by Lori L. Lake
Sergeant Slade began an easy lope around the track. After a minute passed, he blew his whistle and the man at the back cut outside the group and sprinted to the front where he dropped in behind the sergeant. The whistle blew again, and along came Neilsen, one by one followed by the others until Jaylynn’s turn. By then the group had traveled half a mile, and Jaylynn’s legs were feeling warmed up and strong. She cut to the front and fell in, waiting patiently for her next sprint.
By the time the group hit the fourth round of sprints, they’d traveled nearly eight laps around the four-hundred-meter track and the runners were lagging and spreading out.
“Come on, people,” Sergeant Slade hollered over his shoulder. “Get a move on!”
Jaylynn admired the sergeant’s fortitude. He was obviously a regular runner. Only he and two men, besides herself, continued along without a lot of panting and groaning.
After the sixth round of sprints, Slade dodged out of the line and wheeled around, running backwards. “Mark my pace,” he said, as he slowed. The group gradually decreased speed and came to a stop. Jaylynn caught sight of Neilsen and his Stooges, bent over and gasping for air.
Slade said, “Everybody warmed up now?”
“Yes, sir!” they huffed.
“All right,” he said. “Next exercise.” A harmony of groans erupted. “Anybody here have a problem with that?”
“No, sir!”
“Line up again in original order. On my mark, you will take off one at a time and run one lap. If the person behind you passes you, you will run again.”
Tweet! The first man took off. Slade waited for five seconds to pass on the stopwatch, and then, tweet! The next man sprinted away. Five . . . more seconds . . . five more . . . five . . . five . . . and then Jaylynn’s turn came. She followed a shy recruit named Oster noting that he’d never catch the man ahead of him. She ran smoothly, glancing back as she leaned left to round the curve of the track. Mahoney was behind her and she caught his eye for a moment. He shot a glance at Oster. She didn’t know why she knew it, but she could tell Mahoney wouldn’t push hard enough to catch her, and that meant she could back off on Oster, who was struggling. At the next turn she looked back again and no one was threatening to catch anyone.
One by one they each crossed the finish line and slowed up until the thirteen recruits stood waiting for the next drill.
Sergeant Slade, a half-grin on his face, nodded at the group. “I see,” he said. “Esprit de corp. Hmmph. Guess we have to raise the stakes.” He put his hand to his chin and considered for a moment. “Line up again. New rules: anybody who doesn’t pass the guy in front runs again. And if you get passed, you run again. Let’s go.”
“Sir,” Mahoney said, “What happens to the person running first? Denton, I mean. He doesn’t have anyone to catch.”
“Luck of the draw, Mahoney. If Denton can hold you all off, he’s done for the day.”
They lined up, and the sergeant whistled Denton off. At five-second intervals the whistle blew, and then it was Jaylynn’s turn. She didn’t have any trouble catching up to Oster and passed him after the first curve. She ran loosely and effortlessly, not straining at all, but on the last curve Mahoney caught up with her. They ran abreast for the last thirty yards. He pulled ahead at the very last.
She concentrated on catching her breath and waited until the sergeant said, “Denton, Mahoney, Vell, Chin, and Sprague—you’re all out. The rest of you line up and be ready to go in sixty seconds.”
Jaylynn was still winded, but she was amused to see only one of the Four Stooges, Sprague, had managed to get out of the next race. She spent the next minute focusing on her breath, letting her muscles relax. She shook out her legs and kept walking. She looked at Oster, lying on the grass gasping. “Oster,” she said quietly. “C’mon. You can do it.” The red-faced man looked up at her from his sprawled position, a pained expression on his face, and shook his head. She stuck out her hand. “C’mon. Put one foot in front of the other.” He accepted her hand and let her help drag him up.
“On your marks,” Slade shouted.
The eight hustled over to their spots. Jaylynn was now fourth, and Marshall followed her. The Three Stooges brought up the rear. She easily caught and passed Oster and drew near Pike, but couldn’t quite catch him. She crossed the finish line well ahead of the remaining six, none of whom had managed to pass the others.
When the last runners stumbled over the line, Slade said, “Pike and Savage, you’re out.” He put his hands on his hips and faced the six other sweating, heaving runners. “What am I gonna do with the rest of you? Tell you what. You have a choice, each of you. You can either take four laps right now, or select any one of those who are out and challenge him or her to a race. Laps or race. Schmidt?”
“Laps.”
“Oster?”
“Laps, for sure, sir.”
“Marshall?”
“Laps, sir.”
“Neilsen?”
The Head Stooge directed his patented sneer toward Jaylynn. “Sir! I’ll take Savage.”
“You will, huh?” With a twinkle in his eye, Sergeant Slade said, “You sure about that?”
Neilsen smiled broadly revealing large white teeth. “Yes, sir.”
“What if you lose?” Slade asked.
“Oh, come on,” Neilsen said confidently.
“If Savage beats you, then you run the mile anyway.”
“No problem.” He turned to his buddies. “You guys up for this?”
Slade cut in. “That’s for me to determine.” He looked at Grainger and Fuller, but they were already assenting. “Okay then,” the sergeant said. “Line up.”
Jaylynn didn’t have long to get her head into the race. She watched the entire interchange thoughtfully as she formulated a plan, which was something she had always attempted to do whenever she competed. Running another four-hundred meters full out didn’t appeal to her, so she decided to run smarter, not harder.
The three men slapped hands and lined up in lanes one through three, and she took the outside lane by default.
Slade said, “Stay in your lanes, people, until that white line outside the first turn. Understand?” When they all nodded, he said, “All right. On your marks—get set . . .” and he blew the whistle.
The three men took off gleefully, one of them even making a whooping noise. Jaylynn settled into a restrained pace for the first seventy-five meters and, as she expected, fell behind. When the three men came tearing out of the first curve, Neilsen was narrowly in the lead and she was fifteen yards back. She made up ground on the straightaway though. She felt some fatigue but calculated she still had plenty of strength for the final two hundred meters.
Vaguely, Jaylynn heard distant shouts, but her eyes focused on the back of Neilsen’s legs while her mind played out the chant she often fell into when running a race: I can do it I can do it I can do it . . .
The three men slowed slightly, their strides shortening and becoming more labored. Though she would have rather waited for the straightaway, halfway through the second turn she eased out of the inside lane to pass Grainger and Fuller. And then she was right behind Neilsen’s oversized, muscular legs.
I can do it I can do it I can do it . . . She reached down and summoned up the fiery ball of energy that was sapping her breath and causing her legs to burn, and she willed herself into a strong kick. Thighs pumping, calves straining, arms flashing, she sped past a startled Neilsen, and continued to chew up the last fifty meters, beating all three men by six seconds and at least twenty-five yards.
As she crossed the finish line she heard a click and she slowed, her legs flaming, her lungs near bursting. For the first time of the day, she was so winded that she bent over and gasped for breath.
Marshall took her arm as Sergeant Slade strolled over, a funny look on his face. “Savage,” he said, “you just broke the new recruit record for the four-hundred meters. Fifty-eight-point-five. Not bad.”
A jubilant Oster smacked her
on the back and said, “Afterburners—that’s all they saw.” She stood up straight and shook her legs out, still winded.
Neilsen, Grainger, and Fuller were also doubled over, wheezing. Slade blew his whistle. “Okay, all of you who selected laps, get going. You’ve got exactly ten minutes!” When the Three Stooges didn’t immediately move, Slade said, “Hey, you three—get a move on it!”
They looked up, shocked, but were gasping too hard to speak.
Slade said, “Get your rears in gear, gentlemen. Your ten minutes are ticking away.”
Later in the locker room at the training center Marshall said, “Jaylynn, I hope you didn’t make enemies of those idiots.”
Jaylynn finished putting on street clothes and grabbed her hairbrush. “I don’t care.” She brushed her damp hair out of her face and waved the brush toward Paula Marshall. “They’ve been rude since day one, as though they have more right to be here than you or me. I refuse to let them win.”
Marshall picked up her gym bag and gave Jaylynn a serious look. “I hate to make enemies.”
“They were already your enemy, if you want to look at it that way. They’re selfish, mean-spirited, and juvenile. I’m not going to do any less than my best, even if it makes them look bad.” She tossed the brush into her own bag and zipped the top closed. “Think I should dry my hair? How windy is it out there?”
“It’s not bad,” Marshall said as she waited for Jaylynn to follow her. “Hard to believe it’s already October though.”
“No kidding. In a week we start our field training. Amazing how fast this is going.”
Dez sat on the end of the locker room bench, her back against the far wall and one foot up on the bench. Fully dressed in her uniform, she held a hand gripper, which she squeezed rhythmically. She considered how much the gripper resembled the handle of a hedge clipper without the blades. After twenty squeezes she stopped and rested her hand a moment, then did another twenty squeezes. And another.
Five full weeks had passed since she broke the radius in her arm, and tonight would be the first time back on evening patrol. Relieved to be healed, she was more than ready to get back to the street. She stood and tossed the gripper on the top shelf in her locker, grabbed a bottle of water, and closed the door to lock up. With one last adjustment to her gun belt, she strode off and up the stairs to the roll call room. She knew she was good and early, but she was anxious to get back on the job. She decided desk duty was not something she wanted anything to do with again—not for a very long time.
She ambled down the long hall, by the main entrance, and strolled past the lieutenant’s office. The duty sergeant looked up. “Hey, Reilly,” he said.
“Hi, Belton.”
“Lieutenant wants to see you.”
She stopped. “Why?”
Belton shrugged.
She crossed her arms and stepped closer to him, her eyes narrowing. “Am I in trouble again?”
“Have you busted into any crime scenes lately without backup?”
“No.” She gazed at him intently.
The sergeant crossed his arms, too, and grinned at her, his ebony face gleaming in the fluorescent light. “Go on in, Reilly.”
She stepped past the beat-up desk and poked her head in the open door. Lieutenant Malcolm looked up. “Afternoon, Reilly,” he said.
“Afternoon, sir. Heard you were looking for me.”
“Yeah, come in and sit down. Shut the door.”
Dez did as she was told and sat in the ancient solid wood visitor’s chair. She shifted in the uncomfortable seat and put her elbows on the armrests.
“We’ve got thirteen new recruits coming our way and, God knows, we need the new blood. How long we been running short on this shift?”
“Since way before I got injured.”
“Do you realize how many guys are retiring the last day of April?”
Dez looked down at her hands. “Yes, sir. I think over thirty.”
“Forty-three, Reilly.” The lieutenant leaned back in his tattered leather chair and tugged at his mustache. “I want to see these new cadets trained properly, and you know the new Chief is expecting miracles. She’s personally watching this class of recruits—says she wants to make sure her new training protocol is followed.” He sat forward, put his arms on the desk, and picked up some papers. “I didn’t expect Stevens to go out on paternity leave, but his wife had the baby early and needs help for a while. So I’m assigning you his Field Training Officer duties.”
Dez opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off. “Reilly, I know you haven’t been an official FTO before, but I need you now. Tour III doesn’t—in fact, none of the shifts—have enough experienced vets, and we’re getting a bunch of these rookies in rotation. They need to ride with somebody, and you’re one of my best. Will you do it?”
With a sigh Dez said, “Of course, sir.” She wanted to roll her eyes, but instead kept a steady attentive gaze leveled at her superior.
“Thatagirl. Thanks. I’ll make sure you get a commendation for the extra work.”
Lieutenant Malcolm was only in his mid-forties, not old enough to be her dad, but a little too old to be a brother. He’d always been respectful toward Dez and, though some of the other cops made fun of him, she never minded his old-fashioned sayings like “thatagirl” and “okey-dokey.” She appreciated the fact that he always treated her fairly and gave her a shot at many challenges. “What’s the plan?”
“New bids are coming up for January. Between now and then, we’ll cycle the recruits through the three Tours. I want you to ride with one from the first group, then second group and third, and then I need you to stay with one of the rookies who bid for our shift until he or she is settled in.”
Trying to hide her exasperation she said, “But sir, you’re talking months.”
“Yup. Maybe six or eight—at least until some of them can be trusted in one-man cars alone.” He nodded solemnly. “It’ll be worth it in the long run because they’ll get great training. And I hear this group is darn talented.” He tapped his temple with his forefinger. “Got some smart ones this time. Might not have gotten very many new recruits this round, but they’re supposed to be bright.”
“When’s this start?”
“Next week. In the meantime, here.” He tossed her a folder and a sheaf of papers. “Go over the protocol, memorize all the Chief’s new rules and regs, and check the folder to decide who you want to select.”
“You’re not assigning the recruits?”
“You pick who you want, Reilly. I’ll assign the rest.” He flexed his hands and systematically cracked his knuckles, one finger at a time. “I’m giving you first choice. Seems only fair since you aren’t getting any warning. All the other FTOs have been prepared for weeks. Besides, I know you’ve had it tough lately. Just thought it only fair to let you decide since I’m asking this as a favor.”
Dez knew she wouldn’t have had a choice and the request wasn’t a favor at all, but she was grateful for the respectful way the lieutenant coerced her into doing the extra duty. She rose. “When do you need this stuff back?”
“When shift starts?”
“Tonight?”
He grinned. “Yeah.” He looked at his watch. “That gives you seventeen minutes to make copies. Go on. I’ll see you in a few.” He spun in his chair and rolled backwards to his file cabinet. Leaving him pulling files, she headed toward the copier. While the machine auto-copied the eighty pages of training rules and regs, she opened the folder and shuffled through thirteen slim packets of paper. The information was filed according to who was performing best—on top of the stack—to the worst—on the bottom. Leading the pack was a twenty-seven-year-old named John Mahoney, and then came Savage, Vell, Schmidt, and . . . Dez stopped and flipped back: Savage. Jaylynn Savage? She didn’t forget many names. Twenty-four-year-old female, bachelor’s degree from the U of M, resides on Como Boulevard. Damn!
Dez hadn’t thought much about it when she got two phone messages from the
young spitfire who had helped with those two serial rapists. She hadn’t called her back but had, instead, passed the messages on to the lieutenant. Then Jaylynn Savage had shown up at the station, and Dez took exactly sixty seconds to discourage her from applying to join the force. Savage seemed energetic and intelligent, and Dez didn’t believe she’d be all that interested in police work. Dez hadn’t thought she was serious. Surprise, surprise. She followed through after all. She thumbed through the report to see Savage excelled at the written work and was leading the class in many categories, including basic law, investigation procedures, records, forms, and reports, authority and jurisdiction, and communications. Her weapon work was not at marksman level yet, but showed steady improvement, and her unarmed self-defense appeared adequate and improving. Physically, she was noted to be in excellent condition.
The copy machine finished the job and clunked to a halt. Dez lifted the cover and copied Mahoney’s dossier as well as Savage’s. She looked quickly through the rest and carefully reviewed the last recruit, the one rated thirteenth in his class. Oster. Average in the written work, average at weapons, slightly below average for a male in unarmed self-defense. His physical condition was noted as mediocre, but improving. In the area for notes, however, Dez read the following: This cadet has a great deal of desire to join the force. He displays courage and esprit de corp. Though originally expected to wash out, he has shown remarkable fortitude and perseverance. V. Slade.
Dez knew Slade was a good teacher and a fine cop, and after a moment’s hesitation, she copied Oster’s paperwork, bundled the originals back in order in the folder, and returned to the lieutenant’s office.
He looked up and smiled at her. “Well?”
She said, “Mahoney,” and Lieutenant Malcolm nodded. “Savage.” He inclined his head again. “Oster.”
“Oster! Isn’t he the cellar dweller?”
She leaned against the doorframe with a slight smile on her face. “He is. I’ve got a hunch about Mr. Oster though. Sounds like he should have washed out, but he hasn’t. If he should be kicked, then you know I’ll do it. But if he can grow, he’ll be a worthwhile project.”
