the same guy.”

  “Any chance of a telephone trace of some sort?” Reott asked.

  Tower shrugged. “Maybe. The phone company supposedly keeps a seventy-two hour record of all local calls made on a rolling basis. We might be able to find out where the call came from.”

  “That’s good.”

  Tower frowned. “Maybe.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Se
veral reasons. For one, their techs aren’t available on the weekend, so Monday is the soonest we’ll be able to get at the information. Plus, they won’t let us have the information without a subpoena.”

  “So get a subpoena from the prosecutor. Patrick what’s-his-name.”

  “It’s Patrick Hinote,” Tower said. “That’s no problem, just a matter of doing it. The thing is, it probably won’t help us at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “He called from a pay phone. So the odds of getting prints off that are virtually nil, especially by the time we get the information.”

  Reott scowled. It would be the same thing with finding any witnesses who might remember some guy who was there making a phone call two days prior. “So it’s a dead end.”

  “The phone call is,” Tower said, “but I think we have a different opportunity here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We can stake out MacLeod’s house, for one. See if we can catch the guy prowling around.”

  “That sounds smart. What else?”

  “We stake out MacLeod.”

  Reott paused. “You mean use her as bait?”

  Tower shrugged. “Call it what you want. He’s obviously keyed in on MacLeod. We can use that to draw him out.”

  “No.” Reott shook his head firmly. “She’s been through enough with this task force. I’m not going to ask her to do that.”

  “Captain—”

  “I said no,” Reott interrupted. “This isn’t some cop movie, Tower. MacLeod is not the answer.”

  “Why don’t you at least ask her?”

  “Because it isn’t her choice,” Reott said. “It’s mine. And I’m not going to do it.”

  “Why not?”

  Reott leaned forward and fixed Tower with a cold stare. “I don’t have to explain myself to you, detective. I don’t work for you.”

  Another silence settled into the room. Outside Reott’s open window, the distant sound of tires hissing on wet pavement meshed with high-pitched birdsong.