Abuse of Power

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “Vaguely,” she said, sitting Indian style beside him. “I’m not sure I was working that night.”

  “It went down right before the end of our watch,” Townsend continued. “Grant didn’t want to write the report and get stuck working overtime. The property on the north side of the tracks falls under the sheriff’s jurisdiction. When we got there, the victim was in a dozen pieces, most of them on our side of the tracks. Grant went around picking up the body parts in a plastic sack, then dumped them all on the other side of the tracks. The bastard managed to kiss the whole thing off to the SO.” He laughed, his stomach jiggling. “Pretty shrewd, huh? Grant’s the best at this stuff.”

  Rachel smiled, but she really didn’t see the humor. She might have screwed up the robbery scene, but it wasn’t something she’d done intentionally to get out of writing a report. She watched the waves crash onto the shore, inhaling the salty scent of the ocean. Grant had been right about one thing. She did need to relax more, get out more. Lucy was always harping on her, telling her she needed a new man in her life. Her relationship with her husband had been so complete, though, she was convinced nothing could ever come close to it.

  She closed her eyes and pictured Joe. An earthy, outdoor type, Rachel’s husband had been soft-spoken and gentle. Joe had seen her soul, listened to her darkest fears, kept her demons at bay. Before he became ill, they had spent their weekends backpacking high in the mountains in northern California. During the week, Joe would sit at his drafting board for hours, breaking only to eat and spend time with his wife and daughter. But there was an urgency about him, a sense of racing against time. Even before he had been diagnosed, her husband had somehow sensed his own mortality. The landscapes he designed were breathtakingly beautiful, as if he had already glimpsed the divine, and had been charged with the responsibility of leaving a model of this image behind for the benefit of mankind.

  The raucous cry of a swooping gull startled her. Her eyes opened and she sat up abruptly. All around her were male cops. This was her world now. Rachel’s day ended when most people’s were just beginning. She was friendly with the female officers in the department, but they seldom had time to socialize outside of work. They were assigned to different watches, and like Rachel, many of the women had young children at home. Other than Lucy, she didn’t have many close women friends.

  Most cops had the same problem, Rachel decided, watching several officers frolic in the surf like silly teenagers. Law enforcement became a way of life, and one that could easily become all-consuming. Many police officers found it hard to talk about trivial things when they dealt with life-and-death situations on a daily basis. They could joke about picking up body parts, yet the ordinary events most people found intriguing or laughable, they saw as mundane and boring.

  Being close to one another made sense. Not only did they have the job as a common denominator, but when you were up against the wall, these were the people you had to depend on.

  Rachel saw Ratso sitting on the sand farther down the beach. Instead of removing his shirt like the other men, he was fully dressed and had his arms locked around his knees. She walked over and squatted down beside him. “Why are you sitting over here by yourself? Why don’t you come over and talk to us? Isn’t that the point of coming to a party?”

  “I’m thinking,” he said softly. “Sometimes it’s better to think than talk.”

  “Are you upset about the things Grant said to you in the car?”

  “No,” he said, resting his chin on his knees. “I’m used to it. Words can’t hurt me.”

  Rachel shook her head. “You don’t have to take it, you know,” she told him. “He’s not going to stop until you say something. Why don’t you talk to Sergeant Miller, tell him Grant is harassing you?”

  “Things were bad for me before,” Ratso said, his voice just above a whisper. “I was an outsider. The men didn’t accept me. With Grant, things are different.”

  Rachel tilted her head. “That might be true,” she said, “but don’t you realize what you’re sacrificing?”

  “You mean my dignity,” he said, looking out over the ocean.

  “More or less,” she said.

  In reality Ratso was extremely intelligent, even though Grant and the other men didn’t appear to recognize it. On the police exam he had scored one of the highest scores ever. He knew more about medicine and first aid than many of the other officers. If he came across an injured person, he could tell the paramedics what was wrong the second they arrived on the scene. His locker was crammed with library books on a multitude of subjects. Science, math, and philosophy, however, were not frequent subjects for discussion among the ranks. Rachel decided it was a strange life they led. The cost of living in southern California was high, particularly if you were trying to survive on a police officer’s salary. Grant said Ratso lived in a hole-in-the-wall apartment with nothing but a bed and a refrigerator. He didn’t even own a television. Unless an officer worked more than one job or his spouse also brought home a paycheck, most of their lifestyles fell below middle class. It was a bitter pill to swallow—risking your life for such a meager existence. Years before, police officers were held in high esteem by the community they served. Not so in today’s world. Seldom did a shift go by that someone didn’t flip Rachel the finger or shout some kind of insult. It wasn’t hard to understand why many police officers became bitter.

  Patting Ratso on the hand, Rachel returned to the spot where Grant was sitting. He handed her another beer, then whipped off his shirt and headed out for a quick dip in the frigid surf. She stared at the rippling muscles in his back, his strong legs. “Can I ask you something, Jimmy?” she said, turning to Townsend.

  “Sure,” he said, flopping over onto his stomach.

  “Did you plant the gun on Brentwood? Please don’t get angry at me for asking, but I’d really like to know what happened that night.”

  “No way,” he exclaimed.

  “Then why didn’t I find it when I patted him down?”

  “Did you grab his dick?”

  Rachel blushed. “Of course not.”

  “That’s why you missed it,” Townsend said with a smirk. “Bastard had these slacks on with really deep pockets. The gun was right next to his package. I know you, Rach. I’ve seen you do patdowns on male suspects. You won’t get anywhere near their groin area. An inch or two past their knee and you panic. You’re afraid you’re going to end up with something other than a gun in your hands.” He laughed, cupping his hands over his genitals. “If you want to practice on me, I’ll be glad to oblige you.”

  Rachel looked away, watching as Grant marched back across the sand. Her way of dealing with off-color remarks was to simply ignore them. Women officers who were prone to complain usually disappeared. “Brentwood just didn’t seem like the type to carry a gun,” she said thoughtfully. “I have no doubt the man’s an alcoholic, but why would he pack a gun? And that firearms expert his attorney put on the stand thought that .22 was a Saturday night special. Brentwood makes a pretty good income, Jimmy. If he wanted a gun, why didn’t he simply go to a gun store and buy one? Why would he buy an unregistered gun on the street? People don’t usually do that unless they plan to use the gun in a crime. Brentwood’s a drunk, not a criminal.”

  “How do I know?” Townsend said, trailing his fingers through the sand. “The guy sells used cars for a living. If I sold used cars, I’d probably pack a gun, too.”

  “You should go for a swim,” Grant said, dropping down beside her on the blanket. “The water’s great. I’m wide awake now. Makes you feel like a million bucks.”

  “I didn’t bring my swimsuit,” Rachel said. Looking past him, she saw that Nick Miller had finally arrived. He had brought along a small hibachi and placed it on top of a trash can. The smell of charcoal and roasting meat drifted past her nostrils. She sucked down almost the whole can of beer, then crushed the can in her fist. “I’m going for a dog,” she said. “Want me to bring you one?”

  “
Yeah,” Grant said, smearing suntan lotion on his chest. “Lots of mustard.”

  “Get me a couple,” Jimmy Townsend said. “I don’t care what you put on them.”

  “Your stomach looks like the Goodyear blimp,” Grant said. “Don’t you think you better cut back on the food, Jimmy boy? Belly fat can cause you to have a heart attack.”

  “Hey,” Townsend said, glancing at the taut muscles in his friend’s abdomen, “food is like sex for me. As long as you keep chasing women, pal, I’m going to eat.”

  Grant smirked. “Did your wife cut you off?”

  “Nope,” Townsend said, looking away, “her doctor cut me off. No sex until after the baby is born. This pregnancy hasn’t been a heck of a lot of fun, let me tell you.”

  “Vasectomy time?” Grant asked.

  Townsend felt like his genitals had just contracted inside his body. “Don’t even say that word around my puppy dog, okay? He has a thing about knives.”

  “Tell you what,” Grant continued. “Every time you feel like eating, go to the bathroom and whack off. You’re about to explode, my friend. If you don’t shed some of that blubber, you won’t pass the physical this year.”

  Rachel had had enough of their banter. She kicked off her shoes and walked over to the hibachi, letting the warm sand drift between her toes. The sergeant was wearing a tank top, jeans, and a cowboy hat. From the look on his face, he was already well on his way to getting bombed. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his jaw slack. She wondered if he had started drinking even before he left the station.

  “Well, look what the cat drug in,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans, “Since when did you start coming to these affairs?”

  “It’s kind of fun,” she said, smiling. “I’m usually asleep by now, so I seldom get a chance to see the sun.”

  The sergeant pulled a slim flask from his back pocket. “Take a swig,” he said, handing it to her. “It’ll clear out the cobwebs.”

  Rachel tried to push the flask away politely, but the sergeant pushed it right back at her. “What’s in there?” she asked, sniffing.

  “Jack Daniel’s,” he said. “Guaranteed to make all your problems go away. Go on, take a swig. It’ll be good for you.”

  She took a swallow, and the liquor burned its way down her throat. “Whew,” she said, handing the flask back to him. “That’s strong stuff. If I’m not careful, I’m going to get smashed.”

  “That’s the whole point,” he said, belching.

  She gave him a chastising look. “I thought the point was to spend time with each other. You know, like the family everyone’s always talking about.”

  “The family that plays together stays together,” Miller said. “Didn’t you ever get drunk with your husband? You know, go out dancing or something and tie one on?”

  “Not really,” Rachel said, painful memories flooding her mind. “Joe was too sick to go out dancing.”

  “The whole time you were married?” he asked, tilting his head.

  “Sometimes it seems that way,” she answered, moving her feet around in the sand. “He was diagnosed three years after we were married. The cancer went into remission for almost seven years, but he wasn’t the same person. When it came back, it took him three years to die. Bad years, if you know what I mean.”

  The sergeant turned the hot dogs on the grill, using a stick he had found in the sand. “I thought if you made it five years, you were in the clear,” he said, thinking of all the years he had smoked. “Isn’t that what the doctors always say?”

  Rachel sighed. “Don’t believe everything you hear. My husband’s dead, so I guess the five-year marker doesn’t always apply.”

  A gunshot rang out, and both Rachel and Miller jumped. “Shit,” he said, squinting off toward the surf. “Rogers is trying to shoot fish again. Tell him to knock it off,” he shouted to one of the men closer to the water. “If he doesn’t, I’m going to take his gun away and shove it up his idiotic asshole.”

  Alcohol and guns were a lethal mix, but Rachel knew better than to say anything. It wasn’t her place to tell the sergeant he should make the men leave their guns in their cars.

  She got the hot dogs loaded onto a paper plate, but when she started back to where Grant was waiting, they slid off the plate into the sand. “What a klutz,” she said, turning back to get more. Coupled with her exhaustion, the booze was getting to her. Her vision was blurred, and she had a queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach. She had to eat something quick, or she’d get sick and make a fool of herself. By the time she returned to the spot where the sergeant had the hibachi set up, though. Miller had jogged off toward the water to make good on his threat to Larry Rogers.

  Rachel lifted the lid of the cooler, thinking she would cook more hot dogs herself. Only a few empty wrappers remained inside. She started walking back to where Grant and Townsend were waiting, then suddenly sank to the ground on her knees. It was as if someone had stuffed her head full of cotton. She lost consciousness, tumbling face-first onto the sand.

  c h a p t e r

  EIGHT

  The dream was intensely erotic. Rachel moaned in pleasure, moving her head from side to side. Joe’s face was floating somewhere above her, back in the days when he was handsome and healthy. He had worn his hair long, grazing the top of his shoulders. When he made love to her, his hair would brush across her face and tickle her nose. “Just relax,” a deep voice said.

  The place between her legs was wet and throbbing. Her body felt hot, her skin on fire with passion. She inhaled Joe’s aftershave, the smell of the sun on his skin. “I love you,” she whispered, reaching up to run her hands through his hair. But instead of Joe’s long hair, her fingers found short bristles above bare ears. Her eyes sprang open. When she saw Grant Cummings on top of her, her face twisted in fury. “What the—”

  “Be still, baby,” Grant said, placing his hand over her mouth.

  His eyes were rimmed with red, his breath reeking of beer. Rachel could feel his erection poking at her through his clothing. She sank her teeth into the fleshy part of his hand, causing him to yelp in pain. “Get off me,” she snarled, trying to push herself to a sitting position.

  Her T-shirt was shoved up to her neck, along with her bra. Grant’s other hand was crammed inside her jeans, his fingers probing her genitals. She seized his hand and yanked it out, twisting his wrist in the process. “If you don’t let me up this second,” she yelled, “I’m going to gouge your eyes out.”

  Grant laughed drunkenly. “Don’t fight me, baby,” he said, mashing his lips against her teeth. He reached down and fumbled with his zipper. “Come on, you know you want me. You’ve wanted me from the first day you saw me.”

  Out of the comer of her eye, Rachel saw Nick Miller watching them from a few feet away. He was leaning back against his cooler, blurry-eyed and intoxicated. His shorts were unzipped, and a corner of his T-shirt had come out. A cigarette dangled out of one side of his mouth. Other than Miller and Ratso, the other officers must have gone home.

  Rachel brought her knee up and connected with Grant’s groin. When he rolled off her, he pulled his knees up to his chest. “You’re going to regret this, bitch.”

  “You perverted maniac,” she shouted, springing to her feet. She kicked Grant in the side with her bare foot. He was holding onto his balls and groaning. “How could you do this to me?” she continued, quickly pulling her shirt down and zipping up her pants. “I wish I had your steel-toed boots right now. If I did, I’d kick what brains you have out the top of your head.”

  She started to march off, then became enraged when she saw the smirk on the sergeant’s face. Storming over to him, she shouted, “You sat right there and watched him. You make me sick. How could you let him do that to me? This is a public beach. You’re supposed to be a role model to these men. Instead, you’re as disgusting and perverted as they are.”

  “Hey,” he said, catching her arm in a steely grip, “be a sport, kid. You wanted to be a part of the team, didn�
�t you? Well, this is the team. You finally passed the initiation test.”

  “I could report you, you know,” she said, her body shaking. “I could get your stripes. Maybe I’ll pay a visit to Internal Affairs and let them know what goes on at your nasty little parties.”

  His eyes narrowed, the muscles in his face locking into a scowl. “I wouldn’t make threats if I were you,” he said, removing the cigarette from his mouth and staring at it. Because of his asthma, he wasn’t allowed to smoke anymore. Someone must have given him the cigarette, but he had never gotten around to lighting it. “I hear you made a righteous mess of that robbery two nights ago,” he continued. “Grant told me you locked your keys in the car with the engine running. What kind of dumbass stunt was that, huh? You want to start running to Internal Affairs, Simmons, you better remember that two can play the same game.”

  All the blood drained from Rachel’s face. Grant had promised to keep quiet about her stupid mistake if she came to the beach with him. She turned and stomped off toward the parking lot. A few moments later, the sergeant’s words replayed in her mind. Initiation test. Didn’t he say she had passed the initiation test? What did that mean? Had they all fondled her? She stopped and looked back at the drunken officers on the beach. Had they done more than fondle her? Had Grant or one of the other officers actually had sex with her?

  What if she got pregnant?

  Rachel didn’t take birth control bills. She started jogging along the damp sand at the water’s edge, tears streaming down her cheeks, wanting to put as much distance between herself and her fellow officers as she possibly could.

  Rachel had been sitting on the curb in front of the Texaco station for over forty-five minutes, waiting for Lucy to come and pick her up. She had sand in her hair, her eyes, and her pants, and the abrasive grains were stuck to her back, itching like fire ants. She’d left her shoes on the beach, and the bottoms of her feet were blistered from the sun-baked asphalt. By the time she’d walked the three miles to the gas station in the afternoon sun, it was two o’clock. The reason her skin had felt so hot earlier was not passion. She’d sustained a severe sunburn from being in the sun so long without sunblock. She could still taste the putrid mix of Jack Daniel’s and stale beer in her mouth. Entering the small convenience store attached to the gas station, she bought a package of Tylenol and a cold soda, then returned to wait on the curb.