Cop Town

by Karin Slaughter

  He finally broke his silence. “You fucking cunt.”

  Maggie couldn’t stop smiling. She loved this too much. She could sit here all day letting out every word he had ever crammed back down her throat and Terry couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  He said, “You think anything’s gonna change?”

  “I think the whole world is gonna change. For me. For Kate. For the blacks. For the browns, yellows, greens. For you. Especially for you.”

  Terry looked at her now. “You’re nothing. You know that? You’re the streak in my fucking underwear.”

  Maggie saw his hand clench. She couldn’t control her body’s response. Every time his anger threatened to boil, her chest filled with mercury and her heart shot into her throat.

  Terry said, “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “You don’t tell me when to leave.” Maggie got on her knees, put her face close to his. “You’re not in charge anymore. Do you hear me?”

  “When I’m outta this bed—”

  “You feel this?” She rested her hand on the back of his neck.

  Terry’s breath huffed out. “What are you doing?”

  Maggie walked her fingers down his neck. His skin was cold and dry. “I know you can feel my touch. It’s just everything below the waist that’s gone, right?”

  “Ma—” He couldn’t finish her name. Sweat dripped onto the floor, ran across the painted tile.

  “They tell you the bullet’s still in your spine?” She kept the pressure light on his neck. “You’re a quarter inch away from pissing and shitting in a bag for the rest of your life.”

  “Don’t—”

  She moved her hand down half an inch. Her finger found the place between the vertebrae at the base of his neck. Her touch got lighter, but she knew Terry would feel it like a jackhammer. “Tell me you’re sorry.”

  “Wh-what?” he stuttered.

  “Tell me you’re sorry.” Her mouth was by his ear. She hoped he felt the spit come out. She hoped his heart was trembling and his nerves were shaking and he was racked with the kind of fear that came when you were pinned down in bed and somebody was behind you doing whatever the fuck they wanted.

  Maggie pressed her fingers between his shoulder blades. She could feel the bone of his spine. The incision was six inches away. It would be so easy for her to press her fingers into the wound, push the bullet that quarter inch over.

  “Stop,” Terry begged. “Please.”

  “Tell me you’re sorry right now or I’ll slam my fist so hard into that bullet that it shits out your nose.”

  “I’m sorry!” he screeched. “I’m sorry!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” He was crying. “Please stop. I’m sorry. Please.”

  Maggie removed her hand. She took her time getting up from the floor. She brushed off the back of her pants. She walked toward the door. She turned the handle.

  The nurse was in the hallway. She had obviously heard the noise. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “I’ll get his pain medication.”

  Maggie stopped her. “He told me he doesn’t want it.”

  “Are you sure? I thought I heard him screaming.”

  “That’s what he does,” Maggie said. “He grits it out. You should see him at the dentist. It’s awful to hear. He always makes the hygienists cry.”

  The nurse had been around Terry long enough to believe the story. “Well, if that’s what he wants.”

  “Trust me. I learned a long time ago you don’t argue with my uncle.” Maggie smiled at the woman. “He’s a tough guy.”

  EPILOGUE

  Kate pulled her car into the parking lot down from the police station. She took the scarf off her head. Her sunglasses went into her purse. She thought about putting the top up on the convertible, but no one was going to steal a car from a police parking lot. Even if it was a red Ford Mustang.

  She grabbed her belt off the passenger’s seat. The metal clips were in her front pocket. She looped them on her underbelt then hooked on the utility belt. She clipped the transmitter at her back. She checked her pockets: gum, lipstick, notebook, citation book, pens. She checked her belt: Flashlight on the hook. Handcuffs in the pouch. Shoulder mic threaded up to the epaulet. Jack plugged into the transmitter. Keychain attached to the ring. Nightstick through the metal loop. Holster secured around the belt. Safety strap snapped over her gun.

  Her gun.

  Kate had shot a man with a gun very similar to this one. She had been aiming for his chest and winged his shoulder, but as her people would say, closeness only counts in taxes and horseshoes.

  Not that her people would ever know the truth about what happened on that rooftop. Even if she wanted to tell them, Kate could not find the words to explain how she’d really felt. She had wanted to kill Chip Bixby. Not the first time she’d shot him—that time, she’d just been desperate to stop him. And not just stop him from killing Maggie, but stop him from saying the awful things he was saying.

  Kate’s white nightgown? Her purple blanket? Her Oma?

  The time Kate had wanted to kill him came when she had seen Patrick’s dog tags. Rage had consumed her. She hadn’t wanted to just murder him. She had wanted to empty her gun into his chest. And then she wanted to fill the holes with burning oil and dance in his still-warm blood.

  She had felt dead inside. She had felt capable of anything.

  The fifth Kate reared her ugly head. This Kate wanted darkness. Her finger was on the trigger. She was ready to pull back. And then the other Kates took over. She wasn’t sure which ones. The daughter? The widow? The cop? The whore?

  The real Kate, she wanted to think. The only Kate who mattered was the one who had taken charge on that roof. Her finger had moved from the trigger. Her hand had tossed Maggie the handcuffs. The real Kate was a good person and she was not going to do a bad thing.

  Why had that happened?

  Because Kate had made a choice.

  She had pulled herself back from the abyss. She was not a vigilante. She was not Chip Bixby. Her job was to uphold the law, and that’s exactly what Kate had done. And not just that. She had protected Maggie. She had saved Jimmy. She had saved herself.

  Sure, she’d urinated down her leg in the process, but thanks to Philip, Kate happened to have an extra pair of underwear in her pocket.

  She locked her car door, which was silly since the top was down, but it was a habit she was trying to develop. Kate scowled as she put on her hat. The band smelled of Jimmy Lawson’s sweaty head no matter how many lingerie sachets she stuck in it every night. At least the baking powder had absorbed the foul odor in his shoes.

  Small victories.

  Kate walked up the sidewalk. The air was crisp. The sun was out. Her nightstick banged against her leg. Her holster dug into the flesh. She wondered if she was going to develop a callus. That seemed like the sort of thing a doctor would know.

  “Murphy.” Jimmy Lawson was behind her.

  Kate slowed so he could catch up. She asked, “Good weekend?”

  “The usual.”

  Kate glanced up at him. Jimmy had never struck her as the funny type.

  Maybe he was trying to make changes. Jimmy seemed different from a week ago, and not just because of the bruises that cut into his wrists. The anger that had lived inside him was starting to uncoil. Kate wondered when that had started. No one knew what had happened to Jimmy during the eighteen hours Chip had held him hostage. Jimmy claimed all he remembered was hearing a noise downstairs in the kitchen. The next thing he knew, Chip was slapping him awake on the roof of the rail yard office building.

  There was no mention of the letter.

  Which was fine with Kate. No matter how things really went down, she could only hope nothing coiled Jimmy back into that angry person. Maggie needed him. The police force needed him. Though she wasn’t certain how long Jimmy would last on the job. Despite what Kate felt was a fantastic performance, there were still rumors floa
ting around the station. She’d thought that the girls were bad at her high school. As Kate had told her Oma the night before, there was no society more viciously controlled by rumor than your local police force.

  That was the only detail she had shared with Oma. Kate’s picture had been in the newspaper. She let the journalist tell her family what had happened, and thanks to the police commissioner, the journalists did not know much. The truth about Chip Bixby and his nauseating log were going to sit in police storage for the next hundred years. That is, unless Kate managed to move up somehow. She was certain detectives were allowed access to the storage rooms.

  Jimmy said, “Can I ask you a question?”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “The bullets in the stairwell. What made you count them?”

  Kate gave a long sigh. “Tables reserved for four or more. Only six items allowed in the dressing room. Two-drink minimum.” She shrugged. “I’ve been counting all my life.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that any one of those shots coulda come from Maggie’s gun?”

  “Absolutely.” She smiled up at him. “That thought occurred to me the minute I got home. I almost had a heart attack.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I wish I was.” Kate had been in such a state that she’d stood under a hot shower until the water ran cold. “I never even considered that Maggie could’ve fired her gun.”

  “Jesus help me, I was saved by Lucy and Ethel.” Jimmy was teasing her. There was no animosity in his tone. He indicated the steps up to headquarters. “Ladies first.”

  “Gosh, thanks.” Kate walked up ahead of him. As usual, there were cops crowded around the entrance. As usual, they didn’t part for her to walk through.

  Kate turned around. She almost bumped into Jimmy.

  She said, “So, I’ll see you tonight.”

  Jimmy’s mouth opened in confusion, but Kate closed it with a kiss.

  It wasn’t just any kiss. Kate put on a good show. Her hands caressed his neck. Her fingernails scratched his scalp. She literally knocked his hat off.

  Kate saw Jimmy picking it up from the stairs as she walked through the tarnished front doors.

  The gauntlet through the squad room wasn’t as bad as the first day. Kate had learned so much since then. Such as the fact that it was called a squad room.

  She ignored the new penis drawing on the door to the women’s locker room. Kate cracked open the door and edged in.

  Maggie was alone. She stood at her locker. “You’re early.”

  “Don’t get used to it.”

  “I won’t.”

  Kate smiled as she dialed the combination on her lock. Reflexively, she checked her pockets again. She had forgotten to bring cash. Again.

  Patrick’s photo was in its usual place inside her wallet. Kate touched his beautiful face. Cal Vick had offered to return Patrick’s dog tags, but Kate had politely declined. She was going to have to get a new apartment. Kate couldn’t go back to the Barbizon, and though her father had told her she was more than welcome, she was too old to live in her parents’ basement.

  Besides, one look at the footprints outside her bedroom window had convinced her she needed to live in a more secure space. Just thinking about Chip Bixby watching her still made Kate ill.

  So she didn’t think about it.

  Kate closed her wallet. “I hear they’ve scheduled Jake Coffee’s funeral for tomorrow.”

  “Gail wants me to take her. You need a ride?”

  Kate thought about the last funeral she had attended. Patrick’s remains had been flown to Atlanta from the other side of the world. There were bureaucratic snafus. A freak storm had hit Atlanta. Ten days passed before what was left of her husband finally made its way home. Kate had been so drugged by the time the funeral was held that she barely remembered the coffin being lowered into the ground.

  Maggie asked, “You all right?”

  “Absolutely,” Kate fibbed. “I’ll meet you at Gail’s so you don’t have to make the drive into Buckhead.”

  “Buckhead,” Maggie grumbled. “Listen, just to warn you, Gail’s thinking about getting her PI license.”

  Kate slapped her hand to her mouth.

  Maggie knew what was coming. “Everything can’t be a joke, Kate.”

  “Cyclops Investigations?”

  “Stop it.” Maggie’s head disappeared inside her locker. Her voice was muffled. “Keeping an eye out for Trouble.”

  “Oh, well done.”

  “Good morning, ladies!” Wanda Clack squeezed past the door. Her smile dropped. “Another cock drawing? Really?”

  Kate said, “I thought the shading gave it an air of realism.”

  “I’ll bow to your expertise, Mrs. Lawson.”

  Maggie said, “What?”

  “You didn’t know your partner’s dating your brother?” Wanda sat down on the bench. “They were making out in front of the station house. Half the squad saw ’em.”

  Maggie looked at Kate.

  Kate shrugged.

  “I can’t believe it’s Monday again. Every fucking week.” Wanda leaned back and opened her locker. She loaded her belt with her nightstick, handcuffs, transmitter. “I met a stone fox on Saturday. Looked like Al Pacino, but shorter. He took me dancing and dining and then he found out I was a cop and sneaked out the bathroom window. Stuck me with the check!” She huffed a laugh. “Guess I’m lucky he didn’t have a gun taped to the back of the toilet.”

  Maggie was smiling the way she did only when she was really happy. “You could always date a cop.”

  “I’ll leave that to the young and stupid. Right, Murphy?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The door opened wide. A terrified young woman stumbled into the room. Her hands were clasped over her breasts. Her hat was down in her eyes. Her uniform was three sizes too large.

  “Jesus Christ.” Charlaine Compton came in behind her. She pushed the door closed with both hands. “What the hell were you thinking? We could have naked women in here.”

  The new girl’s mouth worked. She looked ready to run out the door. She probably would have if Charlaine hadn’t been blocking the way.

  Wanda said, “Lookit her, she’s terrified.”

  “Like a deer caught in the headlights.” Charlaine feigned sadness. “Poor thing won’t last a week.”

  Kate openly studied the new girl. She had dark hair and a wholesome appearance. She was attractive except for the unbridled terror.

  Wanda asked, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “B-B-Beth Dawson.”

  Wanda said, “She reminds me of that chick from Laugh-In. What’s her name?”

  “Lily Tomlin?” Charlaine suggested. “Judy Carne?”

  “Ruth Buzzi.” Wanda clapped her hands together. “I’m gonna call you Buzzi.”

  Charlaine looked at her watch. “I gotta call my sister, make sure she didn’t stick my kid in her trunk instead of taking him to school.”

  “Better get out of here before the colored girls come.” Wanda slapped Kate’s leg. Kate helped lever her up. Instead of leaving, Wanda grabbed Dawson by the shoulders. “Listen up, Buzzi. A word of advice: stay away from Jimmy Lawson. He’s Murphy’s over there.” She shook the woman like a sack of laundry. “Trust me. You don’t want to fuck with Murphy. She shot a man just to watch him cry.”

  Wanda cracked open the door and slid out into the squad room.

  Maggie told Kate, “Vick told me we’re partnered. That work for you?”

  “Gosh, I’m thrilled.” Kate couldn’t help herself. She really was thrilled.

  Still, Maggie was shaking her head as she crabbed out through the door.

  Kate zipped her purse. She patted her pockets one last time. She slammed her locker closed.

  Dawson jumped. She was standing in the corner. Her hands still clutched her breasts. Her hat was so low that Kate couldn’t make out the color of her eyes.

  Kate sai
d, “Take your hands off your breasts.”

  Dawson moved her hands. Her purse dropped to the floor. She leaned down to retrieve it and hit her head on the doorknob.

  Kate willed herself not to smile. “Do you have a lock?” The woman was too petrified to speak. “A combination lock?”

  Dawson shook her head. She put her hat back on. The brim dipped into her eyes. She pushed it back up.

  Kate opened her locker. “You can use mine today. Get one for yourself by tomorrow. There’s a sporting goods store on Central Ave. near the university. Wear your uniform and they’ll give you the lock for free.”

  Dawson didn’t move.

  Kate grabbed the woman’s purse and threw it into her locker. “Never open the door all the way or the guys can see in. Don’t wear the dress socks they gave you. Franklin Simon has wool ones, two for a dollar, but I prefer cashmere from Davison’s. Either way, get something thick that will help keep your feet in your shoes. And find a stapler for your pants. Those bobby pins won’t hold. Trust me. You’ll end up looking like the scarecrow from Wizard of Oz. And speaking of looking, always take in your surroundings. Up, down, left, right, front, back, sideways. You can take off your hat.”

  Dawson took off her hat.

  “You see this curtain?”

  Dawson looked at the curtain.

  “The colored girls change back there. They get the room ten minutes before roll call. That’s the rule. They don’t like it when we’re in here and we won’t like it if you piss them off. Understand?”

  Dawson’s head moved like the ball in a typewriter. Somewhere in her brain, she was trying to record all of this information.

  Instead of slowing down, Kate went faster. “You won’t get arrested for altering your uniforms. There’s a tailor on Fourteenth who’ll take care of you. He’s Jewish, but reasonable. What else? Oh—toilets are upstairs. It’s a tight squeeze, only two stalls. Don’t spray your hair in front of the mirror or someone will kill you. I’m serious. We all carry guns. I’m Kate, by the way.”

  Kate offered her hand.