Tales of River City

by Frank Zafiro

  Nothing.

  One bedroom to go.

  I crossed the narrow hallway. Took a deep breath. Swallowed. And opened the door.

  The room was immaculate. Everything seemed neat and measured. The bed was made to military precision. The books on the shelves were lined up perfectly. A moment later, I realized they were alphabetized by author. A pair of boots, laced up and tied, sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, heels and toes together. This kind of meticulous neatness gave me an ominous feeling about the person that lived in this room. No one was that precise. No one normal, anyway.

  Somehow the emptiness of the room made it even eerier.

  I turned my eyes toward the closet door.

  Last stop.

  Here we go.

  I leveled the pistol at the door and reached out for the knob.

  The band kicked in and Bruce bellowed out, “Santa Claus is coming to town!” over and over again.

  I turned the knob and pulled the door open.

  Rows of evenly spaced clothing hung on hangers. Several pairs of shoes were lined up underneath. Two cardboard boxes sat on the shelf above the clothes rack.

  But there was no one inside.

  I stood quietly for a moment, thinking. Sweat trickled from beneath my vest and down the small of my back.

  Did I miss anything?

  My mind whirred. There was no basement. No other doors. I’d checked under the beds.

  The song in the other room was in crescendo, with the Big Man letting out huge belly ho-ho-hos that were causing Springsteen to sing through his laughter. The pure joy of the performance contrasted with me standing in the middle of a murder scene had a macabre irony to it.

  Maybe the guy had beat feet, I thought. Maybe he did the deed, wished everyone a Merry Christmas and hit the road.

  No.

  He was still here. Don’t ask me how I knew. I just did. Just like I knew about—

  I pushed that thought away. Maybe I was wrong.

  I left the bedroom just as the band wound down. Springsteen let out a final, drawn out, “Santa Claus is coming...to...town” and Roy Bittan plinked a few mournful yuletide keys on the piano to close it all down. The crowd cheered.

  I took a deep breath and let it out.

  In the silence of the house, I heard the unmistakable whine and clatter of a CD changer from the living room. Then, before the new track began, a whimper floated out from the bathroom. My head snapped toward the sound.

  The shower. I hadn’t pulled the curtain.

  I whispered a curse.

  Stupid. Too distracted by the Boss.

  A blasting rock song kicked out of the speakers in the living room. I didn’t recognize it at first, but it wasn’t Springsteen. A small surge of confidence went through me, as crazy and superstitious as all that might seem in the light of day. The thing is, I wasn’t in the light of day. I was in some stranger’s dark house at night with two dead bodies and a murderer hiding somewhere close by.

  I eased back into the bathroom to the soundtrack of 1980s butt rock guitars coming from the living room.

  Wocka, wocka, wocka went the guitars, so I couldn’t be sure if there was any more whimpering.

  Why in the hell hadn’t I just turned off the stereo?

  I reached for the switch and snapped on the light. Weak yellow light radiated from the bare bulb above the sink. As I moved toward the tub, the light cast my shadow across the pale blue plastic.

  A weak whimper drifted out from behind the curtain.

  My hand snaked out and I grasped a handful of plastic. I waited for half a moment, then tore the curtain aside, leveling my gun at whatever was behind it.

  He lay in the bottom of the tub, curled up in a twisting, moaning ball. He seemed oblivious to my presence. His naked form was coated and slippery with dark red streaks of blood.

  Great. A crazy.

  Instead of yelling at him not to move, which would have been useless, I decided it was time for back up. I needed a couple more guys to get him under control, and an ambulance standing by to transport him.

  I reached for my radio, keeping my gun trained on the small man in the tub. Just then, the chorus of the song from the living room drifted into the bathroom.

  “Livin’ on a prayer...”

  I finally recognized the song. Bon Jovi. More boys from the Garden State of New Jersey. This was one of their big hits.

  The weight of the radio was comfortable in my hand. I raised it to my mouth. “Adam-114, I am code thirteen. I need an ambulance to my location, as well as a supervisor. Notify detectives of a double homicide—”

  He rose suddenly, launching upward at me. In his fist, he clutched bloody hunting knife.

  I cranked off a round, more in surprise than anything. The bullet blasted into the tile behind him, sending chunks flying.

  He drove the knife downward.

  Icy steel bit into the top of my shoulder, close to my neck. The knife slid deep, only stopping when he’d rammed it to the hilt.

  I moved my gun to the left and fired again. The concussive blasts of gas battered my side, but I saw his eyes widen in surprise and pain.

  Good.

  I drove my knee into him. The force of the blow flung him backward into the tub again. He lay sprawled like a broken rag doll, staring up at me with strangely curious eyes.

  “Adam-114?” my radio squawked.

  My left arm hung uselessly at my side, though for some reason I hadn’t dropped the radio. I holstered my pistol and reached for the radio with my right hand. The twisting motion sent shock waves of pain through my shoulder. I took a deep breath and let it out, sinking to my knees.

  From the tub, he watched me.

  I used my good hand to grab onto the knife handle. With a horrible wrench, I pulled the blade free. I let it fall from my hand and clatter to the linoleum floor.

  Okay.

  Just have to wait now for help to come. Uniforms, medics, detectives. They’d be here in two minutes. Three, tops.

  In the distance, I thought I could already hear a siren.

  “Oh, oh, we’re half way there,” crooned Jon Bon Jovi.

  More than half way, I thought.

  “Adam-114?”

  “Oh, oh, livin’ on a prayer.”

  I took another look at the young crazy who’d stabbed me, but his eyes were already glazing over in death.

  A splash of wetness slapped against my cheek. I reached up and another strong spray wet my fingers. I pulled my hand away and looked.

  Blood. Bright red.

  He’d hit an artery.

  I settled down onto my haunches and leaned back against the bathroom wall. Darkness flittered around at the corners of my vision. I felt very sleepy. That’s when the realization struck me.

  I was on the job.

  The light bulb seemed to flicker. I closed my eyes.

  It was Christmas.

  I smiled.

  But I was going to die listening to Bon Jovi instead of Bruce Springsteen.

  Like I said, God has a wicked sense of humor.

  Where He Shouldn’t Be

  Light flickered on the screen. Tate stared up at it, watching with detachment as the woman there faked pleasure. Badly.

  Men stood and changed seats. Over and over. Different men. Always moving, searching.

  He watched the screen, but saw everything out of his peripheral vision.

  I shouldn’t be here.

  He thought of Kathy, at home with the kids. Probably on the phone with her sister. Or doing a crossword. She thought he was working late.

  A man sat down in the seat behind him, just off to the right. He could smell the man’s musky cologne.

  The woman on the screen changed positions with workmanlike precision. Her breasts bounced with each motion, but Tate stared instead at the male actor’s buttocks as they flexed and thrust.

  I shouldn’t be here. I should be home, working in my den. Helping Emily with his homework. Any place but here.


  Hardly anyone came to these places anymore. It was all available on cable TV or DVDs or the Internet. But cable didn’t have what he wanted. And Kathy would find his DVDs. She would see where he went on the Internet.

  That’s what this place was, he realized. A last bastion of anonymity. Fulfilling. Dangerous.

  I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t want this.

  He struggled with it constantly. Every day, he tried to overwhelm it with work. Tons of work. He cultivated his public image. A wife. Family. Friends. Even a mistress. When all of that failed, he pushed it away with alcohol.

  But his feelings, his desires, were relentless.

  The man behind moved up to his row and sat two seats away.

  His breath quickened.

  On screen, the naked man pounded. The woman faked.

  The man slipped into the chair beside him. In the cool theater, Tate could sense the warmth of his closeness.

  Moments passed.

  The man leaned towards him. Touched his knee with his own.

  When Tate didn’t object, things progressed. A touch, a caress, the rustle of cloth.

  He trembled and stared at the screen. Mouth dry, he held his breath.

  He knew he should get up. Get up and leave. It wasn’t right to want this. It wasn’t right to feel this way.

  I shouldn’t be—

  Touching. Then a blur of motion.

  He let out a guttural moan, unable to contain his reaction. It was so…so…

  Oh…my…GOD!

  His eyelids fluttered closed.

  Kathy did it sometimes, rarely, but not like this. Not so right.

  So wrong!

  He didn’t care. His head lolled backward. He stared up into the darkness. He was tired of fighting it. Tired of the passion that drove and the guilt that came behind.

  Another low, shuddering moan escaped his lips. He felt a rush of tension throughout his whole body, building up, building up—

  Intense white light blasted into his face. He recoiled, squinting.

  “All right, pervs.” The intonation of resigned authority filled the voice. “Knock it off.”

  The other man snapped upright. Both of them sat stock-still, staring straight ahead.

  “Just watching the movie, officer,” the other man said.

  The light left Tate’s face and shone toward his lap.

  “That what you’re calling it now?”

  “We—”

  “Shut up.”

  The light drifted back to his face and hovered there. He glanced sidelong into the light, shivering from fear and excitement.

  “Oh, shit,” the police officer muttered.

  His heart sank. I shouldn’t be here.

  “Councilman Tate? Is that really you?”

  Good Shepherd

  There’s always some cop who thinks he can beat the system. It’s my job to stop them.

  I know what they call me over in the main building, where all the patrol officers and detectives and administrators work.

  Rat.

  Cheese-eater.

  Traitor.

  Asshole.

  I know that they sneer when my name comes up. They act like the only important work in the world is the work that they are doing right then. No one else has anything of value to offer. It’s egocentric arrogance. Nothing less.

  I sit at my desk and stare down at the small stack of files. I know the secrets within them better than anyone else. Better than the Chief of Police, who makes his decisions based on my investigations. He reads the Cliff Notes version of what I do. And I know he holds his nose while he does it.

  Who else on this job could do the work I do? Not a one of them. I know it. They are too blinded by their loyalty to the badge they wear to see that there is a greater loyalty to the community we serve. They couldn’t take down a guy they went through the Academy with, even if he was wrong.

  They are simplistic beings, most cops, and easily corrupted by the power they wield. Some make honest mistakes, a few quietly whisper rumors to me, but most blatantly defy the rules.

  In the files in front of me, I knew I had a guy who was sleeping away most of his shift under the freeway.

  Another who was sleeping with a prostitute.

  A third took free meals from a breakfast diner downtown.

  And this was just on this week’s agenda.

  Last week, I worked a guy who, while off-duty, got into a fight at a McDonald’s and overreacted badly, beating a civilian. A minority, no less. And he did it to impress the widow of his dead partner. I’m certain they were having an affair long before the death of Anthony Battaglia.

  Some people, when they spit out my name, drone on that the Department shouldn’t worry about their private lives and that you can’t legislate morality.

  They’re wrong. When they accepted that badge and took an oath, they relinquished all rights to be immoral.

  This is my life. To make sure their life is unblemished.

  And to make sure they pay for their mistakes.

  Internal Affairs is nestled away from the police station in an office space across the street. The address is 1094 West Mallon and predictably, cops on the street have made “1094” code for an IA interview.

  The other tenants of the four-story building are business people (with the exception of the Special Investigations Unit on the third floor) and I feel more at home with them than I ever did with cops. Unlike cops, they don’t have the arrogance that comes with thinking you’re above the law. They understand professionalism and they seem to understand that they job is resting on their performance.

  I doubt any of them would ever dream of sleeping away a shift under the freeway.

  To the person, these people are well dressed and well mannered. I wish sometimes that I could tap one of them to give lessons at the Police Academy or at one of our quarterly in-service trainings on how to be professional. But I know the type-A’s in the audience would just make smart replies, endure the class and then rip on them during the break.

  Near the elevators is Gambini’s Real Estate office. That’s where she worked. Carie, with one ‘r.’

  I never noticed her before I heard a rumor that she was seeing a cop while he was on-duty. This was a common tactic I encountered, cops using the badge to chase tail. It was unprofessional, but if they restricted it to their own time, then there wasn’t a lot I could do about it. But when the courting occurred on duty, there was plenty I could do. It was dereliction of duty and conduct unbecoming an officer.

  So I started using the third floor restroom and taking the elevators to get there. As I stood and waited for the elevator, I would watch her through the pane of glass next to the door.

  She definitely fit what most cops were chasing. Her hair was long and raven-black. She was thin like a gymnast but too tall to have ever excelled in that sport. Her breasts jutted out beneath her business attire and I decided on the second visit that they had to be fake. A pair of librarian glasses perched on her nose. While I watched her work, she seemed alternatingly focused and flustered. When the phone would ring, she would snatch the receiver up with a pinched, irritated scowl.

  For a week, I watched her. I was starting to wonder if the rumor were true at all. She was attractive enough to warrant attention from an officer, but she seemed to be too high maintenance for anything long term. Maybe it had just been a fling, I thought. Maybe some cop met her at during a walkthrough at a dance club and then dated her a time or two.

  Still, there was something about her…

  Regardless, I kept up my watch and once, I thought I’d hit pay dirt. I was coming out of the bathroom, approaching the elevator alcove when I heard the tinny sound of a voice coming over a police radio and a male near the elevator say, “Copy, I’m clearing Special Investigations right now.”

  I slowed to a stop and stood still, listening from around the corner.

  “Lucky you,” said one voice.

  “Fuck you, Norris,” came the light-hearted res
ponse. “Keep cracking wise and I’ll suddenly need some back-up on this call.”

  Norris, Norris. We had an Officer Aaron Norris. He was buddies with—

  “How’d that look? The two amigos both heading up south together to pick up a found wallet?” Norris asked.

  “Like a couple of homos,” Virgil Gilliam told him.

  “Right,” Norris said. “What the fuck is up with this elevator?”

  I heard several soft clicks.

  “The light’s on, man,” Gilliam said. “Pushing it isn’t going to help.”

  “Won’t hurt, either.”

  “Maybe it starts over every time you push it.”

  “Fuck you,” Norris chimed.

  “Idiot.”

  “You wanna take the stairs?”

  “No, it’ll—” Gilliam started to reply.

  “Holy shit!” Norris’s voice took on an excited tenor. “Check out the trim in there.”

  “Where?”

  “The real estate office.” There was a pause. “Through the glass next to the door, dumb ass.”

  “Oh,” Gilliam said. “Yeah, she’s hot.”

  Norris gave a low whistle. “Hot? She’s fucking gorgeous. Look at those melons. She could dial a phone with those nipples.”

  “Nice,” Gilliam agreed.

  “Nice? They’re perfect, those tits.”

  “You think they’re real?”

  Norris didn’t hesitate. “Can you touch them? That’s real enough for me.”

  Gilliam chuckled. The elevator dinged. “Ride’s here,” he said.

  Norris wasn’t listening. “Oh man, look at her. I’m telling you, she’d be a wild fuck. You know that? I mean, she’d want you to hammer her from behind over the back of the patrol car some night up at Manito Park or something.”

  My ears pricked up at that.

  Gilliam snorted. “You may have jerked off up at Manito, but don’t try to tell me you’ve fucked anyone there.”

  “First time for everything, Gilly. First time for every—”

  “You don’t want a piece of her, anyway,” Gilliam said. “Now, come on, I’m tired of holding this door open already.”

  I heard the creak of leather as Norris moved away from me.