RCC01 - Under a Raging Moon

by Frank Zafiro

  Andrea and Leslie sat on the couch, watching her dispassionately. She turned to them both. “He shot a cop! We’re all going to hang! They hang people in this state, you know.”

  “It’ll be all right,” Mace said. “No one saw us. No one knows but him, and he’s as good as dead.”

  He wondered if that were true. Mace narrowed his eyes. He needed to turn on the TV and see what the news reported.

  “Oh, God,” Carla sobbed. “He shot a cop.”

  “Fuck that cop!” Mace snarled. “That’s what he had coming.”

  Carla whimpered.

  “The cop was the enemy,” Mace said, his voice low and intense. His body felt electric. “He would have killed us if he had the chance. I did what I had to do.”

  Silence filled the room, except for Carla’s sobbing and muttering. Mace put his gym bag on the kitchen table and turned to look at Andrea and Leslie. Andrea remained silent.

  Leslie finally spoke. “Did you score any smack, baby?”

  Karl Winter clutched at his wounds. His chest seemed constricted and pain pulsed where the bullets had hit.

  Thoughts flitted through his mind.

  One bullet there or two?

  Jesus, that was close to his heart, wasn’t it?

  He should’ve worn his protective vest.

  He couldn’t see out of one eye.

  Winter chuckled, a wet raspy sound. His theory had been right about Scarface, hadn’t it? Almost right.

  Then the pain hit again, followed by a coldness.

  Mary. Mary. Had he kissed her goodbye tonight? He’d kissed her goodbye every day for twenty-four years, but he could not remember if he’d kissed her tonight.

  Mary. He could hear her sweet laugh as he struggled to play the guitar. The music rang in his ears.

  “The screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves.”

  Winter’s bloody hand twitched as his fingers struggled to form the chords. He tried to sing, but only a wheeze escaped his mouth.

  Mary. Her soft touch on his shoulder.

  Had he kissed her goodbye?

  His feet were so cold.

  A siren broke through his thoughts, followed by the screech of tires.

  Kopriva leapt from the car and ran to the fallen officer. He recognized Winter more by his belly than his bloody face.

  “Baker-123, officer down! Start medics, now!”

  “Copy. Injuries?”

  “Multiple gunshot wounds,” Kopriva said, guessing.

  He knelt beside Winter. Blood, coming from his left eye, covered the left side of the officer’s face. That wound appeared to be only a trickle, perhaps from a grazing shot. Kopriva saw the bullet holes in his chest and heard the raspy rattle of a sucking chest wound. He applied pressure, noticing that Winter didn’t have on a vest. Frantically, he struggled to recall the proper first aid.

  Winter tried to mouth something to him. He leaned forward but no sound came from the veteran’s lips. Winter spoke the same silent few words over and over, but Kopriva couldn’t make them out. He lifted his head again. Winter continued to mouth the phrase, looking like a fish gasping for water in the bottom of a fishing boat.

  Then Kopriva noticed the puddle of blood that emerged from both sides of Winter, spreading slowly outward like a pair of black wings.

  He took Winter’s hand and held it tightly in his own.

  Karl Winter saw the shadowy shape of a man above him but not well enough to recognize who it was. He saw the silver badge on the man’s chest, though. That was what mattered. He’d been able to give his message to the man, who would give it to Mary. He didn’t want her to worry at his bedside while he recovered.

  The light shining from the streetlight had dimmed. He was cold, so cold.

  He could barely feel the officer’s grip on his hand and wished he could hold it tighter.

  Had he kissed Mary goodbye?

  “You’re going to be okay, man. Just hold on.” Kopriva squeezed Winter’s hand tightly. He didn’t know if the wounded officer could hear him or not. “Just hold on.”

  Hurry up with the goddamn medics!

  He looked around frantically, willing them to appear. He saw fresh rubber marks beside Winter in the flashing red and blue lights. They led westbound. He realized that he’d probably passed the suspect car on his way and cursed silently.

  When he looked down again, Karl Winter’s eyes had frozen into a fixed stare.

  TEN

  Saturday, August 27th

  Day Shift

  1315 hours

  A warm August rain fell on the mourners. It began as large, fat drops, splattering noisily when they struck. After a short while, a brisk wind swept in and broke up the drops, thinning them out. Within minutes, it had transformed the rainfall into a misty sheet, lightly soaking the attending mourners.

  Police Chaplain Timothy Marshall stood in the downpour, oblivious to its assault. His usually jovial face turned somber for the occasion. His only reaction to the weather was to close his eyes as he spoke the words he knew by rote.

  “Ashes to ashes,” he intoned, his words torn and fragmented in the wetness. “Dust to dust.”

  Three hundred officers stood in the large cemetery, all in dress uniform or dark suits. Those closest to the chaplain heard his words and found in them no solace. Those too far away to hear shifted uncomfortably in the rain, remaining respectfully silent. A very few openly wept.

  Lieutenant Alan Hart stood rigidly, unsure of his proper role. Winter had not cared for him. Neither did his friends. As such, his sympathies would likely be rebuffed, so he only offered them in a perfunctory manner to the widow. He knew, though, that his distance would only serve to reinforce their negative image of him. It was, he realized, the price of command.

  At his side, Sergeant David Poole watched Mary Winter. He knew how much Karl and she loved each other. He had often compared Sherrie to Mary until he realized he did not love his wife. When had he stopped? He couldn’t pinpoint even an approximate time. That should make him sad, but for some reason it didn’t. Standing at Karl’s graveside, he found himself envying the man his heroic death. He feared his own would not be so glorious. A deep sadness finally came upon him with the belief (or was it knowledge, he thought morbidly) that he would die alone and unloved.

  Anthony Giovanni and Mark Ridgeway stood on either side of Mary. Neither man could have known that they shared the same thoughts. Both were deeply hurt over the loss of a woman and both cursed themselves for not being with Winter when he’d needed them. After all, he had always been there for each of them.

  A furious, guilt-racked Kopriva stood in the second row of the mourning group. He felt as if he, too, had failed Winter. All the way to the hospital, he watched the paramedics work feverishly on an already dead Winter. He recognized the first few procedures as field techniques he could have performed. That knowledge slammed into his chest with a vengeance. He could have saved Winter if he had acted more quickly. All the doctor’s assurances to the contrary didn’t change that. The surgeons might have been able to repair a nicked aorta if he’d only given them the chance. Instead, he’d stood by uselessly while Karl Winter’s life bled out onto the warm, summer asphalt.

  Kopriva spotted Katie MacLeod standing on the fringes of the crowd. She wore a black, calf-length dress. Simple and elegant. She looked beautiful, like a sculpture. Beautiful and untouchable, he reminded himself.

  Standing with the pallbearers, Thomas Chisolm kept his face calm and impassive. He barely noticed the rain as it washed over him. He had attended dozens of funerals in his life, most of them after returning from Vietnam. His trip to Arlington cemetery and then, years later, to the Vietnam Memorial had been emotional ones. He’d wept openly, shamelessly, mourning for dozens, even scores, of men. Karl Winter was one man, however, and Thomas Chisolm would do him the honor of a stoic burial.

  The honor guard from the local National Guard unit folded the flag in crisp motions. Their presence, along with the police motorcycle escort
to the cemetery, was an honor accorded to Winter out of respect for his status as both a veteran and a policeman. The bugler stood ready at a distance.

  Chisolm watched the honor guard sergeant present the flag to Mary Winter. The uniformed man spoke softly to her. Mary nodded and thanked him. The sergeant patted her twice on the hand. Even that act was done with military precision. He paused several moments before returning to his squad.

  Chaplain Marshall gave a nod and the groundskeeper began to turn the lever. The brown casket slowly sank into the wet ground.

  Mary Winter sat at the grave-side, watching them lower her husband into the earth. The solemn notes of Taps pierced the stillness. Her brother Aaron’s strong hands rested on both her shoulders. The casket lowered out of sight as the final notes of Taps welled up like a tear and trailed off.

  The crowd began to break up. Mary heard the murmuring of sympathies and nodded automatically, without understanding the words or seeing the faces. She knew Mark and Gio would stand with her until she was ready to leave, and that Aaron would be there to lean on throughout the day and for the weeks to come.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Nothing could change the pain. Not the honor or respect they paid to her husband, not the insurance policy, not the hat-passing that would take place at the reception following this and not the flag she clutched to her breast.

  Mary Winter began to weep and her huge, racking sobs pierced the downpour where the chaplain’s words had failed to.

  ELEVEN

  Thursday, September 1st

  Graveyard Shift

  2215 hours

  T-Dog checked that both pistols were loaded with full magazines and a round in the chamber. Everything had to be perfect. Morris was getting very touchy lately, as their nightly searches for the cop came up empty. He assured Morris that it was only a matter of time before luck would take a hand and they’d find him. He’d been rewarded with a slap upside the head and a ten-minute tirade. Now, he remained silent while Morris groused.

  “Gonna get that cracker bitch motherfucker,” Morris muttered as he sipped from his forty-ouncer. “To-night!”

  T-Dog didn’t respond, but handed him the small black .380. Morris shook his head. “Gimmee the other one, dumb motherfucker.” He reached out as T-Dog handed him the one with the brown grips. “The poker gun, too.”

  T-Dog handed him the small, two-shot derringer, which Morris liked to carry at card games.

  Morris snatched it from his hand. “Stupid fuckin’ Wonder Bread,” he said. “Wannabe motherfucker.” He shook his head at T-Dog and slipped the guns into his pockets.

  T-Dog swallowed the insult dutifully, raging at it inside. Man, he was a brother. He hung with the bangers. He kept their secrets, he did their dirty work. What did it take to be accepted?

  Stroking the smooth metal of the pistol’s slide, T-Dog found his answer.

  Friday, September 2nd

  0049 hours

  Woodenly, Stefan Kopriva patrolled his sector. Five days had passed since Karl Winter’s funeral, and the impact of the shooting on the department had not subsided. His death had not officially been pinned on Scarface, though every officer in town remained convinced it had been the elusive robber who shot Winter.

  Kopriva reviewed the facts that Major Crimes finally gave to patrol at that evening’s roll call. The license plate of the car Winter stopped came back to a 1972 Ford Maverick, but the tire marks at the scene suggested a much wider mid-to-early seventies car, like a Caprice or something similar. So, either Winter put out the wrong plate when he made the stop or more likely the plates had been switched. No shell casings were found at the scene. One of the bullets that struck Winter had been recovered. Forensics stated it was a .38 caliber, the weapon formerly used by every cop in America.

  The only other clue was a driver’s license at the scene belonging to Carla Dunham. River City PD showed no record of her locally, and her Department of Licensing address was in Seattle. Her picture circulated at the roll call tables. She was the best lead they had, but the detectives had been unable to locate her. Now they were asking for help from the patrol officers.

  Business continued as usual. The calls just kept coming. Burglaries, DV’s, accidents, drunks. People constantly asking about the shooting. Did you know the cop who got shot?

  Scarface had been busy, too. Three more robberies since the night of the shooting. Strangely, he had not hit on the night of the funeral; something Kopriva didn’t know what to make of, if anything.

  He remembered Katie at the funeral and her sculpted beauty. She hadn’t cried, remaining strong in the presence of her brethren police officers. She’d caught his eye and held it for a long time while the bugler’s notes floated over them. He hadn’t been able to read her face.

  He should have spoken with her. Hell, he wanted to. He’d wanted to be with someone very badly that night. To make love frantically with someone, and especially with her, to prove he was still alive. Maybe that was why he hadn’t spoken to her. They’d had enough bad timing already.

  He stopped at an intersection just in time to see a car bust the light northbound. He watched it go. The driver, a single Hispanic female in a two-year-old compact, didn’t even notice him in the marked police vehicle. She looked like a worker bee to him. Kopriva saw no other cars in the area. He let the car go, turning southbound and continuing his patrol.

  0234 hours

  “Was that him?” Morris asked as they passed a police car.

  “No,” T-Dog answered. “That was some bitch.”

  “Are you sure?”

  T-Dog nodded.

  “Man, you are a no-finding motherfucker, you know that?” Morris took a slug from his forty-ouncer. “Couldn’t find your dick to piss with it,” he muttered.

  T-Dog ignored him. Morris would treat him differently after they found the cop. They’d take care of business. And then it was down to Compton. He’d come back, beat in and proud.

  0349 hours

  It had been a slow Thursday night, now a slow Friday morning. Units made stops all night long and most cleared with no citation. That usually meant the car they’d stopped was a civilian car instead of a criminal car. Most patrol officers didn’t bother writing normal citizens for minor infractions. You could tell when pickings were poor, though, by the number of those stops and clears that came across the radio.

  Calls for service were also very few and tapered off completely around two in the morning. At three-thirty, units began to request sevens. Radio had no reason to refuse and by three forty-five, the first unit had checked out at Mary’s Café for breakfast. Most of the Adam Sector cars quickly followed and after a short time, most of Baker, too.

  That left three cars in each sector still on patrol. Down in the radio room, Janice Koslowski felt no alarm at the thinness of patrol. She could have run the whole north side with two cars tonight, much less the six that were still out there. As long as at least one car stayed in service on each side of Division, she didn’t see a problem.

  0353 hours

  Thomas Chisolm heard the sevens begin and decided to stay in the field and shag any calls that popped up. He’d stopped at some Mexican drive-through around midnight and eaten slowly while sitting up at Haven and Illinois, gazing out over the Looking Glass River and the southern half of the city. He loved that view, but now the burrito sat in his stomach like lead shot.

  He’d heard yesterday that Payne was reviewed by the Probationary Officer Board at Bates’s recommendation and fired. He hadn’t been lucky enough to see Hart since the announcement, but he didn’t care. The arrogant prick had been wrong and now he had to know it. He wondered briefly if he could force Hart to reinstate him into the FTO program and knew he would probably not have to.

  Simply asking nicely would be enough.

  Chisolm smiled and turned up the stereo as the Rolling Stones came on singing something about satisfaction.

  0404 hours

  Kopriva considered going to Mary’s
Café, but he didn’t like the fact it was in the extreme northwest of town and almost all the city’s units were already there. The only other option at this time of night was the Denny’s at Division and Wabash. He headed that direction until he heard Katie’s voice over the radio.

  “Adam-116, I’ll be seven and paperwork at Division and Wabash.”

  Kopriva frowned. He wasn’t ready to deal with Katie yet, if he ever would be. Not that hungry anyway, he decided to stay in service and drive around. He rolled down the window and turned up the stereo, trying to drive the foggy sleepiness out of his eyes.

  Some coffee would be nice, though.

  0406 hours

  Chisolm stopped in a dry cleaning parking lot and backed his car right up to the windows. The lot was at the eastern edge of his sector here, but he could respond to any call quickly enough. Especially on a slow morning like this. He remembered the unofficial graveyard motto. “You know it’s a good night when you get to drive fast, point your gun at somebody and take them to jail.”

  Well, he made a warrant arrest on a stop earlier that night, but it had all gone off pretty low-key. So he stood one-for-three. Of course, some officers were one-for-three as they ripped out of the basement sally-port and raced to the city pumps for gas.

  Chisolm removed the folded burglary report from the visor above him. All that remained to do was to write a brief narrative, one he had written almost verbatim hundreds of times before.

  Complainant left at 0700 hrs and returned home at 2200 hrs to find the front door forced open with some sort of generic pry tool. The residence had been ransacked. Refer to property sheet for missing items. Complainant had no suspects. No physical evidence beyond the damage to the point of entry was found. End of report.