by James Hunt
10
Susan spent the ride to the parents’ house trying to focus on how normal folks spoke with one another. Today had been the longest she’d ever gone in six weeks without speaking to someone high, getting high, or coming down from a high. She had adapted to those types of people, that type of conversation.
With rush hour over the traffic had lightened, and she stuck to the back roads, avoiding the highway after a report of a car crash came in over the radio.
But while she was driving, a glare flickered in her rearview mirror, and Susan squinted as she saw sunlight reflected off the windshield of a black sedan twenty yards behind her. It was a car that she recognized from her time on the street.
Low suspension, tinted windows, fresh paint on an older model. It looked like it could be a Cadillac or older Buick, a classic gangbanger vehicle. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and then made the next left, using her blinker.
After she turned, Susan flicked her eyes back to the rearview mirror, waiting, hoping that she was wrong. But the black sedan turned, following her onto the street, and started to pick up speed.
“Shit.” Susan floored the accelerator and then reached for her phone, pissed that she hadn’t check out a rover from the precinct.
She turned down a side street, the car still following, and she finally got dispatch on the line. “This is Officer Susan Quinton, I have a tail on me and—”
Gunfire erupted from the sedan, the automatic fire knocking against the back of her car with heavy thuds, shattering the rear windshield.
Susan ducked, dropping the phone to the floorboard as she grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and overcorrected her path, taking the car onto the sidewalk, but she veered back onto the street quickly enough.
“Fuck!” Susan kept low, barely able to see over her dash. The gunfire behind her continued, and she turned the next left, tires screeching, veering into the oncoming lane of traffic.
A truck blared its horn, swerving out of the way after Susan turned, a near miss head-on collision.
Susan straightened the wheel then glanced behind her, finding the shooter’s vehicle closing the gap. Even with the accelerator to the floor, the sedan was still gaining on her and moved close enough to nudge the back of her Malibu.
The car jolted forward, and Susan struggled to keep the wheel steady. Traffic had thickened, and she knew that if they continued down this street, someone was going to get hurt. Knowing she couldn’t outrun them, and with no other way to prevent the gangbangers from hurting innocent civilians in the crossfire, Susan slammed on the brakes.
The Malibu’s tires squealed and smoked against the pavement, but the centrifugal motion of her stop was quickly interrupted by the smash against her rear bumper.
The airbag in the steering column exploded, popping Susan in the face as the seatbelt kept her from being thrust into the windshield. The crash of metal and glass caused a high-pitched ringing in Susan’s ear accompanied by a sharp pain in her head, spreading from the nose and forehead.
Both cars eventually came to a stop, and Susan glanced around, most of the windows around her car broken and shattered. She caught sight of the sedan behind her, smashed into her bumper. Her vision was spotty and blurred, and she felt a warm trickle of blood leaking down her forehead.
Voices echoed behind her, and the sound of metal groaned. She looked into her side mirror and saw a man step out, a rifle in his hands. He stumbled a step, shaking off the effects of the crash, but the pair made eye contact in the mirror.
The sight of the gangbanger caused Susan to stir, and she quickly fumbled her hand over the holster and her standard issued M&P 9mm. The motion was quick and practiced, but the seatbelt limited her movement to turn to the left, so she spun around and fired through the back of her busted windshield.
Still shaking from the wreck, her aim was off, and the bullet shattered what remained of the windshield, but the close contact forced the shooter back into the car, and the vehicle backed up, separating itself from Susan’s Malibu.
The car jolted after the separation, and Susan’s brief retaliation only triggered more gunfire as she ducked below the window line as the sedan drove past before it took a quick left down the side road.
Susan kept the gun up and raised, but she didn’t shoot. The vehicle was too far out of range. But she caught the plates before the car dissappeared. She lowered the pistol, catching her breath after the wreck.
The entire street had been blocked off, the crowds gathering from behind the police lines taking video and pictures with their phones. The media had arrived, setting up news vans, their cameras zooming to check the damage of Susan’s car. The quiet city street had transformed into a circus.
A slew of police vehicles had been called to the scene, and Susan watched from the back of an ambulance as investigators marked off shell casings, measuring tire marks, forensic techs swiping pieces of metal and paint from her Malibu’s bumber.
The paramedic finished the bandage on her forehead and then grabbed his blood pressure kit. “Roll up your sleeve for me.”
“No,” Susan said. “My blood pressure is fine.”
“Ma’am, I think—”
“You know I still have my gun on me.” Susan stared at him, and the medic slowly put the blood pressure kit back down.
The paramedic reached for a light and then raised his finger in front of her. “Just follow my finger for me.” He shone the light into her eyes and then slowly moved his finger left to right, up and down, Susan following it despite the pain of the flashlight.
Finished, he clicked off the light and dropped the finger. He stared at Susan a moment too long, long enough for her to notice, and then he picked up his bag. “Are you on any medications right now, Officer?”
“No,” Susan answered quickly.
The medic nodded and then shouldered the strap. “Well, you have some slight dilation in your eyes, which could be an effect of a concussion. Do you feel dizzy, slight of breath?”
“No.” Susan lied. She was still dizzy, and her head was pounding, but she knew that going to a hospital would require her peeing in a cup, and she wasn’t in the mood to get popped for a drug test. She needed more time to get clean.
“Well, I still highly recommend that you get checked out by a doctor, but I can’t make you go if you don’t want to.” He sighed and then stepped off the back platform. “And I’m in no mood to get shot.” He started to leave, but then stopped, turning back toward Susan, leaning close and dropping his voice to a whisper. “But if you don’t want people to know that you’re high, then I suggest that you stop using drugs.” He raised his eyebrows and then walked toward the front of the ambulance.
Susan froze, surprised that he would make the accusation. She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t manage anything before the medic disappeared.
Dumbfounded, she didn’t notice Lieutenant Williams was nearby until he spoke. “You all right, Q?”
Susan nodded, trying to recover quickly. “Fine, sir.”
Williams kept his distance for a moment, giving her a look up and down, and then glanced back to the crumpled mess that was her car. “Hope you kept your insurance up to date.” Williams sat next to her in the back of the ambulance. “Any idea who might have done this?”
Susan gently pressed the bandage on top of her head. “Could have been Third Streeters or South Siders. I didn’t get a good look at them, but I saw their plates.”
Williams held a steady and focused eye on Susan that made her feel exposed. He crossed his arms, slouching slightly, his well-fitted suit showing his physique. “A lot of cops need time to decompress after a long undercover stint. Maybe putting you on the homicide case was a mistake.”
“It wasn’t,” Susan said. “I can help. I know I can.”
Williams gestured to the car riddled with bullet holes. “And if this was retaliation?”
“It was a warning shot.” Susan knew that it was more than that, but she kept her cool
, playing it off like she hadn’t nearly died. “They could have killed me, but they didn’t. It was just for show.”
“Hell of a show,” Williams said.
“I’m fine, Lieutenant.” Susan sat there, waiting for her judgment, praying that she wasn’t taken off the case.
Finally, Williams stood and then pocketed his hands into his pants. “I want daily updates from you, and I want you to start seeing one of the department’s psychologists.” He held up a hand before she could dispute it. “That’s non-negotiable. You’ve been through a lot, and you need to decompress. You’re no good to the department if you can’t think straight.” He then stepped closer and lowered his volume. “I know that you had to do things outside of the books when you were undercover. But those things are over now, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Williams walked away, and Susan knew that the lieutenant was giving her an unofficial warning. Maybe a final warning. And if that was the case, then she wasn’t going to waste it.
Susan grabbed one of the officers on scene and hitched a ride. She still wanted to speak with Katy Matthews’ parents. Because dealing with another issue instead of focusing on herself had always been how Susan handled her life, and she wasn’t about to start changing that up now. Not after it had worked so well.
11
The officer that gave Susan a ride was heavyset, young, and she couldn’t help but wonder how the guy managed to pass the department physical. He didn’t look too far removed from the academy.
“A lot of people have been spooked around here because of that girl,” Officer Sparks said, scratching the loose fat beneath his chin, which bulged due to the tight fit around his collar. It looked like it was slowly choking him. “The office has been flooded with calls for patrols in the area. Parents are afraid their kids are going to get snatched up or something.”
“So long as they’re not runaways, I don’t think the parents have anything to worry about.” Susan studied the houses in the neighborhood. They were older, middle-income type housing, which Susan understood was becoming rarer in the city.
The gap between the haves and the have nots was growing at an exponential rate, and the decrease in the middle class was directly correlated with the rising drug epidemic that was gripping the city. People were just giving up, falling off, and vanishing into darkened alleys.
Statistically, every fourth house she passed would have someone abusing drugs. The numbers were that high in the city. Addiction didn’t discriminate, and it didn’t care about your personal life. All it cared about was being front and center.
“So you work Vice? That’s nuts.” Sparks laughed. “How’d you score that deal?”
“I asked,” Susan answered, wiping the sweat collecting on her upper lip. The heat coming out of the vents was suddenly burning hot, and she closed the one on her side.
“Yeah, not too many folks like that kind of work,” Sparks said. “Me, I like the patrol. Get out, see the city, be a resource. I know I might look like I enjoy riding the desk, but it’s just not for me.”
But Susan noticed that he didn’t mind riding in a car. A chair was a chair no matter if it was mobile or stationary.
“How’d you get caught up in working with the Homicide unit?”
“Looks like the house is just up there,” Susan answered, and then unclipped her seatbelt, thankful that she didn’t have to play twenty-one questions.
Sparks pulled up to the driveway, putting the car in park. “You want me to hang around for a minute?”
“No, I’m okay.” Susan smiled and then waved. “Appreciate the ride.”
“Not a problem, but if you change your mind, just key into dispatch. I still might be close.”
Susan shut the door and then gave a thumbs up to the officer as she walked up the driveway to the house. Two cars sat in the driveway, and Susan suspected that both parents had stayed home from work given what happened.
Halfway up the driveway, Susan stopped, staring at the house. She studied the plain and simple details of the home. The manicured yard, the fresh paint that had been applied the previous summer to prepare for the harsh winter temperatures.
Covered flowerbeds rested beneath the two front windows. Wind chimes hung from the ceiling of a screened-in porch, adding to the noise of the neighborhood, which was comprised of the occasional barking dog, car, or young child screaming. She thought of how many times Katy might have played with her parents in the yard, or if she helped her mother with the garden.
The reality of the situation hit her in full force. She was about to speak with grieving parents, a mother and father who had loved their daughter, only to lose her to a disease that festered and rotted you from the inside out.
Susan turned and glanced down the street at the other houses, remembering the statistic that one in four individuals in the area suffered from addiction. And she wondered how many of these perfect little homes had become infected by the poison killing the city.
“Can I help you?”
Susan jumped, turning quickly back to the front door where she saw a middle-aged man, dressed in a grey shirt and jeans, a hand towel over his shoulder.
“Mr. Matthews?” Susan asked, still glued to her spot on the driveway.
“Yes?” he answered, stepping out of the screen porch, the door groaning as it swung shut behind him. “Who are you?”
Susan lifted the badge around her neck. “I’m Officer Susan Quinton. I’m assisting Detectives Palmer and Winterguard on your daughter’s case. I apologize for not calling ahead, but I was just brought onto the case, and I wanted—”
“Ronald?” The voice belonged to a woman who stepped from the screened porch and joined Mr. Matthews’s side. “What is going on?”
Even with the distance between them, Susan could see the bags beneath her eyes. She had been crying last night, and probably didn’t sleep. Susan saw the resemblance to Katy Matthews on the old woman’s face. She was her mother.
“She’s with the police,” Mr. Matthews said. “Said she is working Katy’s case.”
The woman clasped her hands together. “Did you find something? Did you get a suspect, or have a lineup or something? I read that the first forty-eight hours of a homicide case are important.”
“I was just hoping to ask you a few more questions—”
“We’ve already answered questions,” Mr. Matthews said.
“Yes, sir, but I’m here to get a different perspective,” Susan said. “I won’t take up much of your time, or if this is a bad time, we can reschedule—”
“Fine.” Mr. Matthews added an exasperated breath as he turned toward the door, his wife following. He stopped to let his wife in first, and then turned, staring at Susan, who hadn’t moved. “You coming or not?”
Susan joined them inside and was greeted with the warmth of a cozy home. She removed her jacket, and Mrs. Matthews graciously took it, the mild-mannered mother setting it carefully on a spare hook.
“Are you hungry?” Mrs. Matthews asked.
“Sheila,” Ronald said, his voice stern. “We don’t have to do that.”
“No, he’s right,” Susan said. “I’m fine. Is there a place we could talk?”
“The living room is a little messy,” Sheila answered. “But we can talk in there.”
Susan followed Sheila into the living room, Ronald reluctantly following. Sheila let Susan sit first on the couch, and then sat next to her. Ronald remained standing in the living room’s entryway, arms folded across his chest. Susan figured that the man was tired of having his privacy intruded upon.
Sheila Matthews was a petite woman, while Ronald Matthews was a big man. She saw that Katy had fallen between them in the height department, a smooth blend of features bestowed upon their daughter. Katy had the same nose and ears, while Ronald had passed on his blue eyes and blond hair.
“Thank you for speaking with me,” Susan said. “I just wanted to go over some information, and I might be asking some of the same questions
that my partners did earlier, but if you could answer them for me firsthand, that would be helpful.”
“Yes, of course.” Sheila leaned forward, her posture looking as though she might take notes at a moment’s notice, while Ronald only rolled his eyes.
“I appreciate that,” Susan said. “Can you tell me the last time that you spoke with your daughter?”
“Yes, it was six weeks ago,” Sheila answered.
“Was it in person or over the phone?” Susan asked.
“By phone,” Sheila answered. “It was an unknown number. She called our landline. I thought maybe the detectives could trace the number, but I guess that’s not how it works.”
“What did you two talk about?” Susan asked.
“Shouldn’t you be writing some of this down?” Ronald asked.
Susan paused and then nodded, knowing that while she might not be the best interviewer for a homicide case, she understood keeping your guard up to keep from being hurt, and she knew that’s exactly what Mr. Matthews was doing. And the only way she knew how to get that guard to lower was to explain what in the hell she was doing.
“I have a good memory,” Susan said. “People say things, and I can just remember them. I see things, and I remember. All of it. Down to the last detail. And it doesn’t matter how long I saw it, it can only be for a few seconds, but I remember it. Sometimes it comes in handy in this line of work, and other times I wish that I could get rid of it. That’s why I don’t have a pen and paper, Mr. Matthews. It’s not because I don’t care about the case or am here as some kind of lip service. I was brought on to help, and I believe that I can.”
Susan waited for the father’s reaction. She had been as honest with the man as she could without promising that she would find his daughter’s killer. She wasn’t here to get their hopes up, but she did want them to know that she was on their side.
Ronald uncrossed his arms, and he walked over to the armchair, sitting down and leaning forward. He didn’t say anything, but Susan took it as the first sign that he was willing to cooperate, and that was all she needed from him.