by Frank Zafiro
She took another sip. “Me? I think I’m ready to go back to work.”
2100 hours
Lieutenant Robert Saylor stepped up to the roll call podium. The room quieted. Without preamble, he announced the arrests. He made no mention of Kopriva’s mistake, though he knew that everyone in the room was either aware of the details or would be shortly.
Saylor read through the official press release that Crawford had given a few hours earlier. “Anyone have any questions?”
No one did. Saylor released the briefing to the sector sergeants. He returned to the patrol sergeant’s administrative office across the hall. His own office was almost as large as the patrol sergeant’s office, which was shared by all nine patrol sergeants. Saylor settled into a chair and waited.
A few minutes later, Sergeant Miyamoto Shen walked in. “What’s up, Lieutenant?”
“MacLeod is coming back tomorrow night,” he told Shen.
Shen pursed his lips. “You think she’s ready?”
“She thinks so.”
Shen sat in his own chair and put his clipboard on the desk. “MacLeod is a good troop,” he said. “I just don’t want to her to come back too soon from something like what happened on the bridge.”
“I have the feeling that getting back to work is what she needs,” Saylor said. “I talked to her a couple hours ago and she seemed fine.”
“All right,” Shen said. “I just wanted to be sure.”
“Keep an eye on her for a little while, but I’m sure she’ll be all right.”
EIGHTEEN
Friday, March 17, 2005
Day Shift
0640 hours
Kopriva showed the orderly his badge. The skinny man looked at it suspiciously.
“You sure you can’t come back after eight?” he asked Kopriva. “The Medical Examiner will be in by then.”
Kopriva shook his head. “I only need a minute.”
The man bit his lip, chewing absently. “The thing is, I’m not supposed to let people in outside of business hours.”
“I’m not people,” Kopriva said. “I’m the police.”
The man sighed. “I’m pretty sure the rules mean all people.”
“You want to talk about this at jail?” Kopriva asked him.
His eyes widened, then narrowed. “I’m just trying to do my job,” he muttered, reaching for a ring of keys at his belt.
“And I’m just trying to do mine.”
The orderly unlocked the door and held it open. “I don’t understand why you can’t do it after eight, when the M.E. is here.”
Kopriva stepped through the door, ignoring his statement. “Which one is she in?” he asked, gesturing toward the wall of refrigerated compartments.
“Three-A,” the orderly said. He walked directly to it and slid it open.
Kopriva stepped toward the long drawer. Someone had folded the black body bag almost in half and tucked the excess under the covered legs. A lump rose in Kopriva’s throat when he saw how tiny the body was.
“Unzip it,” he told the man.
The orderly didn’t argue, having already capitulated to this point. He took hold of the oversize zipper and slid it down to Amy’s navel, then pushed the bag aside.
Kopriva stared down at the body. Her bruised and battered face was cleaned of any blood. Her long, dark hair was combed straight back almost lovingly. Her eyes were closed peacefully.
“You the detective on this case?” the orderly asked.
Kopriva shook his head, staring down at Amy. The black dashes of sutures dotted her body where the Medical Examiner had cut her open for the autopsy.
“You know the funeral home is coming for her later today, right?”
Kopriva opened his mouth. He wanted to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. He gazed down on the little girl’s still face. He imagined that her eyes were about to fly open and bore into him.
“Hey, man, are you okay?”
Stefan Kopriva couldn’t answer.
0911 hours
Browning read through the last of the report and nodded in satisfaction. He signed his name next to his typed name and badge number.
Tower sat at Billing’s old desk, absently tapping a pen.
After signing his report, Browning looked up at him. “Were you a drummer in high school?” he asked.
“Huh?” Tower asked. “Oh, yeah. The pen. Sorry, nervous habit.”
He put the pen down.
“You okay, John?”
Tower nodded. “I’m good. It’s just a shame, that’s all. Beautiful little girl like that…”
“We did our best,” Browning said.
Their eyes met, but neither man mentioned Kopriva.
Tower sighed and stood. “Nice working with you on this one, Ray. I hate that we had to work on it, but it was nice that it was with you.”
Browning held out his hand. “Same here.”
Tower took his hand and shook it. “Well,” he said, “back to the land of sex perverts and freaks.”
He walked slowly away.
Browning watched him go, then closed the file and put it in his outbox. He closed his eyes and he burned the picture of Amy Dugger’s face into his memory. He tried as hard as he could for the image to be the one that her parents had provided from her Kindergarten school photo. But he couldn’t completely banish the images of her lying in a field inside a black plastic garbage bag. In the end, that was the image that stuck.
Browning sighed and turned back to his active case drawer. He stared at the labels with the names of victims and the police report numbers. When the black print on the white labels blurred, he blinked in surprise and wiped away his tears.
A moment later, he reached up and turned off his desk lamp. His keys were in the desk drawer. He picked them up and headed for the door.
0922 hours
Chaplain Marshall spotted Stefan Kopriva in the officer’s parking lot at the station. The young man sat slumped forward in the driver’s seat of his truck, his forehead resting on the steering wheel.
He looks terrible, the chaplain thought. Katie was right.
He tapped lightly on the glass of the driver’s window.
Kopriva shot upright, a wild look in his red-rimmed eyes. He stared at the chaplain for a moment without recognition. Chaplain Marshall’s concern grew.
After a few seconds, Kopriva seemed to recognize him. He started to roll down the window, then stopped and rolled it back up. Chaplain Marshall frowned slightly, but forced himself to put an open expression back on his face.
Kopriva opened the door and got out of the truck, a light jacket in his hand. The smell of booze wafted off him.
“Good morning,” the chaplain said.
Kopriva grunted back to him.
The chaplain noticed the officer’s badge clipped to his belt. His gun hung on his right hip. Both were in stark contrast to his disheveled clothing and sleep-tousled hair. “I was planning on coming to see you today, if that’s all right.”
Kopriva shrugged himself into the jacket. “Don’t bother.”
“It’s no bother,” Chaplain Marshall said.
“Then just don’t,” Kopriva snapped and walked past him.
“Stef!” Chaplain Marshall turned and trotted next to him. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. Maybe you’d like to talk about things.”
“I don’t.”
“Then we don’t have to. But I’d like come by and see you anyway.”
Kopriva stopped suddenly. He turned to face the chaplain. “I don’t want to talk about this with you or anyone else. Just leave me alone.”
The chaplain raised his hands in a calming gesture. “All right. I understand. But if you need to talk, you can call me. Anytime at all.”
Kopriva stared at him for another moment, then shook his head. “I have a meeting with the Chief,” he said, and turned to go.
Chaplain Marshall watched him limp away. He could sense the man’s pain but also his walls. He knew he couldn’t push
him, but he hoped Kopriva would call.
0926 hours
Detective Ray Browning sat in the driveway of his house. He stared at the red door to the little rancher for a long time after he shut off the engine. Finally, certain he’d left as much of Amy Dugger behind as he ever would, he got out of the car and went inside.
Veronica sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. She looked up in alarm at Browning’s sudden appearance. “Everything all right?”
Browning nodded. He dropped his keys onto the table and draped his jacket across the back of the kitchen chair.
Veronica looked at him in surprise. “You okay, baby?”
Browning leaned down and kissed her softly. He tasted the coffee on her tongue. The scent of her hair and skin filled his nostrils and he breathed it in. After a moment, Veronica’s hands came up to his face. She ran her fingers across the back of his neck.
When he broke away, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” she whispered.
“Thank you,” he whispered back.
She kissed him again, this time on both eyes and then the corners of his mouth. He surrendered himself to her softness, her goodness.
“I love you, Vee,” he told her.
She kissed him full on the lips again. Then she rose from the table and took his hand. “I love you, too, baby,” she said, and led him down the hallway.
0928 hours
Officer Stefan Kopriva laid the badge on the desk. The Chief of Police looked down at it and back up at Kopriva’s face. The officer’s hair was tousled from sleep and he reeked of vomit and alcohol. Even so, the man’s voice had been even and his speech was not slurred. The Chief didn’t think he was intoxicated.
“Are you sure you don’t want some union representation, Officer Kopriva?” The Chief asked. “I’m pretty sure Detective Pond is on duty down in the investigative division.”
“No,” the officer said. He unbuckled his belt and pulled the black holster off, laying the gun next to the badge. “The rest is in my locker.”
The Chief stared at the gun and badge on his desk. He realized that in his six years as Chief, no one had ever acted out what amounted to a movie cliche. However, the officer in front of him was entirely serious.
“It’s your decision,” The Chief said. “But why don’t you take some time to think about things first?”
“There’s nothing to think about,” Kopriva said. “I quit.”
“Son, everyone makes mistakes. You didn’t-“
“I’m not your son,” Kopriva said coldly.
The Chief’s eyebrows went up. He wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to like that. A small flare of anger shot through his chest, but he suppressed it.
“All right,” he said evenly. “Either way, officer, you made a mistake. You didn’t do it maliciously. I haven’t considered yet whether there would be any punishment or not. But I can tell you that even if there was some sort of sanction, it wouldn’t result in you being fired.”
“It doesn’t matter. I quit.”
“Well, I don’t accept your resignation,” The Chief said. “I want you to wait a week before you decide. Then, if you’re going to quit, at least consider taking a medical retirement. Your injuries from the shooting last year should qualify you for-“
“I don’t care what you want,” Kopriva said. He stood up, his expression full of resolve. “And I don’t care if you accept my resignation or not. I quit. Take your week and shove it up your ass.”
The Chief’s eyes flew open wide. Before he could reply, the officer turned and limped out of his office.
NINETEEN
Saturday, March 18, 2005
Day Shift
0712 hours
Katie rose early, which for her was around one in the afternoon. She’d slept hard and soundly, but couldn’t sleep any more.
Now that she’d decided what to do for herself, thoughts of Kopriva filled her mind. She didn’t want to give up on him. She lay in bed for a long while trying to decide how she could best help him through this tough time.
Just be there for him, she thought. And even though it was a trite expression, she agreed with the sentiment. He would get through this. She’d be there for him. Others, like the chaplain, would help him through it, too. In time, both his emotional and his physical wounds would heal. He’d come back to patrol and things would go back to the way they were. They’d be together.
She picked up the phone next to her bed and dialed his number. The phone rang.
And rang.
And rang.
There was no answer.
She listened to the lonely tones of the telephone ring for a long time before she finally hung up.
0823 hours
Captain Michael Reott sat in the small booth of the coffee shop across from Crawford. The two men regarded each other in silence. Crawford noticed the lines in the captain’s face, the dark bags under his eyes, the hard, haunted look in the eyes themselves. It was like looking into a mirror and was not a vision he wanted to see.
“Goddamn shame,” Reott muttered.
Crawford nodded as he sipped his coffee. The brew was harsh, but he didn’t mind. Not today.
“Did we do everything we could do?” Reott asked.
Crawford considered answering for a moment. Then he realized that Reott wasn’t really asking him. He was just thinking out loud.
I think we did, he answered silently.
Reott reached out and tapped his finger on the newspaper next to him on the table. “The paper skewered us on this one.”
“Yep.”
“Maybe I should give Pam Lincoln a call. Give her an interview.”
“Why?”
Reott glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”
“She’ll write the truth, you figure?”
Reott nodded. “Yeah, I think she would.”
Crawford shook his head and sighed. “If that is the case, what is she going to write that’s any different than what’s already out there?”
Reott lowered his eyes, seeming to stare into his coffee cup, not answering.
“Truth is,” Crawford said, “we failed.”
TWENTY
Sunday, March 19, 2005
1104 hours
END OF TOUR
He stood as far away as he could and still see the ceremony. He was surprised at how few people were there. When he’d gone to Karl Winter’s funeral, there’d been so many people that most couldn’t hear the words the police chaplain spoke because they were too far away in the crowd. But fewer than a dozen stood at Amy Dugger’s graveside.
Maybe that’s the way the parents wanted it, Kopriva thought.
He couldn’t hear the pastor’s words from his position up on the hill, seated beneath a tree. But he watched as the old man spoke and occasionally waved a hand. He watched as the people at the graveside bowed their heads and as they raised them again.
Eventually, the pastor was finished. As the casket was lowered into the ground, he offered his comfort to a woman that Kopriva guessed was Amy’s mother. She had the same dark hair as Amy, but he couldn’t make out any other features from the distance he was at.
Once the pastor left, the remaining dozen broke up slowly. They stopped by in singles or couples to share condolences with Amy’s parents and then wandered away to their cars. Kopriva couldn’t see if her mother was crying or not, but her father held the woman close to him, almost as if he were supporting her weight.
Kopriva took a drink from the bottle of Corona in his hand. The taste of beer washed over his tongue and he swallowed past the bile in his throat.
When the last of the mourners had driven away, the man walked his wife to the remaining car. He opened the door for her and she got into the passenger seat woodenly. Then he got into the driver’s side and drove slowly away.
Kopriva waited patiently as the cemetery workers moved the faux grass to expose the earth from the grave piled on a small
tarp. They worked quickly to backfill the grave and lay sod over the top of the dirt. Even with two of them, the job took almost an hour. Kopriva watched, drinking slowly from his bottle. When the bottle was empty, he set it gently against the tree and opened the second one he’d brought along. He sipped patiently and with dread.
Finally, the two workers ambled away from the gravesite and it seemed then that the entire cemetery was empty.
Kopriva rose unsteadily to his feet. The pain in his knee and shoulder was only a dull throb, kept at bay with pills and uncounted beers throughout the night.
He should go down the grave, he realized. He should stand next to the light rose-colored stone and trace the engraved letters. He should whisper her name.
His feet refused to move.
I don’t have the right to grieve for her.
He stared down at the freshly turned earth and at the small headstone. “I…” he started to say, but the words died in the back of his throat and he fell silent.
He wanted to tell her how sorry he was, how he’d failed her, but no more words would come. He bowed his head, ashamed.
At least I wanted to say it, he thought. That’s a start, isn’t it?
He took a faltering step toward the grave, then stopped. From across the cemetery, the silent stone seemed to answer him back.
That’s not good enough, it said. Not even close.
Kopriva let the Corona slip from his fingers. The bottle fell to the grass with a thud. Warm beer foamed and spilled from the lip.
Below him, the little grave lay like a scar on the earth. Kopriva stared at it until the image was burned forever in his mind. Then he turned and shuffled away.
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Document ID: fbd-85c0eb-739f-8549-9392-7941-daac-6a973a
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Document creation date: 04.08.2013
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Frank Zafiro
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