Vigilare

by James, Brooklyn

  They walk in silence, the wheels of their minds spinning restlessly.

  “Did we get anything from the scene? Evidence? Something concrete?” she asks, hopeful.

  “Maybe some DNA. Skin from the rope. Looks like there’s two different strands. His, and the perp’s.”

  “The perp’s,” she says flatly. “He’s the rapist, yet someone else is the perp.” She shakes her head, biting her bottom lip, a smug grin on her face. “Now that right there...that’s concrete evidence. Getting caught with your hand in the cookie jar.” Gina points to the window of a convenience store on the corner.

  A young man, wearing a hooded coat, stands nervously behind the counter next to the clerk. The clerk is visibly shaken up, digging through the drawer of the cash register. Gina and Tony wear black fatigues today, no uniforms, unthreatening to the young thief as he quickly glances out the window in their direction.

  “I got the front. You go around back,” Tony says.

  “I saw him first,” Gina rebukes, as they approach the store. The young man agitatedly hurries the clerk along.

  “DeLuca...”

  “Fine. Have it your way.” She casually departs down the side alley until she is out of sight, picking up her pace, hoofing it to the back of the convenience store.

  Detective Gronkowski continues calmly into the front entrance of the store. The young man grows edgy at the sound of the jingling bell hanging from the doorstop. He moves closer to the cashier, one hand in the pocket of his oversized coat. The cashier looks up, coyly diverting his eyes, an attempt to alert Tony.

  Tony lays a hundred dollar bill on the counter “Can you make change for a hundred? I need a pack of Marlboro Lights.” He points to the cigarettes behind the young man’s head.

  The young man uses his free hand to pull a pack from the bin. Laying them on the counter, he nudges the cashier, who quickly counts out Tony’s change.

  “Thought it might be convenient for you, since you’ve already got the register open. And just exactly why is that when there’s a customer behind the counter?”

  “I...I work here,” the young man stammers.

  “You don’t want to do this kid,” Tony warns. “Forget about it and walk out the door, right now.”

  The young man simultaneously grabs the money and pulls a 9-millimeter Glock pistol from his coat pocket. Wrapping his arm around the cashier’s neck, he points the gun at his head, backing away from behind the counter, facing Tony.

  “Call the police!” the cashier pleads.

  “Shut up old man,” the thief rams the gun into the side of his head.

  “Where ya going, kid? What’s your name?” Tony gets his attention, taking a few steps toward him.

  Gina makes her way stealthily through the back of the store, coming up behind them.

  “Stay back!” the thief warns, his eyes darting frantically from the cashier in his grip to Tony.

  “Call 9-1-1,” the cashier cries.

  “Put the gun down. You don’t want to hurt anyone, kid.”

  “I will if I have to.” He continues backing up, dragging the cashier with him.

  “Please don’t,” the cashier begs. “I have two children. My wife. Please.”

  Gina appears from around the corner, swiftly aiming her side arm at the back of the thief’s head. He stops abruptly as the cool steel makes contact with his skull.

  “Vanguard PD. Lower your weapon,” she speaks calmly.

  He spins around, away from her, maintaining his grip on the cashier, positioning himself as the point of a triangle between Gina and Tony. He flings his handgun around, first at Gina then at Tony, holding it sideways, gangster style. “Cops don’t shoot kids. You won’t shoot me,” he rehearses as if he is convincing himself.

  “You’re right. I don’t want to shoot you. But I can’t just let you walk out of here. Put the gun down,” she coaxes.

  A customer walks in the front. The bell on the doorstop sounds, beckoning ears and eyes from the back of the room.

  The thief throws his gun down, pushes the cashier away and bum-rushes Gina for the backdoor. She quickly holsters her weapon to avoid shooting him. Using his momentum, she grabs his shoulders when he comes at her and goes to the ground, landing on her back with effortless agility. She sticks her legs into his stomach, catapulting him up and over onto his back while she holds onto him, thrusting herself to roll over with him, coming down on top of him astraddle his waist. He swings, connecting with her left eye. Instinctively, she wants to return his contact, her fists in position. Refraining from doing so as she looks down at him, just a kid. She simply deflects his punches, working with Detective Gronkowski to turn him over, cuffing him.

  “Goddammit, Gina. I’m sorry,” Tony sputters, checking out her eye, his knee in the delinquent’s back holding him down on the tile floor.

  “Comes with the territory,” she dismisses, standing. She takes hold of the kid’s arm by the elbow, waiting for Tony to do the same with the other side.

  “You can add battery to your list of crimes, punk,” he spews through gritted teeth, jerking the kid into standing position.

  “Ow! Ah shit, that hurts,” the young man cries at the pressure of the unforgiving handcuffs gripping his wrists.

  “Gronkowski,” Gina scolds. She helps steady the young man on his feet.

  “You think it’s okay to hit women?” Tony jerks him around.

  The kid shakes his head shamefully.

  “You wanna be a big man? Hold guns to people’s heads…take their hard-earned money. Get a goddamned job!” Tony advises, briskly walking the kid to the front of the store.

  “Central to 223,” Gina’s radio sounds.

  “223. DeLuca,” she identifies herself.

  “Chief wants you and Gronkowski. 4300-block of MLK. Fast as you can get there.”

  “We need a pick up. Got one for booking,” she replies.

  “You got it. 301’s in your neighborhood. Dispatching now.”

  “Copy.” Gina clips the little black box back onto her belt.

  “Make something of yourself. Contribute to society. Buncha punks,” Gronkowski continues. Gina follows behind, smiling, shaking her head, knowing in Tony’s anger is genuine concern for the misguided youth. “Take, take, take...you think you’re entitled? You big? You bad? You’re entitled, alright. Your ass is entitled to remain silent. Anything you say, can and will be used against you...”

  MOMENTS LATER, DETECTIVES DeLuca and Gronkowski pull up to the 4300-block of MLK Boulevard. The scene surrounded by patrol cars, police and numerous onlookers. Yellow caution tape blocks the alleyway where a body lies lifeless. They pile out of their squad car, challenging each other with each stride. Even when they arrive together, the mindset still remains, ‘Who’s going to be first in?’

  “Took ya long enough,” Chief Burns chirps upon noticing them.

  “Tell me about it,” Gina replies. “Gronkowski insisted on driving. My grandma drives faster than him.”

  Chief walks to her, positions his hands on the sides of her face, tipping his head down to focus his eyes over his bifocals, inspecting her left eye. “And just exactly how do you propose to drive with a bruised-up eye?”

  “Exactly,” Tony says.

  “Marks,” Chief Burns calls. “What are you drinking there?” He refers to Gina’s previous partner, Officer Sam Marks’ tall plastic cup with the words Big Gulp slathered all over it.

  “Coke, Chief. Hey DeLuca!” He greets Gina with pleasant surprise.

  “Pour that out. Save the ice. Grab one of those latex gloves out of the console of my cruiser,” Chief orders.

  “Yes sir.” Marks makes quick work of his task.

  Tony rolls his eyes at the two officers huffing and puffing, tending to Gina’s eye.

  “It’s alright, Chief. Just a little bump.” Gina gently persuades his hands away. “What’s going on here?”

  Officer Marks returns with the ice inside the latex glove. “See...you were much safer wo
rking with me.” He smiles at his conclusion, before turning to Tony. “Not even a little scratch.” He winks, walking away.

  “Yeah, must be some kind of danger...handing out parking tickets. You’re one step away from security guard, Marks. Come talk to me when your name tag says detective.” Tony flips him the bird.

  “As soon as these two divas are done flexing their egos, I’d be happy to tell you,” Chief answers Gina, shaking his head, watching the interplay between Gronkowski and Marks. He puts the iced glove in Gina’s hand, gently suggesting she hold it to her eye.

  She winces with the contact of the cold compress.

  “Might be related to your case. Found a body in the alleyway this morning. Pulled the rap sheet on him, and he’s got three priors...one sexual assault...two rapes.”

  Chief’s voice is overshadowed by a rising commotion around the alleyway.

  “Thomas Knightly,” he continues talking louder, as they all three make their way toward the crowd. “Liked to hold his victims at knifepoint. What do you know, he ends up in an alleyway, his neck slit ear to ear, with his own knife.”

  “She makes a statement with every murder, huh,” Tony concludes. “Always some irony in it.”

  “She?” Chief Burns asks.

  “Hey lady, get out of here. This is a crime scene. What do you think you’re doing?” A cop challenges a young woman who has pushed through the crowd, breaking through the caution tape.

  She stands over the corpse, physically shaken. “You weren’t supposed to die. Bastard!” She kicks the lifeless body.

  “Lady, come on.” The cop approaches her, grabbing hold of her arm.

  A hand encases the cop’s, swiftly removing it from the woman’s arm. “Keep your hands off my daughter. Give her some closure,” her father, standing six-foot-four-inches, with shoulders and a chest out to there, eyes the cop, backing him up. “Back off!”

  The cop reaches for his billy club. Other officers come to his defense, swarming around the man.

  “You use that thing, it’ll be your badge, Rookie,” Chief Burns warns, approaching the scene. “Back up. All of you.”

  “Death is too easy for you,” the young woman laments, looking down at the deceased. “You should be in some dirty jail cell, rotting away one day at a time.” Tears surface in her eyes. She looks to her father, helpless. His eyes reflect her pain. “I want you to suffer like I do, every day.”

  She begins pacing around the corpse, slowly. Gina and Tony look to each other, then to Chief Burns, who holds them at bay with his expression.

  Sirens wail, people move to and fro, but the young woman hears only her heart throbbing in her chest, as time stands still. “My father brings me here every morning. To this spot. Where you held a knife to my throat and...raped me,” she says, whispering the last part as if it still hurts to say so. “He’s trying to help me.” She glances at her father, a faint smile for his efforts. “He thinks if I come here every day, the pain will eventually fade, and I will find peace.”

  She squats beside his body, wishing his eyes open. They remain closed, as he lays perfectly still, restful, peaceful. “Peace? You took that from me three years ago.” She closes her eyes. “I close my eyes and I still feel your hands on me.” Her body shakes. “Disgusting waste of human life. Piece of shit, fucker!” her scream rings through the alleyway. Her legs give out and she falls to her knees. “I hope you rot in hell,” she seethes through clenched teeth, tears streaming down her face. She grabs two hands full of her own hair, pulling sharply until the physical pain numbs the emotional.

  Gina pushes past Chief Burns, kneeling in front of the young woman as she pulls her into an embrace, shielding her from the gathering crowd. The young woman sobs uncontrollably as Gina rocks her in her arms.

  “Get these people out of here,” Chief Burns orders to the officers witnessing the scene.

  The officers turn toward the onlookers, their arms outstretched, backing them up away from the caution tape. “Nothing to see here. Back up people.”

  “Get your hands off her,” the father orders, approaching Gina.

  Tony gulps before grabbing the large man by his arm. “She’s only trying to help.”

  The man jerks his arm away from Tony. “I didn’t see any of you trying to help three years ago.” He throws his arms out to his sides, a large reach. “You’re a joke. The whole system’s a joke!” He chuckles mirthlessly, quenching the urge to cry. “He raped my baby. My baby!” He pounds his chest with his fist. “I’m supposed to protect her.” He regroups, shaking off the emotion. “Lord knows the system won’t. Three years in jail with early probation on account of good behavior.” He shakes his head, disgusted. “We don’t want your kind of help.”

  “You tell ’em!” a lady shouts from the crowd. “I’m sick and tired of all these scumbags roaming our neighborhood. I don’t even dare to let my children out of the house to play.”

  “Our kids don’t stand a chance, between the drug dealers and the pedophiles. I looked online. Do you know we have more sex offenders per capita than any other neighborhood in the city,” a man joins the lady in her protest.

  “‘Stick ’em over there on the Eastside,’” the lady continues mockingly. “You don’t want them in your communities. Well, we don’t want ’em, either!”

  The crowd begins applauding the protestors. Random outbursts are interjected as the scene plays out. ‘Cops suck.’ ‘The whole damn system’s broke.’ ‘We’re not gonna take it anymore!’ ‘If you don’t stop it, we will.’

  “Take it up with the city folks,” an officer persuades, as he attempts to quiet the crowd.

  “Yep. Get a permit, then you can protest all day long,” Officer Marks chimes, herding people away.

  The young woman’s father gently pulls her from Gina’s embrace, up off the ground. “It’s all over now, honey,” he coaxes. Eyeing Gina directly with disdain, he continues, “Justice has been done.”

  Gina remains kneeling on the concrete in the alleyway beside the corpse of the rapist, her thoughts scattered. Tony walks to her extending his hand. “He’s right. You know he is,” she says, shame flooding her expression.

  His hand outstretched, he nods at her, prompting her to pull it together. She shakes her head, taking his hand. He pulls her into standing position. “I know,” he admits, an afterthought, falling into cadence behind her. She has recovered. In full detective mode now, she heads in the direction of the man and his daughter, knowing she must insist they cooperate for questioning.

  THAT AFTERNOON, DR. Patricia Ryan is in session with Randall Barnes, a registered sex offender with a persuasion toward young boys...and girls. Any minor, really. He has served two prison sentences, one for a year, and three years for the second count. Currently on his tenth month of a four-year probation, mandatory psychological counseling is added to his curriculum. The bill for such services, another strain on the local taxpayer, in addition to the thirty thousand dollars for every year he spent incarcerated. What’s another hundred dollars an hour for his psychological well-being?

  Dr. Ryan’s room is dim, the shades pulled, an attempt to make her clients feel at ease. Light seems to cause them great discomfort. Dr. Ryan sits in her chair. Randall Barnes across from her, lying casually on the leather sofa, one leg kicked off onto the floor, his arms relaxed above his head.

  “How are you doing with the temptations, Randall?” Dr. Ryan cuts right to the chase.

  Without hesitation, he answers, “Not good.”

  “Have you tried implementing the positive coping techniques we discussed last session? Diversionary tactics? Exercise as a means of exertion? Creativity for mental stimulation to override excessive physical desires?”

  He sits up on the couch, rubbing his hands together, grinning. “If you consider jacking off while watching my girlfriend’s daughter sleep a positive coping technique, then yeah, I’ve tried it.”

  Dr. Ryan shifts uneasily in her chair, while maintaining a controlled body language. “
Last time you were here, you told me your girlfriend didn’t have any kids. Does she know you’re a registered sex offender?”

  He stands from the couch, pacing around behind it. “Yeah, she knows. She trusts me, though.” He smirks, shaking his head. “It’s her fault you know, picking me over her kid. The same way my mom did with my stepfather. Stupid bitch.”

  “How old is the child?”

  “She’s fifteen.” He props himself up on the back of the sofa. “A ripe fifteen,” he continues, miming a full, voluptuous frame with his hands.

  Dr. Ryan clears her throat, reframing her initial urge to respond negatively to Randall’s probing. “Can you identify with the daughter? Empathize with her, the position she is in? The same position your mother put you in with your stepfather?”

  “Sometimes. Other times, I want so bad to feel her insides.” He physically moans, causing Dr. Ryan’s skin to break out in goosebumps, instantly nauseated. “Maybe her innocence could replace the innocence I lost.” His eyes stare straight forward, momentarily reliving a moment in time.

  “The innocence your stepfather took from you? You want to do that to another human being?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You’ve already done that, Randall, twice,” she refers to his previous sentences. “Their innocence did not replace yours. What makes you think another victim will?”

  He mocks her condescendingly, “Why, Randall? How does it make you feel, Randall? How are you coping, Randall?” He slaps his hand against the back of the couch as he starts in pacing again. “You ask too many questions, lady.”

  She sits back, her arms resting casually on the arms of the chair attempting to maintain an open body language. “That’s my job, Randall. Without questions, you have nothing propelling you to explore your feelings and actions. The more understanding you have of the things you do, the better equipped you will be to control the negatives and nurture the positives.”