by Frank Zafiro
Eliza arrived and put a huge plate of French toast in front of Giovanni.
“My God, Eliza, I can’t eat all of this,” he protested.
“You’ll eat it and you’ll like it, Anthony Vittorio Giovanni,” Eliza told him, pouring him a cup of coffee and refilling Winter’s cup.
“I won’t eat all day and night after this,” Giovanni muttered and dug into the pile of buttered, syrupy bread. In between bites, he complained bitterly to Winter about Irina. He didn’t understand what her problem was. They went out, they had fun, they had some great sex and now he was done. He didn’t want to be tied down, he wasn’t looking for a relationship and he had told her that right from the beginning. Well, maybe not the very beginning, but pretty early on.
Poor Gio, thought Winter. He really doesn’t understand.
Even though he knew it was probably pointless, he tried to explain. “Gio, listen. Everyone knows your reputation. Still, a lot of women think maybe they’re the one that can change you.”
Giovanni snorted around a mouthful of food. “Fat chance. There ain’t a woman alive.”
Winter didn’t answer. He hated to admit that twenty-four years ago, there was a man who felt and acted much the same way. That man had been wrong. And the woman’s name had been Mary.
0854 hours
Chisolm was almost two hours into overtime when he burned off a copy of his report on the copier and put it in the Captain’s box. He turned the original into Sgt. Poole, since his own sergeant had already gone home. Poole accepted the report woodenly, skimmed it and scratched his initials on the bottom before Chisolm had even made it out of the office.
So much for supervisory review, Chisolm thought as he left the office. Tired and in a bad mood, he was not particularly looking forward to seeing Hart.
Hart was waiting for him in the shift commander’s office. Chisolm knocked and stood by while the lieutenant continued to write something. Chisolm doubted it was anything important and figured Hart just wanted to make him wait.
After almost a minute, Hart looked up. “Come in. Close the door.”
Chisolm obeyed.
A plastic chair faced the desk. Chisolm once heard that Hart had purposefully brought in a small chair that sat low to the ground to intimidate his visitors. Hart made no offer for Chisolm to be seated. Chisolm made no move toward the chair. A brief, silent battle of wills ensued until Hart surrendered.
“Officer Chisolm,” he said with exaggerated formality, “as you know, I am the Officer-in-charge of the FTO program. I would like your appraisal of Officer Trainee Maurice Payne.”
Chisolm set his briefcase on the chair. “Lieutenant, I have been quite specific in my reports.”
“Nonetheless, I would like a verbal to-date report,” Hart insisted.
“Fine.” Chisolm crossed his arms and gave Hart a hard look. “I think that Trainee Payne should be dismissed.”
“On what grounds?”
“Incompetence.”
“Incompetence?” Hart raised his eyebrows. “Explain.”
“It’s all in my reports,” Chisolm repeated.
Hart raised his voice, “I want a verbal explanation right now, Officer Chisolm. Is that clear?”
“Clear.” Chisolm bit off the word.
“Now, on what grounds do you feel he should be dismissed?” Hart clearly enjoyed his power trip.
Chisolm sniffed a short breath, and then began. “Quite simply, Lieutenant, he is not cut out to be a police officer. His officer safety is almost non-existent, his knowledge of the city streets is poor and his judgment under stress is almost always wrong.”
“His previous two FTOs rated him better than that,” Hart pointed out.
“They were too easy on him. Besides, one of his tours was swing shift and he frequently got tied up on early calls. He can establish rapport with people and his high marks are generally in those areas.” Chisolm paused. “He has weakness in every area except that one.”
“Not tough enough, huh?” Hart’s voice was sarcastic.
“The kid is afraid of his own shadow.”
“That kid,” Hart reminded him, “is going to get several stitches in his face.”
Chisolm shrugged. He knew a lot of officers with scars.
Hart stood and walked around to the side of the desk. He sat on the edge and affected a pleasant expression. “Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh, Tom? I mean, I had my share of difficulties early on.” He smiled a plastic smile. “Hell, we all did as we came up, right? Why are you being so hard on this kid?”
Hart’s transparent chummy mode made Chisolm’s stomach churn. What an arrogant, condescending prick, he thought. “Lieutenant, if you had these kinds of problems as a trainee, maybe you should have been dismissed, too.”
There was a long moment of silence as Hart stared at Chisolm, disbelieving. His face turned white, then red.
“You can’t talk to me like that!” he yelled, spittle flying from his lips.
Chisolm stood stock-still, his countenance unchanging.
Hart’s face and hands trembled with fury. “You…you’re hereby suspended from the FTO program. I want your daily log, your weekly file and your key to the file cabinet.”
Chisolm showed no surprise. He opened his briefcase and withdrew all three items and dropped them with a thunk on Hart’s desk.
“Payne will be re-assigned to someone who is not such a burn-out,” Hart said through gritted teeth.
“He may need this, then.” Chisolm reached inside his briefcase and withdrew Payne’s pistol. He slammed the weapon down on Hart’s desk. The slide was locked to the rear and the magazine had been removed. Chisolm tossed the magazine to Hart, catching him by surprise. Hart juggled the mag, then dropped it.
Chisolm ignored him, gathered up his briefcase and strode out the door.
1743 hours
Thwack!
Two halves of firewood fell off the splitting block and onto an already sizable pile. Karl Winter stepped forward and tossed them aside into his stacking pile and set another round on the block. He removed the axe and stepped back.
Winter had once heard that cutting wood is a favorite activity of men. That’s because it is hard work and one sees immediate results. Who said that? Mark Twain? Winter wasn’t sure but he agreed with the sentiment.
He set up and swung easily, letting the weight of the axe do most of the work. Two pieces leapt apart as if in pain when the axe struck, landing several feet to each side.
Winter chopped most of his wood in the summer, storing it for the winter season. He hated chopping wood in the cold. Actually, he avoided doing anything in the cold. Besides, there was something satisfying about swinging an axe under the August late afternoon sun and sweating from honest work. Police work was hard, dangerous at times, but not physically demanding, except in small bursts. His protruding belly spoke to the truth of that.
He set up another piece and continued chopping at a leisurely, constant pace. His mind wandered, as it often did, to work issues. This Scarface robber situation bothered him. The guy threatened clerks with a gun and now he was shooting at cops. Add to that the fact that the administration bungled their handling of the situation so far, both within the department and with the media. But most of all, it rankled him that the bastard was getting away with it.
Eleven stores in two weeks.
Winter shook his head in disgust and swung the axe.
Thwack.
Another piece of wood ready for burning in three months.
Winter reviewed the information he had. The description was always the same. The robber made no attempt to disguise himself. He either didn’t care, or. . . maybe he wanted to be seen. Which would mean he wore a disguise. Probably the hair. A good wig, maybe, giving him long hair.
What about the scar? He considered the question, but decided it was probably real. One of the clerks would have noticed a fake scar.
So the robber runs out of the store, goes three or four blocks
on foot, maybe less, and gets into a car. Every track that Winter knew of ended with the K-9 officer saying the suspect probably used a car. Officers are set up on perimeter and looking for a white male with long black hair on foot. Does he slip out with his short hair and in a car?
Maybe.
Winter swung the axe lightly, sticking it into the block. He began to stack the wood.
Probably not, though. An officer would stop someone that even vaguely matched the description, car or not. And how close did you have to be to see the scar? He might be able to slip out two or three times, but not eleven.
So what then?
Winter shook his head and tossed the wood into the stack. He knew the detectives in Major Crimes had more information they weren’t putting out to patrol. Part of it was security and some it was the ridiculous game of ownership. They wanted to keep the information to themselves and they wanted to catch the bad guy instead of patrol. After all, why waste information on a bunch of patrolmen? They were just cops who weren’t smart enough to make detective, right?
Winter frowned. He had to stop hanging out with Ridgeway. He was getting more negative by the day.
He returned to the puzzle at hand. So the robber gets in the car and drives away... or maybe someone else is driving?
An accomplice?
Winter smiled. Of course.
A woman. That’s how he does it.
Winter resisted the urge to hoot and holler. Hot damn, it was so easy once you saw it!
He robs the store, then runs to the car and hops in. He lays down in the back seat or something. Maybe covers up with a blanket. The woman driver gets on an arterial and drives two miles an hour under the speed limit in one direction. Five minutes later, they are way out of the area and safe. All the cops in the city are either back near the store that he just robbed or they are running lights and siren to get there.
Not bad. I’ll bet that is how he does it.
With the last piece stacked, Winter returned to the chopping block and with exuberance cut a few more pieces. He wondered if the detectives or the crime analysis unit had figured this out yet. He wondered whether he should share the idea, or give the detectives a dose of their own medicine.
Then he wondered why this guy felt like he had to rob a store every day and a half. That was a hell of a lot of exposure.
Winter’s brow furrowed.
Drugs? Probably.
He set up a piece of wood and stepped back to chop it. Another small mystery solved.
The back door opened and Mary approached carrying a glass of iced tea. Winter admired her slender frame for a moment, but found himself drawn as usual to her face and to the laughing eyes that stared into him. Her dark hair was pulled back into a clip. He smiled when he noticed the single large strand that always pulled free and hung loosely on her cheek.
“Take a break, Grizzly Adams,” she said lightly, handing him the tall glass.
Winter took it and drank deeply. Mary’s tea had always been bitter, something he’d never had the heart to tell her. Eventually, he’d grown to like the taste. Inside the house, he could hear the stereo playing and recognized a Springsteen tune, Thunder Road. He lowered the glass and let out a satisfied sigh.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiled at him and Winter felt his heart melt. Forty-four years old, and she still made him feel like a schoolboy.
Winter remembered when he would play Springsteen songs for her on his acoustic guitar. His voice was horrible and his guitar playing barely mediocre, but he had passion. He took several rock songs and slowed them down, doing them acoustically and, he tried, romantically.
Her favorite was Thunder Road, partially because the woman in it was named Mary. Years later, Springsteen himself did an acoustic version of that song on M-TV. Winter broke his vow never to watch that channel and tuned in for the show. After it was over, Mary leaned against him and kissed his temple. He could still remember her warm breath in his ear as she whispered, “I liked your version better.”
Winter stared at her and took another drink of the bitter tea. It was cold. Mary looked back at him with a small smile playing on her lips.
“Are you going to chop wood all day?” she asked coyly.
Winter glanced at the dying sun, then back at her. He shook his head. “No. Not all day.”
Mary took the iced tea from his hand and set it on the chopping block. She gathered both his hands in hers and led him up the back steps to their house.
Karl Winter forgot all about the Scarface robberies.
TWO
Sunday, August 14th
Graveyard Shift
2010 hours
Stefan Kopriva blocked the punch and twisted to his right, snapping out a short round kick toward Shen’s abdomen. The lithe sergeant dropped his elbow, catching the top of Kopriva’s foot with the point.
Kopriva grunted in pain, but pulled the foot back and fired it at Shen’s head.
Shen leaned away from the kick, then slid underneath and swept Kopriva’s supporting leg out from under him.
Kopriva fell hard to the mat, his breath whooshing out.
Shen remained merciless, dropping next to him and reaching in for a chokehold.
Kopriva rolled out of range and stood up without using his hands. Shen pounced upon him almost instantly, flicking a punch toward his face. Kopriva blocked it with his left and countered with a straight right to Shen’s rib cage. It landed with a solid thud. Shen exhaled with a grunt and stepped back.
“Time!” yelled Chisolm.
Kopriva and Shen bowed to each other and shook hands, both breathing heavily.
“Nice work, Stef,” Shen said.
Kopriva shook his head. “Nice work? Nah, that foot sweep you made was excellent. That was nice work.”
Shen rubbed his ribs. “That last punch will stick with me for a bit.”
They thanked Chisolm for timing the round. The veteran officer winked at Kopriva. “Any chance to see someone beat on a sergeant, I’m there,” he said, and returned to the weight bench and resumed lifting.
Shen laughed. “I’m sure that’s a common sentiment.”
“Depends on the sergeant,” Chisolm said his voice straining as he curled the hand weights, “but I can’t discriminate.” He grimaced with effort, trying to affect a smile.
Kopriva walked with Shen from the gym down the hall to the locker room. He knew that some of the other graveyard patrolmen called him ‘Sergeant’s Boy’ because he sparred with Shen a few times a week. He didn’t care. They also called him a ‘Code-Four Cowboy,’ because he didn’t like calling for back-up, but so what?
Sticks and stones.
At his locker, he undressed and headed for the shower. The hot water felt good as it cascaded down his body. When he returned to his locker and began dressing, he read through the small phrases of positive self-talk taped to the inside of his locker door. They served to get him into the right mind-set for patrol every night. He always paused at the final one.
I will survive, no matter what, even if I am hit.
Below that, he had written I am a warrior, in mind, body and spirit.
Kopriva slipped his bulletproof vest over his head and secured the straps into place. A warrior’s armor.
Below the positive self-talk, he’d hung a narrow bamboo wall hanging. Painted upon the horizontal bamboo slats were a Japanese style tiger and a yellowing moon, tendrils of smoke or clouds snaking across it. It had been a gift from his sensei when he achieved his black belt two years ago. He called it “Tiger Under a Raging Moon” and said that the brooding cat reminded him of Kopriva.
Now, two years later, Kopriva still wasn’t quite sure why.
He strapped his duty belt into place and removed his .40-caliber Glock pistol from the holster. A quick check showed a full magazine and one in the pipe. He slid the gun back into the holster, closed his locker and made his way to roll call.
2100 hours
“Listen up,
” Lieutenant Robert Saylor said as he stepped to the lectern at the front of the room.
The drill hall fell silent.
Saylor read through a couple of administrative memos, then paused and looked out at the assembled group of police officers.
“Last night,” he began, “we had officers fired upon by the Scarface robber. One of them was injured when a bullet struck a spotlight. That’s going to be a charge of attempted murder, or at least first-degree assault, when Scarface is apprehended. And it is one more very good reason to catch this son of a bitch.”
General agreement murmured through the room.
“El-tee?” Chisolm said, lifting his hand in the air.
Saylor nodded for him to continue.
“I believe this guy might have a military background,” Chisolm said. “He went over that fence infantry style. Besides that, he fired a shot our direction almost as soon as he landed.”
Saylor considered. “Did you get that information to Renee in Crime Analysis?”
Chisolm nodded. “I sent a copy of my report along with a note.”
“Good work.” Saylor turned his attention to the rest of the patrol officers. “That information should heighten your caution, ladies and gentlemen. This guy may not be some doped up mope who doesn’t know which end of the barrel is the working end. He may know your tactics and your abilities, so be careful.”
Saylor let his eyes flick from one face to another, holding each for just a moment before moving on. “I can’t stress this enough. Be safe. All right?”
The assembled group muttered assent.
“Okay,” Saylor said. “Then if no one has anything else, let’s hit it.”
2213 hours
Katie MacLeod wrote the traffic citation. Her pen skipped through the boxes, filling them in almost without thought. The driver had failed to stop for a red light and narrowly missed colliding with another car in the middle of the intersection. Katie had briefly considered arresting him for reckless driving, but the driver was immediately apologetic and obviously shaken up. A ticket for the red light violation would be more than enough.