by Paul Preston
“What did you say?” Johnson said, staring down at me.
“He did it,” I repeated.
“He did what?” the partner asked.
“Only he knows what he did,” I said.
“What are you talking about?” Johnson said, stepping closer.
“You know. You know what you did…”
Johnson turned to me with an intense look in his face. I returned his look with an accusing glare.
“Probably a paranoid schizophrenic. We’ll drop him off at Psyche. Maybe they can open up a bed for the guy,” the partner said.
Ignoring his partner, Johnson approached me.
“What did I do? I asked you a question!”
“Relax Patrick. He’s a psyche case. We’ll get him a psychiatric evaluation. At least he’ll be in out of the cold. Go get the squad car,” the partner said.
“What did I do?” Johnson repeated.
“You know. What you did to those people. Don’t you remember? In the war...” I said, making direct eye contact with him.
The first kick came sharp and completely unexpected, knocking the wind out of me momentarily. It felt like the tip of his black shoe was reinforced with steel. I grabbed my stomach and curled into a ball. Now I finally knew firsthand what it felt like to be kicked in the ribs. I couldn’t breathe.
“Johnson! What the fuck?” he partner yelled.
“What are you talking about?” Johnson shouted.
“You know,” I said, clutching my ribs.
I saw the second kick coming and tried to tense my abdominals, but the toe of the shoe landed just above the kidneys on my lower rib cage, sending pain shooting through my body.
“Johnson! Don’t kick the guy!”
His partner tried to grab his arm but Johnson pushed him away.
“WHAT DO I KNOW?” Johnson yelled down at me.
I saw the third kick coming. To protect myself, I rolled my body out of the way back toward the door. The frost and cold weather made the sidewalk slippery with ice and Johnson lost his balance when the last kick missed me. He slipped and fell backwards and hit the sidewalk with a sickening thud. What’s worse, the back of his neck hit the rounded edge of the curb, right below the base of his skull. It all happened so fast his partner was unable to break his fall.
“Shit! Johnson. Are you OK?” the partner said.
The partner immediately called for an ambulance.
“Officer down on 32cd and Main! I repeat, Officer down! Ambulance needed immediately!”
His partner ran over to the squad car. I painfully moved over to kneel beside Johnson. I checked his pulse. It was weak and thready. He was able to make eye contact with me, but he didn’t look good. His head was lying over the edge of the curb at an odd angle. There was no blood. I removed the hood over my head and took his hand. He looked at me with wide eyes. It looked like he was trying to speak, but could only manage to open his lips slightly. I looked into his eyes.
“Don’t worry Officer. You’re partner called an ambulance for you. You’ll be fine.”
Johnson blinked once and then his eyes closed and he lost consciousness. I saw his partner running back. I quickly pulled myself up, holding my side, and disappeared into the crowd that had formed around the fallen officer.
I’ve gone over this moment thousands of times. You must believe me when I say I had no conscious intention of making Officer Johnson slip and fall on the slick ice and suffer a trauma to his head. I was his second kick may have broken or at the very least bruised my lower ribs and I was just rolling out of the way to protect myself. I never imagined he would be hurt so badly. I only wanted to show Grace a true picture of who he was, to discredit him in her eyes. I didn’t want him to get hurt.
I stood in the crowd of onlookers. The partner wrapped him in a blanket he had retrieved out of the squad car. After checking his pulse he started doing emergency CPR. The ambulance arrived and the paramedics continued the CPR while carefully strapping Officer Johnson to a gurney, putting him in the back of the ambulance and driving away. After the crowd dispersed I got back into my car, pressed stop on the video recorder, removed it from my dashboard and left.
I drove to a murky stream outside of the city where I stuffed the dirty clothes in a plastic bag and changed into my clean clothes. I added in some heavy rocks, tied a knot at the end and threw it into the middle of the polluted creek. I watched the bag of clothes slowly sink into the muck.
I got back onto the highway and drove. My ribs felt very tender where Officer Johnson kicked me. They may not have been broken but the ribs certainly were bruised. I kept hearing the sickening crack of Johnson’s skull as it hit the concrete and seeing the odd angle of his neck, propped up by the edge of the curb. I kept picturing the shocked scared look in his eyes before he lost consciousness.
My ribs continued to hurt so I decided to drive to the hospital to get them checked. When I arrived, the whole hospital parking area was filled with squad cars. I went to the ER and waited for about an hour. I gingerly removed my shirt and coat. There were some serious bruises on my side and abdomen where Johnson kicked me. When asked, I told the ER Doctor I was in a fight. I asked why there were so many police at the hospital and he told me an officer was admitted with significant head and neck trauma. I asked if he knew of his condition and he told me no. He ordered an x-ray and it came back negative for broken ribs. My ribs and abdomen were wrapped in a bandage. Before I left, I looked for Grace at the hospital but didn’t see her.
My hands trembled as I read in the Tribune’s Obituary page the next day that Officer Patrick Johnson of the Chicago Police Department had died while apprehending a suspect in front of a liquor store in Chicago. The article mentioned that no shots were fired. There was a picture of Patrick Johnson in his military uniform and a bio of his service in Afghanistan. “He leaves behind a wife, Grace Johnson, and a loving family,” the article said. It mentioned that the funeral would take place in two days on Sunday December 29, 2013 at their church, the First Assembly of God, at 10AM. I called in to Obsession and told said I would not be in for the rest of the weekend.
When I arrived for the funeral, the place was packed with a hushed crowd of worshippers, policemen and men in military uniforms. I didn’t see Grace, though I assumed she was in the front row with her family. I inched my way inside and stood at the very back for the service. The coffin of Patrick Johnson was prominently displayed and soon Pastor Orman took the pulpit to begin the service.
“Here we see below us the body of a strong man and brave man, an American hero, a decorated veteran. Chicago police officer Patrick Johnson, who served his country proudly, battling terrorists as far away as Afghanistan and after his mission there was complete, he sacrificed his life to keep us safe from criminals right here on our streets at home. Almighty Father in Heaven, take the soul of our brother Patrick Johnson into Your Loving Bosom, for a greater or nobler man has never lived…”
I’m sure the ten men buried at Combat Outpost Nerkh might have a different opinion, but their voices will never be heard. The minister also left out the part about Johnson being a wife-beater. Eventually I tuned the minister out. I just stood still at the back of the cavernous church and waited for the service to be over. At the end the minister gave the address of the place of burial, as well as the address of Grace’s parent’s home, where the mourners could meet afterwards and comfort the family and each other. Eight pallbearers, four military officers and four policemen carried the coffin through the center aisle of the chapel to the waiting Hearse. The city of Chicago came to a standstill as the long line of cars and police vehicles followed each other to where Patrick Johnson was put to rest. I saw several Traffic Unit Personnel coordinating the long procession of vehicles to the cemetery.
I finally caught sight of Grace sitting next to her husband’s grave, dressed all in black with a heavy black veil covering her face. After the minister’s final words, the coffin was lowered into the ground. Grace stood up, poured a hand
ful of soil onto the casket and sat back down. An eight member Honor Guard of police officers raised their rifles and fired them into the sky for a 21 Gun Salute. A six member team of military officers folded the flag that had draped the coffin into a neat triangle and ceremoniously handed it to Grace. A military officer played Taps and afterwards the crowd slowly dispersed.
I went to Grace’s home and stood in the background as people held hands and prayed, drank coffee and somberly nibbled on food. My side ached, but I refrained from rubbing it. I wanted to speak with Grace and offer my condolences, but she was constantly surrounded by people, as well as by her parents. A line of friends formed to share their sorrow with the two grieving families. I didn’t feel comfortable conspicuously waiting in the line, since the families obviously didn’t know me and I wasn’t invited to the funeral or the Madsen home. The only two persons I saw at the wake who could recognize me were Patrick’s partner on the force and Sergeant Jones from the precinct. The partner didn’t look twice at me but the Precinct Commander noticed me, of course. Jones always had a nose for trouble and a suspicious nature. Inevitably he came over to talk to me.
“James. Hello…”
“Good evening Sergeant….”
“A sad day…”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know you knew Officer Johnson.”
“I didn’t. He was a friend of a friend…”
“I see…”
He gave me a curious look, as if he didn’t believe me. I knew Sergeant Jones was thinking about my intense encounter with Johnson at the police station, but he had the decorum not to mention it. I wondered how much he knew.
“How did he die?” I asked.
“In the line of duty,” the Sergeant said.
I nodded. Without another word Sergeant Jones turned away and made the rounds with the other mourners.
After an hour I decided to leave and see Grace on another occasion. As I crossed the living room toward the door, Grace broke off a conversation and met me in the middle of the room. I took her hand and kissed her on her non-bruised cheek. The black veil was so thick I couldn’t see her eyes.
“Grace, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you James. It’s kind of you have come to the funeral.”
Grace pulled me closer with her hand, leaned forward and whispered in my ear.
“James, could I trouble you to meet me a little later this evening? There is something of a private nature I wish to discuss with you.”
“Certainly Grace.”
“Please wait for me in your car and I’ll come out and join you after everyone’s left.”
“OK.”
She squeezed my hand and went back to the other mourners. I sat on the couch and randomly picked a book off the shelf. After a few minutes I went out to my car and waited.
After about an hour I saw the last guest leave the party and drive away. A few minutes later the door opened and Grace stepped out on the porch. Grace started briskly walking down the block in the cold night air. I started my car, turned the heat on and pulled up to the curb beside her. She opened the door, got in and sat down. She held the triangular folded flag in her lap.
“Thank you for waiting James,” Grace said. “Do you mind if I smoke in your car?”
“No, not at all.”
With trembling fingers, Grace tried to light a cigarette, but was having difficulty striking a flame with her lighter.
“Here. Allow me Grace.”
I lit Grace’s cigarette.
“Thank you. You’re always a gentleman to me.”
“I wasn’t aware you smoked Grace.”
“I don’t usually. It’s just been a trying week. It calms me.”
“I understand.”
She smoked. I cracked her window slightly so the smoke could escape. I watched her pale lips close around the white filter, while the rest of her face was veiled in black.
“It was such a shock, seeing him at the hospital. He was so vulnerable, unable to move or open his eyes. At least he died doing what he loved, helping people,” she said.
I nodded. A long pause passed while I watched Grace smoke.
“James… I’m afraid I’m unable to see you again. I’d like you to release me from the contract I signed. It was just last week, but it seems so long ago now, when we were together.”
I sat back in my seat, unable to speak. She put her cigarette out in the ashtray.
“I thought perhaps we could just remain friends, but not after what happened,” Grace said.
“Grace… You’re in mourning. Perhaps, in time, you may need… companionship. I know you loved your husband but -”
“If I loved my husband, why did I have a horrible argument with him right before he went to work?”
“Maybe it has something to do with the huge welt he left on your face the night before.”
“We had this huge fight, then he ends up dead in the hospital later that morning. Maybe because of our fight he wasn’t properly focused on his job…”
“No Grace.”
“And he got killed because of it. If I had just forgiven him and we hadn’t fought so badly that morning…”
“Come on Grace. You had nothing to do with what happened to your husband. If he hit you just an inch higher you could have lost an eye, or worse. You had every right in the world to be angry with him.”
She looked down at the flag in her lap.
“Be that as it may, I can’t see you any longer. I can’t dishonor the memory of my husband by continuing our… relationship.”
“What kind of person do you think he was Grace?”
She gave me a sharp look.
“It’s true he may have had a bad temper sometimes, but he served our country honorably in Afghanistan. And unlike me, he was faithful in our marriage…”
Grace’s chin lowered to her chest and her eyes filled with tears.
“Despite who I was, he loved me. He was a good Christian, a good police officer who died in the line of duty.”
I handed her my handkerchief and she dried her eyes.
“So even though I still have feelings for you James, I’ve decided I would rather be alone than give into these… desires that would dishonor his memory. I want you to know my decision has nothing to do with you. You are a very good man and… I wish you all the best.”
Grace cracked open her car door.
“Let me see your eyes before you go,” I said.
She raised her veil. Her eye was still puffy, but the bruising and swelling had gone down considerably.
“Goodbye James.”
She made a move to get out of the car and I spoke up.
“Grace, did anyone tell you the exact circumstances behind your husband’s death?”
“Just that Patrick was attempting to apprehend a suspect and the man resisted arrest. Patrick was thrown to the ground by the man and hit his head on the sidewalk.”
“Who told you that?”
“My husband’s partner. He was there when it happened.”
“Grace, I don’t mean to cause you further heartache right now and I wasn’t planning to share this with you until much later, but I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see you again, so… I’m going to tell you now.”
“Tell me what?”
“There was a person other than your husband’s partner who saw what happened at the scene. And he videotaped what happened.”
Grace’s eyes grew wide.
“Videotaped it? Do you know who it was?”
“Yes Grace. It was me…” I said.
You?”
I reached into my breast pocket, pulling out the video cassette and handed it to her.
“I followed his squad car to where the incident occurred. The video shows your husband physically abusing an unarmed man on the ground, kicking him repeatedly in the stomach and ribs. I’ve shown the video to no one. After you view it, dispose of it immediately. You have the only copy of what actually happened...”
> Grace gave me a hard suspicious look.
“Why were you following my husband James?”
“I wanted to capture on film the kind of person you were married to, hopefully to convince you to leave him. Your husband was a dangerous man, Grace.”
In a state of shock, Grace took out another cigarette with a trembling hand and I lit it for her.
“You’ll see by the video that the story you were told was a lie. He wasn’t thrown to the ground by the suspect. Your husband slipped on the ice while violently kicking the man while he was incapacitated and lying on the ground. The video will show the man on the ground was not resisting arrest. If your husband had followed correct police procedure, he would be alive today…”
She put the cigarette to her mouth, smoked and then abruptly put the cigarette out in the ashtray.
“There is also one other issue. I’ve printed out an article about your husband’s military service on the A Team while stationed in Wardak Province. It’s rather disturbing article but after reading it I think you’ll understand what happened in Afghanistan that changed him.”
I handed her an envelope with the article inside and Grace took it with a weak hand. She opened the car door a crack.
“James… The man in the video… Was he OK, after my husband kicked him?”
“He had some deep bruising on his ribs, but he’ll survive…”
Grace got out and I spoke before she had time to close the car door. I looked her straight in the eyes.
“One last thing Grace. I release you from the contract we signed, but I will remain your Dominant and take no other woman until the day I die. I’ve loved you, Grace Madsen, and I will love you for the rest of my life…”
Without responding Grace lowered her veil, turned away and walked back up the block toward her parent’s house. I did a quick U-turn on her street, drove up the block, parked and watched her get inside the house safely. She never turned back to see me as her front door shut.
That night I felt restless and slept poorly, wondering how Grace reacted to the video and the article. At least I had a chance to tell her how I felt before leaving. I wondered if I’d ever see her again.
The next day I fought off the urge to call or text her. That evening though I felt heartsick and sore, I dragged myself into Obsessions. I was glad I hadn’t sold my business, if for no other reason than it gave me somewhere to go. I went into my office and caught up on my paperwork, checked my inventory and ordered new supplies. I closed out the shift after last call, waited for the crew to finish straightening up and locked up after 1:20AM.
