by Frank Zafiro
Westboard whipped through the empty restaurant parking lot, lighting up the car from the front. A single, white female sat in the passenger seat, her eyes wide with surprise and terror. He recognized her immediately as a skinny version of the woman in the photo from the driver’s license that had been found lying next to Karl Winter. He also noticed that the driver’s rear window was rolled down, even though the front window was up.
Westboard gave his location to channel two and requested a thirteen as soon as Kopriva’s scene was secure. He exited his patrol car smoothly and took a knee at his vehicle’s front tire. In one fluid motion, he rested his elbows on the hood of his car and pointed his gun directly at the woman in the car. Westboard put his laser sight right on her forehead. He decided he would give her one warning, which was one more than Karl got.
“Do not move,” he yelled over the sound of his rotators. “Keep your hands on the steering wheel or I will blow your head off.”
The small field to the south of the Circle K should have been an easy escape route for James Mace. All he had to do was run three short blocks and he could hop into the trunk through the rigged back seat of the car.
But it wasn’t as easy as that when you’ve been shot.
He’d staggered a few feet after letting go of the store wall. Then he had fallen.
Never quit, he had told himself.
Once a Ranger, always a Ranger.
He crawled, pulling with his arms, pushing with his legs. The paper bag tore and he knew some of the money was falling from his grasp, but enough remained. Enough to get some underground medical attention and still get a fix.
He moved another two feet, paused, breathing. He hoped Carla kept her cool and waited.
The sirens were very close, all around now.
Never quit, he muttered soundlessly and continued to crawl.
Chisolm rounded the corner, gun in hand. He saw no running figures and no trees to hide behind.
He followed the blood smears down the wall several yards, where they ended. He turned to the south and spotted a police car in the distance, rotating blue and red lights and a flood of white.
Did they have him up there?
Chisolm took several steps, then saw the drag marks in the grass. He hesitated, remembering ‘Nam and the ambush at Bai-trang in the Mekong Delta. He’d followed those drag marks for over a mile before finding the wounded sniper. He hadn’t seen any need for interrogation, not after having watched Bobby Ramirez’s head explode right next to him and shower him with his best friend’s blood. With a crazed smile on his face, he’d pumped all eight rounds from his.45 into that VC’s head.
The drag marks went due south.
Chisolm followed them as he squeezed the gun in his hand.
Katie MacLeod screeched to a stop and exited her car, weapon drawn. She surveyed the scene and saw the handcuffed suspect.
Then she saw Kopriva, still and unmoving.
James Mace knew he was going to make it now. His bleeding had slowed, almost stopped, and he felt strong enough to make it to the car.
Go, Ranger! Never quit!
He kept crawling.
The grass, swaying with the early morning breeze, still showed traces of blood as Chisolm tracked the injured man. The blood appeared black in pre-dawn light combined with distant street lights, but flared red when his flashlight illuminated the thin streaks in the grass. He could tell by the drag marks that the suspect was not frantic yet, that he kept a cool head. Chisolm pointed his weapon ahead of himself, always at the threat.
He passed a black wig and kept walking.
Stray, crumpled bills marked the trail. He followed, his jaw set.
Twenty yards from the edge of the field, over two blocks from the store, Chisolm spotted him. He moved slowly now, but steadily, always forward. He clutched a wad of bills tightly in his left hand. The right hand was empty, grasping at the ground in front of him and pulling.
Unarmed.
Maybe.
Chisolm thought for a moment.
Probably. He’d seen the gun back at the store.
Chisolm holstered his pistol and slid his flashlight into its holder. The blood streaks were smaller now, almost nonexistent in the suspect’s trail. The bleeding had almost stopped and Scarface was still moving… which meant he would probably live.
Which meant he would stand trial. And possibly be acquitted.
This sonofabitch gunned down Winter! Chisolm felt a surge of rage. He reached for his pistol, but stopped. He couldn’t shoot an unarmed man. All the wounds the robber had were from Kopriva’s gun. There would be no justification for Chisolm to shoot.
Gun dropped back at the scene. .
Chisolm made his decision in an instant. He moved as soundlessly as possible up behind the suspect and fell upon him.
Katie took Kopriva’s hand and squeezed it as hard as she could. “Stef?”
She thought for sure he was dead until he groaned and weakly opened his eyes.
“Stef? It’s all right.” She squeezed his hand again. “I’m here. It’s Katie.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m here.”
Chisolm drove his knee downward toward the nape of the suspect’s neck. He was rewarded with a sickening snap. The man went motionless.
Chisolm grabbed a handful of hair and rotated the man’s neck. The floppy, circular motion told him all he needed to know. He took a deep breath and yelled, “Police! Don’t move! Don’t resist!”
Forcing the suspect’s limp hands behind his back, Chisolm keyed his mike.
“Adam-112, I’ve got a suspect at the south edge of the field-” he let the mike button up and counted two seconds. “He’s resisting.” He let the button up again and cuffed the dead suspect with his second pair of cuffs.
His report would read that the suspect had resisted arrest as he attempted prone-cuffing. Everyone in the department knew that prone-cuffing was the proper procedure to use with a dangerous felon. Sometimes the felon was injured.
He keyed the mike, forcing himself to breathe heavily as he spoke. “Adam-112, one in custody. I’ll need medics here, too. Injured suspect.”
Radio copied his transmission. Chisolm looked down at the motionless suspect.
Sometimes the felon even died.
Chisolm thought about Bobby Ramirez and he thought about Karl Winter and he resisted the urge to kick the unmoving robber until there was nothing recognizable left.
Kopriva slowly blinked. He tried to say her name but could only mouth it.
“I’m here, Stef,” she told him over and over. “I’m here.”
The sound of her voice gave him strength, and he held her hand tightly. Medics arrived and worked on him at a frenetic pace, tearing and cutting clothing, bandaging, applying pressure. Kopriva would not let go of her hand, and she seemed to be doing her best to stay out of the medic’s way as she held his grip.
A second ambulance arrived and began to work on Morris. He heard medics ask her to unlock the handcuffs. She handed them her cuff key, refusing to leave Kopriva’s side. He stared at her as they slid him onto a backboard, ignoring everything around him. She walked with him to the ambulance and got inside with them. His eyes never left hers, oblivious to the work the medics were doing. He didn’t feel the I.V. go in, didn’t see anything they did to him.
The ambulance doors slammed shut and he heard two hard taps on the back door. The ambulance lurched forward. The medics did not pause in their efforts.
He continued to stare at her until everything melted into a gray mist and his eyes closed.
TWELVE
Friday, September 2nd
Day Shift
0603 hours
The police officer sat in his living room, staring at the television but not seeing it. The service pistol in his right hand felt heavy, but his grip on it was firm.
Several art books adorned his coffee table. He wondered fleetingly if any of his co-workers or family knew about his knowledge when it came to the subject of art. Pro
bably not. Everyone thought they knew exactly who and what he was, when in reality they had no idea at all.
Just as she had no idea.
He found it oddly humorous that he sat alone in his living room holding a gun, and it was a woman who had eventually put him here.
“Who the fuck cares?” he grumbled, staring at the white ceiling above him. He thought of Da Vinci, of Giotto, of Botticelli. He thought of Michelangelo. He wondered how they would have felt about modern art.
Well, he would create a masterpiece for them to ponder.
He put the gun under his chin, closed his eyes and painted the ceiling red.
1257 hours
Lt. Robert Saylor rubbed his eyes, trying to remember the last time he’d slept. Well, after he prepared the press release, he could go home and get a few hours of sleep before he had to come back for the night shift.
What a night. At least Kopriva would make it. The doctors said that Chisolm’s light tourniquet probably kept him from bleeding out.
Chisolm. He saved Kopriva and managed to catch Scarface, now identified as James R. Mace. Kopriva’s shots hit him twice in the belly, but Mace still crawled away. According to Chisolm’s report, Mace had struggled when Chisolm tried to cuff him. He told Saylor with a straight face that he’d been unaware that the man’s neck was broken until medics had told him.
Saylor decided that Chisolm was telling the truth. Even if he wasn’t.
Matt Westboard caught the accomplice only a block and a half from where Chisolm found Scarface. He took her straight to Major Crimes, where she spilled everything. Westboard had confirmed hearing Chisolm’s commands and the struggle with Mace, but he hadn’t actually seen anything because he’d been covering the accomplice.
Units were scouring the city for T-Dog, Morris’ accomplice, and an arrest warrant had been issued based on Kopriva’s radio traffic. Detective Browning showed the injured officer a photo line-up as soon as the kid woke up. Kopriva identified Trellis, positively.
Later, Saylor informed Kopriva that Morris remained on the operating table and that he may or may not make it. Either way, he would be a cripple. Kopriva hadn’t even tried to suppress a smile before he’d gone back to sleep and the doctor ushered Saylor out of the hospital room.
The lieutenant felt bad for Kopriva. Before he even had a chance to recover from his wounds, the newspaper would question his actions in scathing editorials. Worse yet, Internal Affairs had to begin their mandatory investigation. And the questions they asked were never pleasant.
Saylor wrote his press release carefully, only giving away what information he knew he had to release to satisfy the media.
Goddamn piranhas, he groused.
He’d almost finished when the phone rang.
1428 hours
Anthony Giovanni and Mark Ridgeway stood at the door of Sergeant David Poole’s residence. Technically, because it was a crime scene, one of them should have been in the rear, guarding the back door, but Ridgeway locked the back door from the inside and came around front. Neither man wanted to be left alone while the County detectives investigated the death of a City officer.
Lieutenant Hart had left moments earlier and both men were appalled at his lack of emotion. He’d behaved the same way as on any dozen other suicide scenes. Officious and overbearing, he talked to Gio and Ridgeway as if they were rookies who didn’t know how to secure a crime scene. If he’d known that no one was guarding the back door now, it would’ve tipped him right over the edge.
They were glad for his presence, however, when the media arrived in force. He quickly extended the crime scene out to the middle of the residential street. This allowed only one lane of traffic, which the media vehicles could not block. With all the County cars parked on Poole’s side of the road, the closest media vehicle set up shop almost a block away.
They were even happier for Hart’s presence when Sherrie, Poole’s ex-wife, arrived and tried to enter the house. Hart escorted her away from the scene. She’d been distraught, which was understandable, but it had surprised both of them. Everyone knew she’d divorced Sergeant Poole for another man.
Neither Gio nor Ridgeway said anything, but both knew what the other was thinking. Suicide. The policeman’s disease. Both suspected the other had probably sat in his own living room and stared at the black metal sitting on the table in front of him. Sat and stared and thought. Thought of the woman he had lost. How much of himself he had lost. In her and in the job.
Both wondered if the other had tasted the cool metal that smelled of gunpowder and lubricant. Had his finger slipped into the trigger guard? Had it touched the trigger? Had he shut his eyes, silent tears streaming down his face and wondered what waited on the other side? Was it courage or cowardice that made him release the trigger and set the gun back down with a shaking hand?
Both men considered these questions in silence and waited.
County Sheriff’s detectives conducted their investigation. The meticulous process began with photos of the exterior of the house, and worked slowly inward to the scene.
Gio and Ridgeway stood by uncomfortably.
“I wonder if he left a note,” Gio pondered, but Ridgeway didn’t answer.
1445 hours
Hospital. Kopriva recognized the antiseptic smells and the subdued, bustling sounds. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Light streamed through his window, warm sunshine on his face.
It felt good.
He tilted his head slightly. Katie sat at his bedside. Tired worry lines creased her face, but they washed away when she smiled at him.
He smiled back, realizing then that she still held his hand.
“Hey,” he croaked and tried to smile.
“Hey,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “You gave me quite a scare, Stef.”
“Scared me, too.” His throat went dry. He thought about asking for some water, but wanted to look at her a moment longer.
She met his gaze and smiled with warm eyes.
1516 hours
“Blood pressure?” The doctor asked, knowing he was losing this one. The patient had already endured a surgery earlier in the day, which had been successful enough to keep him from dying immediately. This second surgery was supposed to keep him from dying at all.
The nurse’s answer confirmed what he knew. Too much damage. In the kidney and in the liver, shards of metal were everywhere.
He stepped away from the patient, listening to the long moments between beeps on the heart monitor turn into a steady tone. He sighed as he removed his gloves.
“Time?”
“1517,” responded a nurse.
“Note it. And turn that monitor off.”
The doctor silently cursed guns, bullets and those who manufactured them. He remained silent as he slipped off the bloody latex gloves and threw them away. He didn’t know what religion Isaiah Morris adhered to, if any, but he had no wish to profane the moment of the man’s exit from this world.
1637 hours
“Is that all, then?” Ridgeway asked the detective.
“Yeah, just lock the front door for us and we’re done.” The detective held several paper bags of evidence taken from inside the house. “Listen, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
The County detective left. Ridgeway locked the front door and turned to face Giovanni.
“I have to put the keys on property,” the older officer said.
“Okay.”
“You want to meet me at Duke’s afterwards?”
“Definitely,” Gio answered, nodding.
“See you there, then.”
1708 hours
Katie’s lips pressed lightly against Kopriva’s temple. He closed his eyes and soaked in the softness and warmth of her lips and the slight scent of sweat and vanilla on her skin. When he heard footsteps and the rustle of a curtain, his eyes snapped open.
Katie started in surprise and pulled her head away. Kopriva glanced at her and saw her cheeks flush.
The nurse on
ly smiled.
“That is the best medicine I know of, girl,” she told them. “Love, love, love.”
THIRTEEN
Friday, September 2nd, 1994
1916 hours
End of Tour
Johnny poured three quick shots and lifted them onto Rachel’s tray. The atmosphere at Duke’s was familiar, but he noticed a strange buzz in the crowd. By now, Johnny had heard about Poole and he imagined the sergeant’s death had something to do with the way patrons were acting. Some of the regulars knew, too, and they sat and conversed quietly, leaving the cops alone as they entered.
Chisolm had come first, taking a spot at the end of the bar. Johnny knew his drink and brought it without being asked. He noticed that Chisolm seemed neither depressed nor jovial and wondered if the man ever reached the depths of either emotion.
Ridgeway and Giovanni came in next and forwent their usual table to join Chisolm at the bar. Johnny served them as well, again asking no questions. In contrast to Chisolm, both men seemed solemn.
When Katie MacLeod, Matt Westboard and Will Reiser arrived, the group moved to the large table in the corner. Johnny kept Rachel busy bringing them drinks and wished he hadn’t sent the new girl home for the day.
“Johnny!” Ridgeway’s barked from across the room, his voice slightly slurred. “I want you to meet the man who captured the notorious Scarface Robber.” He paused a moment, then continued. “Wait a minute. You didn’t catch him, did you, Tom? You killed him. Sorry.” The group laughed.
Ridgeway turned back to the bartender. “Never mind, Johnny.”
Johnny was used to the gallows humor. He smiled and waved from behind the bar.
Chisolm shook his head. “You’re just jealous,” he told Ridgeway, setting up his favorite joke.
“Why?” Ridgeway played into the old line, even though he’d heard it dozens of times. “Because I don’t have to get grilled by IA and then sued by that scumbag robber’s family?”
