13 Days of Terror

by Dwayne Clayden

  “You gotta talk loud. It’s like I’m in a metal barrel. Damned uncomfortable, too.”

  “Sure, after this, we’ll get you a comfy lounge chair.”

  “You try this. No reason we can’t put extra foam padding in here. Maybe some air holes, too.”

  “I’ll get right on that.”

  “Don’t be an ass.”

  The car rocked as Hirsch changed his position. “I’m staring at about fifty cows. Any cow in particular?”

  “Take the one farthest away. Must be about three-hundred yards.”

  “I’ve got him.”

  Pittman saw the cow drop—then the car echoed with the sound of the shot. Shit, that was loud.

  Chapter Six

  Friday afternoon Brad sat across from Deputy Chief Archer as he read and re-read the letter on his desk. Brad’s mouth went dry. He waited. Archer had a fashionable office. Not the fake paneling common in lots of offices, but actual wood. The bookshelf appeared to be oak, and the desk was undoubtedly cherry wood. Of course, Brad made that up. He didn’t know pine from pasteboard. Still, it was better than the detective bullpen with Second World War surplus desks. Above Archer’s desk was a picture of the city at night. Maybe Archer could give Keller some art tips.

  Archer slid the letter to the side of his desk and sighed. “This was a surprise.” His gray eyes squinted and his jaw set. “Last week, Dr. Keller didn’t think you were making progress, then this week, he says you’re ready to return to work.”

  Brad held his arms wide. “This was a breakthrough for me. Dr. Keller said he’d seen nothing like it. It was like everything blocking me collapsed at the same time.”

  Archer nodded and tapped his finger on the letter. “Full return to duty.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Archer cocked his head. “No restrictions?”

  “None.” Brad maintained eye contact.

  Archer pursed his lips and stared off to the far side of his office. “I’m thrilled you’re doing well. If this was a breakthrough, I’m happy for you. But I wonder if returning to full duty is the best solution.”

  “Chief.” Brad held his hands in front of him like he was saying a prayer. “I can’t stay home anymore. I’m going crazy. I can only work out so often. I can only run so many miles. Lobo can only fetch so many rocks. I need to get back to work. I’m ready. Put me to work.”

  Archer scrutinized Brad. Seconds passed. “Aside from your mental health, how are you physically?”

  “Never been in better shape. I jog every day. Work out for a few hours.”

  “You appear gaunt. Are you eating well?” Archer stared at Brad, then shook his head and sighed.

  “Very well.” Archer picked up his pen and signed the letter. “There’s an opening in Homicide. You’ll be back with Don Griffin. Nothing is happening, so you can ease back into things. Start Monday.”

  “I’m ready to start today,” Brad said.

  Archer sighed. “Tomorrow, then. Find out when Griffin is working.” He rose, took one last glance at the letter, then extended his hand. “Brad, I’m so sorry for your loss, both Maggie and the baby. You’re right. It’s time for you to get back to work.”

  Brad took his hand. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret this.”

  Chapter Seven

  Brad stepped into the detective bullpen. This place will never change. A haze of smoke hung near the ceiling. Years of detectives’ chain-smoking had stained the white ceiling tiles a yellowish brown. While not as strong as a locker room, the distinct smell of male sweat and cologne fought the tobacco for the dominant odor.

  He headed toward the Homicide office at the back of the room. With a sharp knock on the door, Brad entered. Several heads popped up, like gophers in a spring field. Then just as quickly the heads dropped, interest gone. Brad wandered through the maze of desks until he found Don Griffin seated in a chair, leaning back, feet on the desk, eyes closed. Brad pulled out the chair opposite Griffin and sat, staring at him. There was no movement or acknowledgment that Brad was there.

  Brad waited a few minutes, then leaned forward, arms extended to knock Griffin’s feet off the desk.

  “I wouldn’t,” Griffin growled. “You could be my first Homicide call of the day.” He stretched, slid his feet to the floor, and glared at Brad. “You know the rules: eat when you can, pee when you can, sleep when you can. You never know when you’ll be able to do any of the three.”

  “Seems to me you’ve got nothing but time to do all three. If I’d known it was a sleepover, I’d have brought my jammies and security blanket.”

  “Why am I not surprised you have a security blanket to curl up with at night?” Griffin grabbed his head in his hands. “I’m a dumbass. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t sweat it. You didn’t mean anything by it, and I have to get used to it. I can’t take everything personally.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes I don’t think before I put my mouth in motion.”

  “You were explaining the three rules of being on the street. I’m not sure you can teach me anything about that. Try lying face down on the ground as a sniper, beside a dumpster, when an icy February wind is trying to blow you into Montana. Trying to keep your fingers warm in case you need to take a shot and realizing if you peed your pants, you’d feel warmer. A least for a few seconds.”

  “Thanks for the visual.”

  “What are you working on?”

  “I’ve got two cases that are going nowhere, but we’ll talk about them tomorrow. There are a few changes that will interest you.”

  “Like our new mayor?”

  Griffin nodded. “Shocked us all, that’s for sure. Roger Kearse, reporter, TV celebrity—at least in his mind—is our mayor. No one saw that coming.”

  Brad grinned. “Yeah. That’s a rags-to-riches story. Reporter drinking with cops in the St. Louis Hotel bar to running the city. Did everyone go crazy while I was away?”

  “He still drinks with the cops in the St. Louis. The difference nowadays is he can order us to take him home.”

  “I fell asleep election night before they announced the winner. When I read the paper the next day, I thought I’d been transported to an alternate universe.”

  “Lots of people felt that way.”

  “Might be good for us,” Brad said. “Kearse likes us, and he was always fair in his reporting.”

  “I heard you didn’t get along with him.”

  “We had our moments. Kearse was always digging for inside information.”

  “That was his job as a reporter.”

  “True.”

  “He might need a driver full-time. Since you like to hang out in the St. Louis bar, and you two got along so well, he’ll probably ask for you.”

  “Not on your life.”

  Griffin glanced at his watch. “Time for you to head upstairs.”

  “What for?”

  “Before you can come back to the street, you need to pass your firearms qualifications.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m qualified to teach those courses.”

  Griffin grinned. “Policy, my friend, policy. Enjoy shooting. I’ll see you tommorow.”

  After qualifying on the range on five different guns, Brad and Lobo headed north on Fourth Street. The back window was open, and Lobo had his head out gulping the air, his jowls flopping, a lopsided grin on his face. Brad swung left and followed the laneway for about a quarter mile, then parked at the curb.

  Lobo raced ahead of Brad, sniffing for the track of a squirrel. Brad maintained a slower pace, weaving around the tombstones. The visits were not getting easier. He had hoped to find peace after enough time had passed. He’d been wrong. He dropped to his knees and stared at the tombstone. He’d still been in the hospital when they held Maggie’s funeral. He’d needed a second surgery to readjust the titanium plate in his shattered leg.

  Lobo chased a squirrel, loped over, and lay down, his head in Brad’s lap. Brad stared ahead, reliving the years with Maggie. Starting wit
h the first time they’d met, on a dark highway outside Calgary the night his former partner, Curtis Young, was killed. He remembered little of that night. Only that Maggie had been there. The next time they met, Brad ended up in the back of the ambulance assisting Maggie with a drug dealer who’d been shot in the leg and was bleeding everywhere. Maggie was a rookie paramedic. Brad, a cocky cop. A fleeting smile quirked his lips. Lobo snored.

  “Hey, Mags. I’m going back to work. I’m working with Griffin, and I’m excited about that. Homicide. I know you think it’s about time. Me too. Kept hitting a wall convincing Dr. Bonkers—well, Dr. Keller, that I was ready. Some of us at the station call him Dr. Bonkers behind his back. He’s such an ass. I … did something I probably shouldn’t have, but if I get in trouble … I don’t know, I’ll make them understand. I need this. I’m going crazy at home.”

  He glanced at Lobo. “There’s only so much Lobo and I can do. I’m in great shape. You’d love the six-pack abs.” He swallowed hard. “I miss you. Sometimes I don’t think I can go on without you. Then I remember you’d kick my ass for saying that and somehow I keep going.” He sighed, pushed Lobo off his lap, and lay with his head on Lobo’s side.

  Chapter Eight

  Saturday Day Four

  Brad had two homocide files laid out on the metal desk. Even though he was in a building with detectives, he hated having his back to the room, but Griffin was senior and had claimed the better location. With the continual murmur of voices on the telephone or yelling across the room at each other, it was hard to concentrate.

  The first was a drug deal. The dealer had used most of the product and couldn’t pay. This wasn’t the first time this had happened. Fed up with the dealer, an enforcer was hired, and they’d found the dealer with two bullets in his head. The enforcer bragged in a bar and was overheard by undercover drug cops. After the enforcer pled not guilty, they released him on his own recognizance and he promptly skipped town. There was a Canada-wide warrant for his arrest. It was a waiting game.

  The second case was interesting. This one involved a drug dealer as well. He was selling in Victoria Park. The drug cops knew him but left him alone. They were after the shitheads further up the chain. And, occasionally, he was good for a tip or two.

  The report said the dealer was stabbed and was dead on scene, although the paramedics tried to resuscitate and rushed him to the hospital where he was officially pronounced dead. Brad pulled out the envelope with the autopsy photos. Interesting. There were a half-dozen minor lacerations and then the one that killed him. The knife plunged from under his ribcage and up into his heart. Why the lacerations? Brad sat back and pondered that. He’d seen similar cuts before. In some suicide attempts by slashing wrists, the victim hesitates, leaving slight lacerations—commonly referred to as hesitation cuts. There were a few things of interest. First, the attacker controlled the victim during the hesitation stabs. Second, the attacker found the courage to follow through.

  Brad set the files aside and yawned. Not good.

  Griffin cuffed Brad on the head as he slipped by to his desk. “You got those files memorized?”

  “Not a lot to remember.”

  “Too true.”

  “Seems like it’s been slow,” Brad said.

  “What the heck did you say?”

  Brad leaned back and held up his hands. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

  “We never say that. That’s a sure way to end a partnership.” Griffin stood and straightened his suit coat. “I’ll let you make it up to me. Buy me dinner.”

  Brad wheeled the unmarked sedan out of the police garage, onto Sixth Avenue, and headed into the setting sun. He merged with the last surge of downtown workers. They rolled down their windows and enjoyed the crisp fall air.

  “Where to?” Brad asked.

  “Pizza.”

  “Do you have a favorite place?”

  Griffin stared out the window, watching pedestrians. “Yeah, one where the cooks don’t spit in my food.”

  “That narrows it down.” Brad turned right onto Seventeenth Avenue.

  “Back in your former zone,” Griffin said.

  “Old habits.” He crossed Fourteenth Street and stopped at Puccini’s Pizza.

  “You sure they won’t spit on my pizza?”

  Brad got out of the car and headed to the door. “Sure about mine. Yours, not so much.” Brad stepped into the restaurant and was immediately hugged by a tall, distinguished man.

  “Mr. Brad. So long since I’ve seen you. How are you?” He glanced over his shoulder. “This is not the beautiful Maggie. How is she?”

  Griffin stepped forward and offered his hand. “I’m Don Griffin. Brad’s partner.”

  “And I am Paul Puccini, owner,” he said as he accepted Griffin’s hand.

  “Brad. Grab us a booth,” Griffin said as he pulled Puccini aside.

  Brad’s stomach cramped and his jaw clenched. He’d been so focused on getting back to work, he hadn’t thought of the awkward moments he’d experience, like this one. He better get used to it. He wouldn’t always have Griffin or someone else to provide interference.

  Brad was seated in a booth. He had no recollection of how he got here. His last conscious thought was standing at the door with Puccini. Brad reached for a glass and as he lifted it, his shaking hand slopped water on the table.

  Griffin slid into the booth. Puccini set two menus on the table. Brad noticed the redness in his eyes. Puccini had a soft spot for Maggie.

  Brad glanced briefly at the menu—it hadn’t changed.

  “What’s good?” Griffin asked.

  “Everything. I love the pizza, but the spaghetti and lasagna are to die for.”

  Griffin flipped through the menu on the table. “Pizza it is.”

  “Pizza it is.”

  Griffin leaned back in the passenger seat, his hands holding his stomach. “Okay, you were right. I won’t say that again, but that was a damn good pizza. And filling. I’m gonna burst.”

  Brad struggled with the right words. They didn’t come, so he blurted out what he was thinking. “Thanks for backing me with Puccini.”

  “Sure.” Griffin ran his tongue over his teeth and stared out the window. “That’s what partners do.”

  “I mean it. I hadn’t given a thought to the fact some people wouldn’t know.”

  “Dispatch, any unit in 2 District. Assault in progress, 519, Twenty-Third Avenue SW. Second floor. Neighbors say there was shouting and screaming and then what sounded like glass breaking.”

  Brad glanced at Griffin. “Two blocks away.”

  Griffin shook his head. “Quiet, my ass.” He grabbed the mic.

  “Dispatch, Coulter and Griffin responding.”

  “Ah, sure. Backup is on the way. District sergeant is responding.”

  Brad grinned. “We don’t need no stinking backup.”

  Griffin shook his head.

  Brad double-parked on the crowded street and raced out of the car. Griffin rushed to catch up. Brad took the front steps two at a time and burst through the front door, then up the steps to the second level. As they ascended the stairs, the shouts and crashing got louder. Once on the second floor, it was apparent where the assault was happening. Without breaking stride, Brad shouldered the door—it popped open. As he entered the room, he drew his pistol. “Police. Hands where I can see them.”

  The apartment was tiny, one bedroom with a bathroom off to the left side. A skinny man in a dirty tank top stood over the bed, a handful of blond hair in his left hand, his right hand poised for a punch.

  “Let her go, or I spray your brains across the room,” Brad said.

  “Doubt it,” the skinny guy said as he punched the woman, snapping her jaw to the side.

  He was drawing his arm back for another punch when Brad slammed into him, driving him into the wall. As they fell, Brad grabbed the suspect’s hair. They hit the ground and Brad’s first punch shattered his nose. The second opened a cut over the suspect’s right eye. The thi
rd sent spit flying as Brad’s fist connected with his jaw.

  Brad drew back for a fourth punch. As he swung forward, an arm hooked his elbow. It felt like his shoulder was dislocating. Hands roughly grabbed him, dragged him away from the suspect, and shoved him against the wall by the door.

  The rage overwhelmed him and he struggled to his feet, eyes set on the suspect. It wasn’t over.

  “It’s over,” a voice said.

  “Screw that,” Brad said. “Let me go.”

  Hands grabbed his shirt and shoved him hard into the wall.

  Brad reached down, grabbed the hands, and stared into the blazing eyes of Sergeant Jerry Briscoe.

  “Coulter,” Briscoe said. “It’s over.”

  Brad struggled against the hands, but Briscoe held tight. He might be short, but he was upper body strong. He shoved Brad into the wall again. “Enough.”

  Brad’s head hit the wall with a thunk. Air escaped his lungs and his body went limp.

  Briscoe. How many times had he saved Brad’s ass? Too many to count.

  Brad relaxed, then Briscoe released his grip. “What was that?”

  Brad shrugged. Good question. What was that? “I kinda lost it.”

  “You think?”

  “All I saw was the guy holding blond hair and punching her. I snapped.”

  “Blond hair, huh?” Briscoe let go of Brad’s shirt. “I didn’t know you were coming back to work. I called a few times, like a hundred. You sure you’re ready?”

  “Damn right.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Briscoe leaned close and jabbed his finger into Brad’s chest. “Your friends will cover for you, once. You’ve used up that card.”

  Brad nodded and stepped back. “I’m fine.”

  Paramedics rushed into the room and over to the bed. Brad recognized one paramedic, Amir Sharma. He’d been Maggie’s partner for a long time.

  Sharma nodded as he passed Brad, followed by a paramedic Brad didn’t recognize. Though she couldn’t be taller than five-foot-five, she entered the room with the confidence of experience. Her eyes scrutinized the scene, then stopped on Brad and Griffin.