Charlie-316

by Colin Conway

  Radio silence followed.

  “Charlie-three-sixteen, what’s your status?”

  No reply.

  “Shit!” Zielinski punched the accelerator. His patrol car lurched forward, the engine answering with a throaty roar. Out of habit, he reached down and hit his lights and siren and activated his dash camera, all in one quick motion. Random shots didn’t merit an emergency response. An officer in danger did.

  He raced southbound. Traffic pulled to the side of the road as he approached. He hooked a hard right and made a beeline for Underhill Park. As he approached, he slowed slightly, trying to envision which way Garrett’s traffic stop might be oriented. He didn’t want to pull onto the street into the line of fire if this was where the shots came from.

  Before he could decide, he ran out of street and turned onto the road that ran along the park. He immediately saw a police cruiser with its overhead lights engaged, its headlights illuminating a Chrysler.

  Zielinski killed the siren as he screeched to an abrupt stop to the right of the other patrol car. His left hand found the spotlight and flicked it on, further bathing the Chrysler in a curtain of brightness. With his other hand, he keyed his mic.

  “Charlie-three-twelve, on scene with Sixteen.”

  “Copy, Twelve. Advise on further units.”

  Zielinski popped open his door. His eyes swept the scene, immediately spotting the shattered windows and bullet holes in Garrett’s patrol car.

  “Twelve, keep them coming. This is where the shots came from.”

  He dropped the mic and exited his car, drawing his Glock and using his door as cover. “Ty?” he called out.

  No answer.

  Zielinski clenched his jaw. He glanced up at the suspect vehicle, scanning for suspects, both inside and around the car. He saw none, but the driver’s door stood open.

  Maybe the guy rabbited, he thought. Threw shots and ran.

  Zielinski felt a sinking sense of dismay. If the suspect fired on Garrett, was he…?

  Keeping low, Zielinski quickly moved to the trunk of Garrett’s patrol car. He peeked around the driver’s side, his dread heightening. An officer down was every cop’s worst nightmare. The driver’s seat and the nearby ground was empty, except for shattered safety glass scattered on the pavement.

  He moved up to the driver’s door, his eyes still scanning. Then he saw the still form crumpled on the ground by the suspect vehicle. Motionless. Even at this distance, Zielinski could see the bright red smear of blood against the pale white skin.

  He reached for his portable radio and brought it to his lips. “Charlie-three-twel—” he began, but the screech of feedback from being too close to Garrett’s patrol car radio interrupted and overwhelmed him.

  “Charlie-three-twelve, say again.”

  Zielinski flicked off his portable and picked up Garrett’s patrol car mic from its hook. “Three-twelve,” he said. “Suspect down. Start medics.”

  “Copy. And Charlie-three-sixteen?”

  “No sign of him yet.”

  “Copy.”

  Zielinski heard the uptick in tension in the dispatcher’s voice. He tuned her out as she began sending additional units. It was unnecessary. Any police officer within driving distance would be coming now, lights and siren. One of their own was in danger.

  “Ty!” Zielinski called out again. He listened, but the only sounds he heard were the whirring and clacking of the patrol car’s rotator lights, a dog barking half a block away, and sirens in the distance.

  He took a deep breath and let it out. Then he raised his pistol toward the suspect vehicle and advanced. The smart thing to do was to keep the car covered while he waited for back up. With a couple more officers, they could safely clear the vehicle. However, he couldn’t wait. He had to find Garrett.

  The man lay face down near the rear tire on the driver’s side of the car, a bloody red hole in his upper back. Keeping his gun trained on the car, Zielinski knelt and touched his throat to check for a pulse. His own heart was pounding so hard, it took him a moment to discern that the man was dead. Protocol said to cuff him anyway, but Zielinski rejected the idea. Instead, he stood and swept his aim throughout the car, looking for any other suspects.

  Empty.

  He decided that Garrett must be in foot pursuit with a second suspect, somewhere in the vicinity. He reached for his portable radio to direct units into a perimeter position, but his hand froze.

  Officer Ty Garrett walked out of a house directly across the street and headed toward him. He appeared uninjured, his gait confident.

  “Ty!” Zielinski shouted.

  Garrett raised his hand in reply.

  “Are you okay?”

  Garrett flashed four fingers at him.

  Zielinski felt a temporary wave of relief. He reached again for his radio, turning it back on before saying, “Three-twelve, have units slow their response. Sixteen is with me, and he’s fine.”

  The dispatcher copied. A second later, a couple of the distant sirens suddenly muted, while others remained.

  As Garrett approached, Zielinski could see light reflecting off the sheen of sweat that coated Garrett’s dark skin.

  “Are you okay?” he asked again.

  Garrett nodded as he tugged down on his ballistic vest. “Yeah. I’m good.”

  “Any suspects outstanding?”

  Garrett shook his head, then stopped and shrugged. “A car, but it’s long gone.”

  Zielinski raised his radio, preparing to broadcast. “You got a description?”

  “Red tail lights,” Garrett said, his tone dejected.

  Zielinski lowered the radio. “What happened?”

  Garrett took a deep breath and let it out in a long exhale. He pointed at the car. “This guy jumped out in front of me over on Thor, driving like an idiot. I initiated a stop on him, but he kept rolling until he got here. Then he jumps out, starts yelling at me. He reaches for a gun and starts shooting.” Garrett pointed at the house. “So did someone from in there, all at the same time.”

  “An ambush?”

  Garrett shrugged. “It felt like one.” He spat on the pavement. “Jesus, I’m thirsty.”

  “I’ve got some water in my trunk.”

  Garrett patted Zielinski’s shoulder and then looked at the driver’s body. “He’s dead, yeah?”

  Zielinski nodded. He didn’t mention that the wound was in the back. That was a problem for another day. In the distance, the sirens became more insistent as they got closer.

  “I shot him,” Garrett said. “After he fired on me. Then I went to clear the house.”

  Zielinski shook his head slowly in amazement.

  “What?” Garrett asked.

  “Only you SWAT guys think attack in this situation,” Zielinski said. He felt a curious mix of admiration and disapproval at the same time. “You guys are a different breed.”

  “It wasn’t like that. The shots stopped. They ran out the back.”

  “Still.”

  Zielinski turned back to the sprawled, still form on the ground. He swept the ground with his flashlight. Something was wrong, and a minute later, he realized what it was.

  “Where’s the gun?” he asked.

  Garrett raised his eyebrows, then pointed to the holstered Glock on his hip. “Right here.”

  “No,” Zielinski said. “Not yours. The driver’s gun. Where is it?”

  Garrett’s eyes narrowed, and he quickly scanned the area.

  “I don’t see any shell casings, either.”

  “That’s not right.” Garrett sounded strange.

  Zielinski looked him in the eye, trying to gauge what he saw there. Garrett’s expression was a jumbled mixture of confusion, anger, maybe even a hint of panic. “Take it easy,” Zielinski said, gently. “Grab your flashlight and help me look.”

  Garrett nodded and hustled back to his patrol car. Zielinski watched him go. A feeling of dread crept into his gut.


  Garrett reached into the patrol car and came out with his heavy-duty flashlight. He started to return, then ducked back into the car. Zielinski saw the tiny, unmistakable red light on the dash wink on, indicating the camera there had just been activated.

  He hadn’t turned on the dash cam when he initiated the stop.

  The dread in his stomach grew.

  Garrett trotted back toward him. Wordlessly, they both swept the ground near the car with their flashlights, searching for either a gun or shell casings. They found nothing.

  Zielinski gave Garrett a hard look as the yelp and wail of the approaching sirens threatened to drown out their speech.

  “Tell me this was a good shoot,” he said.

  Officer Ty Garrett looked straight at him. “It was a good shoot.”

  Zielinski didn’t reply. There was nothing more to say.

  Chapter 3

  “Huh?”

  “Your phone,” she mumbled sleepily.

  Cody Lofton lifted up on an elbow and, through the darkness, looked over the young woman at his side. His cell phone vibrated and lit up the room. It was a hot night, so they had fallen asleep without the cover of even a sheet. He reached over the woman, feeling her naked warmth underneath him and grabbed the phone.

  The phone’s display showed a prefix similar to those cell phones owned by the city. Lofton lay back in the bed and answered, “This is Cody.”

  “Hey, man, sorry to wake you. It’s Dan.”

  Lieutenant Dan Flowers, Lofton thought. A good officer and one of the few who supported the mayor during his re-election. As the mayor’s chief of staff, Lofton had cultivated a beneficial friendship with Flowers over the past couple years. Flowers was a patrol lieutenant and if he was calling him at this hour, it meant nothing good.

  “Dan, it’s early for a social call,” Lofton said, his voice raspy from a night of drinking.

  “There’s been a shooting. From what we know—”

  “Hold on,” Lofton said and slipped out of the bed. The woman had seemed to be falling back asleep, but she stirred as he talked, and he didn’t want her to hear the conversation any further.

  Lofton quickly looked for his underwear in the darkness. Not finding them, he shrugged and quietly walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “Go ahead.”

  “We’ve had an officer involved shooting. One dead.”

  “Tell me it’s not your officer,” Lofton said as he searched for a light. When he finally found a lamp, he switched it on, illuminating the living room of the apartment. He squinted against the light. Potted plants of various types were tucked into corners and a large print of a beach setting hung on the main wall.

  “Our guy is fine. Not even a scratch.”

  Lofton sat on the leather couch with the realization that he should have stopped his night earlier. The after-effects of multiple vodka tonics now pulsated at his temples.

  “What do you know about the victim?”

  “We’ve identified him. Todd Trotter. He’s known to us.”

  Lofton pushed up from the couch and walked into the kitchen. “What’s that noise?”

  “It’s the radio. I’m in my car.”

  “Can you turn it down? It’s giving me a headache.”

  The background noise of the patrol radio lowered. Lofton found a glass in the cupboard and filled it with a bottle of Evian water from the refrigerator. He took a sip and then paced the living room.

  “Dan, give it to me straight. I know it’s coming fast so if it’s not perfect, it will be forgiven. I need as much intel as possible to paint a picture for the mayor.”

  “Here’s the unofficial report. Trotter’s a maggot that’s been in the system since he could walk and steal,” Flowers said. “There’s no love lost on our side that he caught a bullet.”

  Lofton finished the water and put the glass down.

  “Who was the officer?”

  “Ty Garrett.”

  “Clara Garrett’s son?”

  “The same.”

  “Aren’t we presenting him with a lifesaving award in a couple days?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s a professional. He’ll handle it.”

  For a moment, a sense of relief passed through Lofton and he settled back on to the couch, feeling the leather against his naked skin. He rested his head on the back on the couch and thought about the young blonde in the other room.

  He realized both he and Flowers had been silent for several seconds.

  “Dan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’ve stepped over the line by calling you. I might get jammed on this one.”

  Lofton shook his head. “It’ll be fine. If there’s any fallout, I’ll handle it on my end.”

  “Okay. Sounds good.”

  Lofton could tell by his voice something was bothering Flowers. “There’s something else, isn’t there, Dan? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I’ve given you the official report so far, Cody.”

  Lofton sat upright. The official report so far. He closed his eyes and focused intently on the conversation he just had with Flowers when he realized he missed the one question he should have asked. The question that every municipality is concerned with above all others. “Was it a good shoot?”

  “Yeah, it looks like it.”

  “It looks like it? What the hell does that mean?” Lofton’s voice raised. “That sounds like hedging.”

  Flowers cleared his throat. “Cody, we’re friends, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I’m telling you this because we’re friends. You’ll want to get in front of this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We always talk about perception versus reality, right? I’m afraid this is going to turn bad on the perception side of things.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Dan?”

  “Aw, damn, the media is already here. We’re going to have trouble containing this story.”

  “Dan, you’re pissing me off. Just tell me what’s going on.”

  “I’m not the coroner and we haven’t completed our investigation, so this isn’t official, you understand?”

  “No shit. Off the record and all that jazz. Tell me what I need to know so I can do damage assessment.”

  “It looks like Trotter was shot in the back. And…”

  Lofton clenched his jaw, bracing himself. “And what?”

  “Well, so far, there’s no gun.”

  “No gun?” Lofton repeated. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Maybe nothing. It’s early yet, but in the immediate canvass of the crime scene, we didn’t find a gun on or near the suspect.”

  Lofton stared off into the distance, the throbbing in his temples was at maximum.

  “Are you still there?”

  Lofton didn’t answer so Flowers repeated his question, “Cody? Are you still there?”

  “What color is he?”

  “What?”

  “Trotter,” Lofton specified. “Is he black?”

  “No, he’s not. He’s white. Hell, Cody, most of our criminals are white in this—”

  “Keep the media away from this,” Lofton said.

  “I don’t under—”

  Lofton ended the call. He scrambled for a pen and something to write on. He opened the drawers of the end tables, slamming them quickly when he didn’t find what he was looking for. He moved into the kitchen, repeating the same action.

  The blonde shuffled into the living room. She stood naked in front of him, her eyes adjusting to the light. “What are you doing?”

  At the sound of her voice, Lofton looked up from a kitchen drawer. “I need a pen and something to write on.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Did you hear what I said?” Lofton said, irritation
clearly on his face. “I need a pen and some paper.”

  “Is this how you normally are?”

  Lofton rolled his eyes. “Listen, Monica, I—”

  The blonde’s lip curled. “Monica?”

  “It’s not Monica?”

  She shook her head. “Not even close.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lofton said, waiting for her to blow up.

  She shrugged. “It’s cool. I don’t remember your name either.”

  Lofton stared at her. “You don’t remember my name?”

  “Nope.”

  “Cody Lofton,” he said, tapping his chest. “I’m the mayor’s chief of staff.”

  She stared at him.

  “That impressed you at the club.”

  “No, it didn’t. I was impressed you were buying drinks,” she said, grabbing a backpack next to the couch. She unzipped the bag, pulled out a yellow pad and pen, and tossed them on the kitchen counter. “There you go, Chief.”

  Lofton grabbed the pad and pen before sitting down on the couch.

  “Hey,” the blonde said. “When you’re done making your notes, you can either come back to bed or let yourself out. Either way works.”

  Lofton watched her walk away, wondering if he should make an effort to talk further with her. When she closed the bedroom door, he shrugged.

  On the notepad, he divided the paper into two columns. The left column was labeled Threats while the right column was labeled Opportunities. The threats came easily enough. Any police shooting was chock full of them. This one had racial overtones, a missing gun, and a victim shot in the back.

  Lofton paused, scratched out the word victim and wrote suspect instead. Words were always important in framing a narrative to sway public opinion. In this case they weren’t just important, they were crucial.

  For the next thirty minutes, Lofton scribbled notes on how the road ahead would be perceived regarding Ty Garrett’s shooting.

  When he was done, he stood and stretched. He’d need to brief the mayor in person on this one. He walked quietly into the bedroom and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before gathering his clothes.

  Chapter 4

  Captain Tom Farrell sat in his car for a few minutes after arriving at the crime scene. Lieutenant Dan Flowers stood with a corporal near his own vehicle. Flowers gave him an upward nod to acknowledge his arrival but didn’t approach the car.