by LA Witt
“Dude,” Grant said. “Have you seen Diego’s mom?”
Diego flipped him off while Colburn, Grant and I cracked up.
I skimmed over the watch bill. “Harris and Jansen out on patrol?”
Colburn nodded. “They’ll probably be back in ten or fifteen.”
“All right.” I set the watch bill and logbook on the desk. “Looks like you boys have this all under control, so I’m going to go get some—” The radio on my hip crackled to life.
“Whiskey Charlie, White Beach.”
I cursed. White Beach dispatch looking for me, the watch commander, as they always did when I wanted to eat. “Well, I was going to go get something to eat.” I pulled my radio off my gun belt and pressed the button. “Send it for Whiskey Charlie.”
“Respond to a domestic, O’Donnell Gardens.”
I grabbed a notepad off the desk. “Building and unit numbers?”
The dispatcher gave me the address, which I jotted down. I confirmed it over the radio and told her to show me responding. Then I grumbled, “So much for lunch.”
Diego laughed. “Don’t you know, man? That’s when the radio always goes off. Right when you’re gonna eat.”
Grant chuckled. “If that were true, you’d be getting calls every five fucking minutes.”
“Man, fuck you.”
I looked at Colburn. “You been to any domestics, MA2?”
He nodded. “Tons.”
“Good. You’re with me.” To Diego and Grant, I said, “When Harris and Jansen come back from their rounds, have them stand by in case I need backup.”
With my stomach still growling, I left with Colburn. He knew the base better than I did, so he directed me as we left the gate and headed toward housing.
As I turned down the road that led into officer housing, Colburn shook his head. “I think this is the tenth domestic I’ve been to over here in the last six months.”
“At Shields?” I said. “Or the officer side?”
“Officers. Trust me, on the enlisted side, there’s—oh, look, a cheater’s house.” He gestured out the window.
I pulled up to a stop sign, then looked at the house he’d indicated. “What? How can you tell?”
He shot me an incredulous look. “You don’t know this shit?”
“Well, on my last base, the my-husband-isn’t-home signal was a mop next to the front door.” I craned my neck but didn’t see the incriminating mop propped up next to the door.
“Not here. All the husbands found out about that one. Here, it’s a detergent box in the dining room window.”
I glanced up just before I pulled through the intersection, and sure enough, peeking down from the window of one unit’s dining room, was a box of Tide.
I shook my head. “Every fucking base.”
“Yeah, get used to it,” he said. “It’s way worse out here than it is in the States.”
“I can imagine.”
“Fucking people, man. It’s like fucking Groundhog Day out here sometimes.” He pointed to the left. “Turn here.”
I made the turn, and didn’t need any further directions after that. The couple was on the sidewalk, gesturing sharply and shouting at each other. He was in his white working uniform, though he’d taken off his cover.
At least they were out in the open. There were few things scarier in this job than barging in on a domestic in progress. It was just impossible to know what was happening on the other side of the door until it was open.
That was a moot point with these two, though. As I pulled up to the curb, they didn’t even notice us. Even as we stepped out of the truck and started toward them, they were too caught up in screaming over the top of each other to notice until the husband happened to glance in my direction.
He stabbed a finger at me. “This is none of your fucking business.”
“Yeah, well, your neighbors beg to differ,” I said. “So, I’m going to—”
“Hey,” he said. “Anyone ever taught you to salute an officer?”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Sir, I’m going to need you to sit down.”
“Fuck you.”
“Sir, I’m going—”
“I said fuck you.” He stepped toward me, eyes narrow and lips tight across his teeth. “This is a private matter.” He had easily six inches on me, but I didn’t back down.
I took a step toward him. “You have two choices, Sir,” I growled. “You can sit down and shut up, or you can sit down and shut up with a face full of pepper spray.”
His eyes flicked downward, and his eyebrows jumped slightly, probably at the sight of my hand resting on the canister of OC spray on my belt. Then he looked back at me, and I narrowed my eyes.
That’s right, Sir. Do not fuck with me.
Apparently, he was capable of seeing reason, because he quietly took a seat on the bumper of a car. While I’d dealt with the husband, Colburn had calmed the wife, and she had taken a seat on the porch steps.
“We’re going to take this in the house,” I said. “I’m going to take statements from both of you, and I don’t want either of you looking at each other or speaking to each other unless you want Petty Officer Colburn or me to put you in cuffs. Am I clear?”
The wife nodded.
The husband—Lieutenant Commander Sorenson, I gathered from the rectangular plastic tag on his chest—glared at me. I returned the look, and he dropped his gaze, nodding.
“There any children in the home?” I asked.
“Our son,” the woman said quietly.
“How old?”
“Three.”
“Is there anyone else in the home with him?”
“No,” she said.
I gritted my teeth. How nice. At least they weren’t fighting like this in front of their kid, but leaving him unsupervised while they duked it out on the lawn? Fucking idiots. I had a hard enough time staying emotionally detached when kids weren’t involved, and this guy was just asking for me to fuck up his world.
To Colburn, I said, “Radio for Main Gate to send someone up here to—”
“You’re taking my son away?” Mrs. Sorenson asked, a mix of panic and rage in her tone.
I put up a hand. “No, ma’am, I’m not taking your son away. I’m making sure someone is keeping an eye on him while we sort this out.”
“We don’t need you to sort it out,” the husband snapped.
I shot him a warning look, and he didn’t push it.
To his wife, I said, “Your son can either go with another officer, or if there’s a friend or neighbor who can take him…” I let my raised eyebrows finish the question.
She chewed her lip. “Our next-door neighbor.”
“Do you have a phone out here you can use?”
She tentatively reached for her pocket but paused, glancing up at Colburn. He nodded, and she slid her hand into her pocket to get her phone.
Her husband fidgeted impatiently while she called the neighbor to come get the little boy. A moment later, a blonde woman came out of the apartment opposite the Sorensons’ place. She and Mrs. Sorenson exchanged a few words, and the blonde went in to get the boy.
Once their child was safely away from the situation, Colburn and I took the Sorensons into their apartment. Inside, the dining room and living room were connected, separated only by a waist-high wall. Perfect.
“Take her in there,” I said to Colburn.
He guided Mrs. Sorenson into the dining room and had her face the wall in the chair farthest from her husband and me. At my instruction, Lieutenant Commander Sorenson took a seat near the opposite wall in the living room, also with his back to his wife. He muttered something about being treated like misbehaving children, but tough shit for him. It would have been less tense if I could have separated them completely and taken them into different rooms, but that would have left both Colburn and me vulnerable. We had to stay within each other’s sight for officer safety. The Sorensons could just suck it up and deal with it.
Wit
h everyone situated and reasonably calm, I glanced from one spouse to the other.
Sorenson obviously had a temper. The wife seemed to give as good as she took, and there were no signs of physical violence on the surface. That said, I’d been to domestic calls where a battered spouse took the fight outside for his or her own safety. Rare was the spouse who’d get violent outside where others could see it, and if that was the case here, no one would admit to it while the other was within earshot.
I beckoned to Colburn. Each keeping an eye on our respective halves of the dysfunctional marriage, we met at the waist-high wall between the two rooms.
“I want to get statements from them separately,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Gut feeling, but I want to separate them. Completely.”
He nodded. “Want me to radio for backup?”
“Please do.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Sorenson demanded. “We just going to sit here all fucking night?”
I reminded myself to stay calm, no matter how much I wanted to pistol-whip the guy just for the hell of it. “Sir, I need you to just stay quiet until I can take your statement.”
“What the hell are you waiting for?” he asked. “An engraved invitation?”
Neither Colburn nor I spoke. Fortunately, Sorenson just muttered to himself but otherwise shut up.
Harris and Jansen arrived a few minutes later. When they came in, I turned to the sullenly quiet couple.
“This is Petty Officer Harris and Petty Officer Jansen,” I said. “I need one of the two of you to step outside with them, so they can—”
“What the fuck is this?” Sorenson snapped. “You never seen people get in an argument before?”
“Sir,” I said coolly. “I’m not going to ask you again.”
“I’ll go outside,” his wife said. “I need a cigarette anyway.” She followed Harris and Jansen outside.
Once she was gone, I had her husband move to the couch so I wasn’t backed up against a sliding glass door. Colburn stayed off to the side, leaning against the wall that divided the two rooms. Close enough to intervene if something happened, far enough away to keep from agitating the man any further.
“I need you to tell me what happened,” I said quietly. “Start from the beginning, and take your time.”
“You married?” He glanced at my left hand, probably looking for a ring.
“I’m divorced.” I kept my voice even in spite of my impatience.
“You know how it is, then.” He gestured at the door through which his wife had gone.
“I can’t say I ever had the police called to settle a dispute,” I said. “So, no, I don’t know how it is.”
I thought he’d get pissed off and defensive, but his posture deflated a little. The lieutenant commander exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I got home a little bit late, and she lit into me as soon as I came through the door. Just, you know, one thing after another. And we, I guess…I guess we got carried away, and we took it outside. Then you guys showed up.”
“Have either of you been drinking?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I’m in uniform, Petty Officer,” he spat.
“Have either of you been drinking?” I asked again, this time with enough force to suggest he cut the crap and answer my fucking question.
He swallowed. “No. Neither of us have been drinking.”
“Was there any physical contact or was anything thrown?”
“No, we were just yelling at each other.” He paused. “With a lot of enthusiasm, if someone called the cops.” His cheeks colored, and his black-and-gold shoulder boards went from flat to sharply declined as his shoulders sank. He looked up at me. “Listen, I’m sorry they called you guys out here tonight. We got carried away, but I’d never lay a hand on her. We’re both just…stressed.” Sighing he rubbed the back of his neck with both hands. “I’m leaving on an IA tour soon, and it’s been rough on her. On both of us.”
That much I could understand. Iraq and Afghanistan tours were stressful for everyone involved. My ex and I had already divorced when I went to the Sandbox the first time, and we’d still squabbled like nobody’s business in the weeks before I left on both tours.
“Anything else I need to know before I go have this conversation with your wife?” I asked.
I was less concerned with his answer and more with his body language. When he shook his head and quietly replied with a negative, there was no sudden tension, no defensive posturing, not even a glance toward the door.
Satisfied with his responses, I called Harris in to switch places with me. He and Colburn stayed with Sorenson while I stepped outside to talk to the wife.
Jansen and Harris had already taken a statement from her, but I still wanted to talk to her myself.
I asked her the same questions. She calmly repeated everything she’d already told them, and she corroborated her husband’s story: no drinking, nothing physical, just a stress-fueled dispute that got out of hand.
“Any history of violence or alcohol abuse?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No. This is…pretty unusual for us.” She dropped her gaze, and some color rushed into her cheeks. She struck me as more embarrassed than anything, not nervous or scared. Judging by her body language and her tone, she was upset, but not scared. Didn’t sound like anyone was covering for anyone. Nothing in the house looked like it had been thrown or struck, and neither spouse had any indications of giving or receiving any kind of violence. Everything checked out that this was just an overly heated argument.
After talking to both spouses, I made the call to let them both go. I hated being the one to make that decision. Every time I arrested someone on suspicion of domestic violence, I was afraid I had made a bad call and needlessly fucked someone’s career. Worse, whenever I left without making an arrest, I was certain we’d be called back after things got a lot worse.
But in this case, I was as close to confident as I could be that I wasn’t putting either spouse—or their child—in danger by leaving.
We brought the couple into the living room. As Harris and Jansen left, Lieutenant Commander Sorenson put an arm around his wife’s shoulders.
“I’m sorry, babe,” he said and kissed her cheek.
“Me too.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest. He gently stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head.
“All right,” I said. “We’re going to leave. We’ve got both your statements on file. Your chain of command will be notified of our visit, but I’m not arresting anyone, and no charges will be filed.”
They both exhaled and glanced at each other. His expression turned mildly sheepish, and so did hers.
“I have to come back out here tonight or any other night,” I said, “we’re sorting this out someplace else. Am I clear?”
“Yes,” they both said.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Sorenson said quietly, and a ghost of a smile flickered across her lips.
Sorenson picked up his cover and showed us out while his wife went to get their son. Now that things were settled, we were outdoors, and he had his cover on again, Colburn and I both saluted the lieutenant commander. He returned it, then shook our hands, and we left.
On the way out of the neighborhood, Colburn radioed dispatch to let them know we’d taken care of the call and were on our way out. Then he put his boot up on the dash and lounged back in the seat. “That has to be one of the cleanest domestics I’ve been on in a while.”
“No shit,” I said. “I’ve been to some nasty ones.”
“Me too. Man, last year?” He whistled and shook his head. “We had to arrest a Marine, his wife, her boyfriend and his wife. Well, after we took the Marine to get stitches.”
I glanced at him. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, it was ugly.”
“So which one cut him up?”
“Oh, fuck, who knows? They were all shit-faced, and I guess someone let it out that someone was cheating on someone, and…
” He waved a hand. “Shit hit the fan. Fuckin’ looked like they’d been throwing bottles, throwing punches, you name it. They were all cut the fuck up, but only the Marine needed to be sewn up.”
“Bet he had fun explaining that to his chain of command.”
Colburn laughed. “Yeah, really. Man, I’ve had some crazy fights with my wife, but that shit? No way.”
“Life’s too short for that,” I said. “I can see why they do it, though, honestly. This life, it isn’t easy.”
“No,” he said with a sigh, “it definitely isn’t.”
On the way past a row of houses, I glanced up and noticed an innocent-looking box of laundry detergent in the window of one dining room. Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to the road. This was why I lived off base. Well, that, and being single, I’d have been stuck in the barracks if I lived on base, but I’d refused to live in housing for my entire career. Desperate Housewives didn’t have the drama base housing did, and from what I’d been hearing, overseas was even worse. The isolation of being thousands of miles from friends and family stressed people out. Cheating was rampant, and it worsened before, during and after deployments. People drank, people fought, and people got stupid.
Okinawa was peaceful in terms of murders and burglary. The only violent crime we dealt with on a regular basis was domestic violence, and there was plenty of that, thanks to stress, booze and infidelity.
I would have liked to believe it wasn’t that bad, but I was a cop. I saw it all firsthand.
And there was another house with a box of Tide in the window.
~*~
When I got home, I dropped onto the couch and picked up my laptop. I wanted nothing more than to strip out of this uniform and grab a shower, but it was early enough in the day back home that I might catch my daughter online before she went to school.
I shrugged off my blouse—the blue digicam jacket that went over my dark blue T-shirt—and draped it over the armrest. Then I logged on, and sure enough, her instant-message icon was set to Available, so I sent a request for a video chat. The request showed pending for a good thirty seconds. I thought she might have left her computer logged on, but then the Request Accepted message came up.