RCC02 - Heroes Often Fail

by Frank Zafiro

  But his reputation persisted. One thing Kopriva had learned on the police department was that a reputation, once applied, stuck. Only an edict from the Pope could get it removed.

  As he returned Stone’s stare with his own, Kopriva knew it might be something more, too. About a week before the shootout at the Circle K, he had been with Karl Winter when the veteran officer died in the street from the gunshot wounds Scarface gave him. He took three bullets from the robber’s thirty-eight caliber when he’d stopped the getaway car one August night. One had nicked the officer’s aorta. Kopriva had arrived in time to hold Winter’s hand as the man’s life bled out into the warm asphalt.

  Once the sound and fury over his shooting had simmered down, Kopriva heard rumblings that some of the older officers blamed him for not doing more to save Winter that night. No one had ever said anything to him directly, but the idea had been grist for the rumor mill for some time and seemingly still was.

  When it was clear Kopriva wasn’t going to answer, Stone grunted and moved away, having made his point.

  The Co-op started to ask another question, but Kopriva raised his hand to stop him. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment. I have to go.”

  He left the Co-op standing there as he gathered up his duty magazine and ammunition and left the range building.

  Once in his truck, Kopriva drove toward the police station at a leisurely pace. On duty, he used to drive like Al Unser, but off-duty in his own rig, he was far more conservative. He knew that his chances of getting a ticket inside River City were almost nil, but he didn’t like to take advantage of that job perk. The rush-hour traffic had subsided and the drive was a pleasant one.

  He felt momentarily guilty for having left the range without cleaning his duty weapon, but remaining there would have meant withstanding more questions and hero worship from the Co-op student. Kopriva appreciated all of the volunteers who worked with River City PD, including the college students who went out and took some of the crap calls, freeing officers up for the more pressing calls. However, most of the Co-ops were looking for a career in law enforcement and had some unrealistic ideas about what it was like. Kopriva didn’t want to be their hero.

  His shooting was over six months ago and the department still had not returned his original duty gun to him. Technically, the gun he carried now was a loaner, but he wondered if he would ever see his old gun again. In truth, it didn’t matter much. The only difference between them was the serial number. Still, Kopriva found himself wishing they would take the gun off of property, close his case and give BAN346 back to him.

  It was good luck.

  At least the Internal Affairs portion of the investigation was complete. IA had been unable to find any evidence of wrongdoing on his part during the shooting. They did manage to say something in their report about Kopriva’s attitude towards gang members and how it might have precipitated certain events that might not have otherwise happened.

  He smiled ruefully and wished he could write his arrest reports in the same fashion. He’d be able to make five times as many arrests if he didn’t have to worry about things like probable cause and being accurate.

  Kopriva forced himself to stop thinking about IA. They made career points out of busting cops, so they tried hard to do exactly that. They found fault in every action an officer took, as all Monday-morning quarterbacks will do. He knew that he had been subjected to more scrutiny because he’d killed a black man. He knew that IA was still upset at the time because Karl Winter had the poor manners to die in the line of duty and could not be subjected to an IA investigation.

  Turning left onto Division, Kopriva felt a twinge of pain in his shoulder. According to the doctors, his left arm had only sixty-percent of the strength and flexibility it once had. The broken collarbone and the wound that caused it had healed well, but the one he took in his upper arm caused too much damage to recover completely. In addition to that, his knee ached constantly and sometimes forced him to limp. The half-inch hole in his kneecap was covered by only a thin piece of skin.

  Kopriva turned on the radio and turned the dial to the classic rock station. Eric Clapton’s guitar licks blasted from the speakers and Kopriva recognized the riff from Layla immediately. He hummed along and wondered why there were so many people like Stone who were still angry at him. He hadn’t asked to roll up on a robbery. He hadn’t asked to have to shoot the robber. He certainly hadn’t asked to be hunted down by a Crip and his associate and shot three times.

  He’d hoped that the time he’d spend on light duty and out of the patrol spotlight would help reduce his fame or infamy or whatever it was. But the shooting seemed to generate either respect and admiration, as in the case of the Co-op, or thinly veiled hostility, as in Stone’s. Nonetheless, Kopriva hoped that if no one in patrol saw his face for a while, the whole incident would fade into memory and people would treat him more like they used to.

  Kopriva pulled into the employee parking at the station and found a space. He cut Clapton’s guitar off in mid-note and sat in his seat for a long moment. He rolled his left shoulder and flexed the arm back and forth at the elbow. He was rewarded with dull pain.

  In the glove box, he found a brown prescription bottle. It was nearly empty. He popped it open and fished out two pills. One of them he slipped into his pocket for later. He popped the other one into his mouth and dry-swallowed it.

  No one would forget anything, he knew.

  Nor would he forget. He was remembering it every day when he worked light duty and every night when he slept. It didn’t matter if he lay alone in the night or if Katie were next to him on her days off. He stared at the ceiling until he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. Then he’d get up and take a pill and return to staring at the ceiling until he faded off to sleep. And then he saw the faces of the dead.

  Kopriva got out of his truck. He walked slowly toward the investigative division and into a hurricane.

  THREE

  0845 hours

  Anthony Giovanni sat at the traffic light in his patrol car. His eyes automatically scanned forward, left, right and behind. In the car next to him, he noticed the blonde woman in the passenger seat. She was about twenty and flashed him a smile. Gio smiled back without a second thought. He rolled down his window and she did the same.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Good,” she said, her eyes dancing.

  “You behaving yourself?” Gio asked.

  “Would you arrest me if I wasn’t?”

  Gio’s smile widened. “Oh, yeah. I’d be forced to cuff you and take you downtown.”

  The light turned green. Neither car moved.

  “Downtown?” the blonde asked. “That sounds promising.”

  The driver was also blonde, but she was a bit heavier and her hair had platinum streaks. Gio figured that she was the passenger’s token fat friend.

  Gio started to respond, but the car behind her car honked its horn. The blonde gave him a playful shrug and the car drove away and headed north. Gio didn’t move, but watched her go.

  The car that had honked pulled forward. The old man in the driver’s seat gave Gio a baleful look as he drove past.

  Gio ignored him and turned right, continuing his random patrol.

  “Adam-257,” his radio squawked.

  He picked up the mike and keyed it. “Go ahead.”

  “Family Dispute at 4318 North Waterbury,” came Irina’s voice. “The complainant states that her six-year-old daughter just returned home from playing with her friend and is claiming something bad happened. The six-year-old is upset and not making any sense. 4318 N. Waterbury, and advise on back-up units.”

  “I’ll be code four for now,” Gio stated, knowing that most of his sector-mates were out at the Academy qualifying with their handguns. He glanced quickly left and right and swung a u-turn. He drove quickly to the address, arriving less than three minutes later.

  The house was a single-family rancher, the same as every other one on the b
lock except that it was a lime green. The lawn looked like it was intermittently well-cared for. A woman in her thirties sat on the porch waiting for him. Her hair was a deep red. Gio thought she had the look of a beauty queen turned housewife, with the requisite fifteen or twenty extra pounds thrown in.

  “You called the police, ma’am?”

  “It’s my daughter,” she said. “She’s upset.”

  “Is she hurt?”

  “Not that I can tell.”

  “Okay,” Gio said and removed his notebook from his shirt pocket.

  Most officers waited until they knew that they were going to have to take a report before collecting the necessary biographical information. Gio preferred to get it out of the way quickly. Besides, it gave the citizens a chance to regain a measure of control, since the information he asked them for was information they knew. That was in contrast to the situation most of the time, where the outcome was uncertain for them.

  “Your name, ma’am?”

  “Jill Ferguson.”

  “Middle initial?”

  “P.”

  Giovanni continued scribbling in his notebook as Jill provided him her remaining information. When he had collected everything he needed, Gio tucked his notebook back into his pocket.

  “You said your daughter was upset?”

  “Yeah. My daughter Kendra.”

  “She’s how old?”

  “Six. Frankly, officer, I was a little hesitant to even call. Kendra is a bit of a drama princess, if you know what I mean.”

  Gio nodded his head, but said nothing.

  She continued. “She also has an active imagination. And both have gotten worse since the divorce. Usually when she gets upset, I either leave her alone for a while and she gets over it or I grab onto her and we just snuggle together. A little mommy-daughter time.”

  “But you called this time?”

  “Yes. She just seemed more upset than usual and she said ‘something bad’ had happened. But she wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

  “The dispatcher said she was playing with her friend before she came home?”

  Jill nodded. “Yes. Her best friend, Amy Dugger.”

  “Do you suppose she had a falling out with her friend? That could make a six-year-old think the world was ending.”

  “I don’t know. I tried to call Kathy—that’s Amy’s mom—but no one answered.”

  Gio nodded. “And Kendra wouldn’t tell you what happened, you said?”

  “No. Not a word.”

  “Would she tell her father, do you think?”

  Jill scowled. “I doubt he could tear himself away from his new girlfriend long enough to acknowledge he has a daughter.”

  Gio let that pass. “So you think she might tell me?”

  Jill shrugged. “I hope so. She really liked the officer that visited her school back in January. Do you know Officer Will? Sorry, I don’t know his last name.”

  “Officer Will Reiser,” Gio said. “He works on my platoon.”

  “Really? Well, she thought he was great. I guess he told funny stories or something. Anyway, I figured maybe she would talk to a police officer.”

  “I’d be happy to try,” Gio said.

  Typical day shift call, he thought. The Day tour was filled with lost puppies and Billy-hit-Tommy calls, sandwiched between serious calls such as armed robberies and domestic violence. In a way, that made this tour even more dangerous than graveyard. At least on graveyard, you knew you were in constant danger and could remain constantly vigilant. On days, an officer needed to soften his image a bit and work harder at public relations, since a greater percentage of the people he came into contact with were regular, tax-paying citizens. The danger level was more sporadic and an officer could find himself having difficulty shifting between the two modes.

  She stood and opened the screen door, motioning him inside.

  Gio entered the house and saw that it was well-kept. A few toys lay around, mostly sports equipment and guns. “You have boys, too?”

  “Two. Alex and Mason.”

  “How old?”

  “Thirteen and nine.”

  The door to Kendra’s bedroom had a crayon drawing of a sunflower taped to it. Gio smiled at it.

  Jill knocked lightly on the door. “Ken? It’s Mommy. There’s a visitor here for you.”

  There was no answer.

  Jill looked at Gio and shrugged, then reached for the door knob. Gio caught her hand lightly and held it.

  “If it’s okay with you,” he whispered, “and if she seems okay with it, I’d like you to step out of the room after you introduce me.”

  “Why?”

  “She might be more willing to talk to me without you in the room. You said she’s had good experiences with the police, so she shouldn’t be afraid of me. But kids just seem to clam up with their parents in the room. That’s been my experience, anyway.”

  Jill hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. If you think it’s best.”

  “I do. Unless you can see that she is uncomfortable with me. If that’s the case, then by all means, stay. I’ll leave it up to you. You know her best.”

  “Okay,” Jill said.

  Gio nodded to her and she nodded back. He let go of her hand and she opened the door to Kendra’s room.

  Kendra sat on her bed, her back pressed against the corner where two walls met. Her knees were drawn up to her chest. Gio could see that she had been crying and that her face now bore a haunted look. His concern quickly grew.

  “Baby, this is Officer…” Jill glanced over at Gio.

  “Officer Giovanni,” Gio told her. He looked into Kendra’s eyes and smiled. “But you can call me Gio. All my friends do.”

  Kendra didn’t respond.

  Gio walked slowly toward the bed. When he reached the edge, he squatted down on his haunches, bringing himself to Kendra’s eye-level. There was a groaning creak of leather as he lowered himself and his radio chattered with some unrelated traffic. He shut it off.

  “Kendra?” he said, keeping his voice soft and a small smile on his lips. “Your mom told me you know Officer Will. Is that true?”

  At the mention of Reiser’s name, her eyes lit up with recognition. She nodded her head, but said nothing.

  “I know Officer Will, too,” Gio told her. “In fact, he’s one of my good friends.”

  Kendra looked at him but said nothing.

  “He’s funny, isn’t he?” Gio asked. “He tells me funny stories all the time when we’re working. Did he tell you any funny stories?”

  Kendra stared at him for a moment. Then, a small grin touched her lips. She nodded her head.

  “What story did he tell you?”

  Kendra spoke in soft, little-girl tones. “About the bad guy that hid in the garbage can. You know that story?”

  “Yes, I do,” Gio said. “He told it to me, too.”

  Gio was aware of movement behind him and realized that Jill Ferguson had left the room.

  “How old are you, Kendra?” he asked.

  She raised six fingers. The gesture seemed a little young for her, but he shrugged it off.

  “I’m this many,” he said and flashed all ten fingers about six times.

  Kendra giggled.

  He shifted his weight and continued. “Kendra, do you know why I’m here?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head.

  “Well, you’re not in any trouble. I’m here because your Mommy is worried about you. Do you know why?”

  Kendra shrugged.

  “She said you were upset about something, but you wouldn’t tell her what. So she’s worried. Are you upset, Kendra?”

  Kendra’s eyes swelled with tears.

  “What is it?”

  “It wasn’t…” Kendra burst into tears. “…my fault.”

  Gio nodded his understanding. “All right. I’m sure it wasn’t. What happened?”

  Kendra kept crying.

  “Kendra? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what the problem
is.”

  Her small sobbing continued.

  Gio waited a few seconds, then rose slowly. He sat on the bed and leaned forward, catching Kendra’s eye. “I’m here to help, Kendra. But I need your help.”

  Her sobs lessened. She wiped away tears.

  “Can you help me?” Gio asked. “Can you tell me what has you so upset?”

  Kendra looked him straight in the eye.

  “They took her away.”

  FOUR

  0912 hours

  The telephone rang and Lieutenant Alan Hart pounced on it like it was a cop who’d spent too long on a coffee break.

  “Lieutenant Hart,” he intoned with what he believed was the most efficient blend of authority and professionalism.

  “Lieutenant, it’s Officer Giovanni.”

  Hart said nothing.

  Gio continued. “I’m, uh, calling because I think we might have a situation here.”

  “A situation?”

  “Yeah. I’m talking to a little girl on a call and she—“

  “Officer Giovanni.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why aren’t you having this conversation with Sergeant Kiel?”

  “Sorry?”

  “It’s a plain enough question. Why aren’t you discussing field operations with a field sergeant?”

  “Uh…because there aren’t any.”

  “What?”

  “Sergeant Kiel called in sick. He was the only one scheduled to work today.”

  Hart pursed his lips and swore silently. Usually, he went to day shift roll call and made sure things ran smoothly. But he was facing an equipment audit at the end of the quarter and had elected to skip roll call and work on his paperwork.

  “Who is in charge out there?”

  “Corporal McGee,” Gio said.

  A corporal? Hart sighed. That was tantamount to letting the inmates run the asylum for a shift.

  “I figured McGee would just be kicking this upstairs to you, anyway, so I called you first,” Gio explained.

  He was probably right, Hart knew, but he didn’t want to let Giovanni off so easily.