by Frank Zafiro
She detected the slight slur in his voice then. He’d been drinking and probably made the call after the bars closed. She knew that was how he’d been spending his time since he took a medical retirement from the police department. Drinking and feeling sorry for himself. And now he wanted to drag her into it.
No way.
The message ended and the machine beeped. Katie pressed the DELETE button.
He was a coward. That was the conclusion she’d reached in the year or so since his departure. Sure, he’d been shot up physically. And sure, he made a tragic mistake that cost a little girl her life. But he acted as if he were the only one on the job who experienced pain or who ever failed. In doing so, he belittled everyone else’s experiences.
She flashed to the Post Street Bridge and the image of a mentally unstable man dangling his infant son over the edge of the bridge. The rush of impending doom flooded her chest. She saw herself standing helpless, pleading with the man.
Katie bit her lip.
“Goddamn you, Stef,” she whispered. “Don’t call me any more.”
She walked into the bathroom and turned on the hot water. Maybe she needed a shower after all.
0721 hours
Officer Thomas Chisolm tried to sprint the final block of his run, but his tired legs and aching lungs wouldn’t cooperate. He managed to work up to a long-striding lope as he finished off his five miles, then slowed to a walk in front of his home. Hands on his hips, he walked in large circles around the front yard, slowing his breathing and letting his legs cool down.
Mornings were melancholy times for him. Sometimes he had thoughts of Scarface, the robber he’d killed. Other times, memories of Vietnam crept back in to his consciousness, forcing their way out of the shallow graves in his mind.
Like Bobby Ramirez.
Or Mai.
He needed sleep. That’s all it was. Some water, a hot shower and sleep.
As his breath slowed, he turned on the water in his front yard and drank from the hose. The city water had a slight metallic tang to it, but he took a deep draught before turning the spigot off.
Chisolm made his way up the short, concrete steps and removed his house key from his sock. Unlocking the door, he went inside, tossing the key on the kitchen table. A hot shower was calling to him.
As he walked past the refrigerator, a picture taped to the front caught his attention. An attractive, dark-haired woman stared out of the photograph at him. She had a smile on her face but her eyes were slightly sad. They’d always had that hint of sadness, as long as he’d known her.
Sylvia.
He’d intended to remove the photo over two years ago, but never remembered to do it. He didn’t bother with it now, reasoning that the shower was more pressing. He almost fooled himself into believing that as he walked out of the kitchen and toward the bathroom.
Thomas Chisolm refused to think of her, concentrating instead on what he had to accomplish after he woke up and before going to work tonight. If he opened up the door to memories, far too many would come unbidden. Especially in the mornings.
“Regret is a luxury you can’t afford,” he told his reflection.
We live in a world of broken promises, he added silently. And life is full of failure.
Chisolm undressed and took his shower. He turned the hot water up until the searing heat was as hot as he could stand. Despite admonishing himself to forget about Sylvia, he allowed himself to brood a little more as the water cascaded down on his head. He knew that if he stopped thinking about her, there was another memory standing in line behind her.
Stop chasing ghosts. Just stop.
0938 hours
Lieutenant Alan Hart drummed his fingers on the desktop. The rhythmic thud echoed through the empty office.
He stared down at the file in front of him, his eyes skipping over the words in the report that he’d already read three times and nearly had memorized.
According to the report, Officer James Kahn drove through the Life’s Bean Good coffee stand several times a night. He bought coffee each time, tipped generously, and asked the nineteen-year-old barista out on a date. She reported being flattered at first, then uncomfortable with his advances. When she told her boyfriend about it, he made her call in a complaint.
Identifying Kahn had been no problem. Skirt chasers were common enough, but Kahn gave the barista his business card with his cell phone number on the back. He insisted she call him by his first name. Besides that, when she came into the office, Hart directed her to the picture wall that held every officer’s photo but no names. She immediately pointed right at Kahn’s picture.
Hart flipped the page and read the transcript.
Question: How often did the officer visit your place of business?
Answer: Two or three times a day, at least.
Question: Did he buy something each time?
Answer: Yes.
Question: Did he ask you out on a date each time?
Answer: No, but more than once. And he flirted with me a lot.
Question: Did you ever feel afraid of him?
Answer: No.
Question: Threatened? Unsafe?
Answer: No. I just didn’t want to go out with him.
Question: Did his demeanor ever change when you turned him down?
Answer: Not really. He just smiled and kept trying.
Hart sighed and closed the file. He’d been assigned to Internal Affairs for almost a year and here he was, reduced to investigating some patrol cop trying to get laid. That wasn’t why he took the job.
He glanced around the empty office and smirked. When the Chief decided to assign a lieutenant to Internal Affairs, he pulled out all four of the previously assigned detectives. Hart had no support staff and even had to type his own reports. He knew the Chief did it as a form of punishment, but he refused to let it get to him. He might be banished from patrol and investigations, but he still intended to have an impact on the department.
Kahn’ file stared up at him. He snatched it up and replaced it in his active cases drawer. What a waste of time. The worst the guy would get is a verbal reprimand from his sergeant and told to stay away from Life’s Bean Good. He’d just go find another barista. There was a coffee stand on every corner in River City.
Besides, these cases were a smokescreen. They had to be. Hart knew there were things happening out there that he needed to find. Cops stealing. Faking evidence. Beating people. Just because River City was nestled in Eastern Washington, right in the center of the Pacific Northwest, didn’t mean there wasn’t corruption. Maybe not New York or Los Angeles level corruption, but Hart knew it was out there. The cops were covering for each other, that was all.
They thought they were so smart.
But Hart knew they weren’t as smart as him.
1122 hours
Patricia Reno wished there were an easier way to get thin. Jogging was too painful.
She’d started jogging almost a month before, finally tired of the weight that never came off after Joshua, her second son, was born. Sit-ups, she discovered, did not burn fat and she couldn’t afford a gym membership, so she took up jogging.
As her feet thudded heavily on the pavement, she felt her thighs and belly jiggle. Her breasts flopped uncomfortably. She vowed for the tenth time to buy a sports bra. At least she was starting to notice a little difference in her body. She was now able to just squeeze into clothes she’d worn early in her pregnancy.
If only her husband, Roger, would notice.
Patricia's breath labored in and out of her lungs, but she no longer experienced the ragged throat sensation that she had for the first week. Her wind had improved quickly. That made it easier for her to avoid smoking again. She’d quit the day she learned she was pregnant and hadn't started back up yet, but it was hard. Especially since Roger smoked like a chimney.
She spotted the small park less than a block away. As soon as she ran through that, she would only be five blocks from home. That meant four blocks
of running, one block of walking to cool down.
Despite the discomfort, Patricia found that she was beginning to enjoy her daily run. She still struggled with it too much to have a chance to think while running, but with two kids to worry about, the solitude was nice. So was the sense of accomplishment. She hadn't stopped during a run since that first week.
The air became cooler as she entered the park and ran along the twisting trail that led into the small wooded area. The tree roots and turns of the trail forced her to adjust her gait. That nearly killed her three weeks ago, but now she did so much more fluidly and deliberately. She watched the ground, not wanting to trip on the damp earth.
She caught a flash of movement, but before her mind could register and identify it, someone forced a towel into her face. A strong arm encircled her waist and carried her several yards before she felt herself hurled to the ground. A hard heavy body fell on top of her. She lay on her back with her right forearm pinned under the small of her back.
The towel restricted her air. She panicked and flailed frantically with her free left hand, struggling to breathe. The cloth slid up, exposing her mouth. She took a deep, ragged breath. An iron hand clamped over her mouth.
“If you scream, I’ll lay the whammo on you.” A male voice rasped in her ear. “Understand?”
Patricia lay still, stunned.
He jerked her head powerfully. “I said, do you understand?”
Patricia nodded, whimpering beneath his hand.
“Good.”
The hand came away from her mouth and Patricia sucked in a grateful breath. He tugged at her waistband, sliding her sweats and panties down over her knees.
Should I resist?
She gulped more air.
Will he kill me?
He pulled her clothing over her running shoes and tossed them aside. She heard them land on a bush, a moment's rustle, then still.
There was a long pause. She heard paper tearing.
Should I beg? Or just be quiet and let him do it?
How could this be happening to me?
She gasped in pain as he thrust inside her forcefully.
“Oh, my sweet little bitch,” he moaned in her ear, thrusting slowly.
Patricia began to cry softly.
“Unnnnh, Unnnnh,” he moaned, pulling the towel more tightly across her face.
Patricia tried to stop crying, but instead she broke into a sob.
He stopped.
She thought for a moment that it had been her crying that made him stop, that it touched him or even enraged him. She stopped crying, quivering as she waited. He lay across her with the dead weight of a spent man. That was when she realized he was done.
After a few moments, he pulled out of her and rolled her onto her stomach. Panic surged through her again. When he pulled the towel from her head, she sighed in relief.
“Don't look up,” he told her gruffly.
She wouldn't. She never wanted to see his face. If she did she would be dreaming of it every night for the rest of her life.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he growled at her. “Or I will find you again and I will lay the whammo on you.”
“I won’t,” she whimpered.
He gave her a shove in the back of the head to reinforce his warning. She took it with a small cry. Then she lay still, breathing in the humid, earthy smell of the damp soil and pine needles.
What is Roger going to say?
When she was sure he was gone, she fumbled with her clothing, lifting them from the damp earth. Numbly, she pulled her panties and sweats over her running shoes. Then she rose on wobbly legs and stumbled home to call the police.
1314 hours
“Adam-254?” Janice Koslowski’s dispatch voice was pleasantly female.
Officer Anthony Giovanni reached for the mike. “Go ahead. I’m at Wellesley and Division.”
“Deaconess Hospital for a rape report. Contact Charge Nurse for victim info. Deaconess for a rape report.”
Gio keyed the mike. “Copy.” Then he muttered, “Thanks a lot, Janice.”
A rape report. That meant a long interview, a long report and then he had to put the rape kit on property. The rape kit was a real pain in the ass, too, requiring some swabs to be placed in the drying room, some blood vials in the refrigerator and some property in the property bins. Gio looked at his watch. It was 1314 hours. This would definitely take him into overtime.
He drove past Franklin Park, wondering for a moment why a south side unit hadn’t been dispatched. Deaconess Hospital was clear on the other side of downtown. The answer came to him almost immediately, though. The rape must have happened on the north side, so a north side unit got sent.
As he dropped down the Division Hill and headed downtown, he did a little bit of quick figuring. Even with the rape kit, he should be done with the call before it got to be too late. Besides, the girl he was seeing that afternoon didn’t get off until three or so. That’d leave him plenty of time to get home, shower and change, rape report or not. And if he didn’t, he figured the girl would wait.
The girl, he thought. Melanie. Or Mallory. Whatever it was. She’d wait.
Six minutes later, he pulled into Deaconess, parking in a slot marked for emergency vehicles only. Before exiting the patrol car, he gathered up his face sheet for the report and a steno pad from his bag. Rape reports needed to be detailed and details were easier to write in a steno pad than the small pocket notepad all officers carried in their breast pocket.
The white-shirted security guard gave him a professional nod as he walked through the sliding doors to the emergency room. Gio nodded back with a small grin, ignoring the metal detector that loomed over fully half the entryway. He could hear the creak of his leather equipment as he walked up to the front desk.
“Charge nurse?” he asked the frumpy, gray-haired R.N. that sat behind the admissions desk doing paperwork. When she looked up, he gave her his best Giovanni hello smile.
The R.N. was unmoved. “No, I’m the Admissions nurse,” she said in a clipped tone. “Are you here for the rape victim?”
Gio nodded.
The R.N. pointed at an open door with a number three hanging above it. “She just finished the exam. Should be about thirty or forty minutes before they have the kit ready for you.”
“Thanks,” Gio said, still smiling.
The nurse gave him a curt nod and returned to her paperwork.
Gio walked to the room. Past the open door was a drawn curtain, providing privacy to the patient in the bed. He paused just inside the entryway. “Uh, ma’am?”
“Yes?” Her voice sounded small.
“Police officer, ma’am. Are you dressed?”
“Yes.”
Gio pushed the light curtain aside and stepped in. He saw a woman about thirty seated on the small bed. Her sandy brown hair was tousled and she wore a pale blue hospital gown. She watched Gio with a hint of shame in her expression.
He felt a flash of guilt for his earlier reaction to getting this call. Yeah, he might be a little late for a date that he wasn’t even going remember a month from now, but that was nothing compared to what this woman had just gone through.
“I’m Officer Giovanni, ma’am.”
She gave him a shaky nod.
Gio smiled softly. “If you want, you can call me Gio.”
The woman took a wavering breath. “Okay. Gio.” She said the word tentatively, as if she were trying it out. “Gio.”
“Can I get your name, ma’am?”
“I’m Patricia,” she answered, her voice still soft. “Patricia Reno.”
Gio noticed the tremor in her voice despite its soft tone. He moved slowly towards the bedside, then stopped. “Do you mind if I stand next to you?” he asked her.
Patricia looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “That’d be fine.”
“Thanks,” Gio said. He moved next to her bedside. Aware that a rape victim had experienced the ultimate loss of control during the assault, he always tried to
find ways to restore some measure of control to their lives as quickly as possible. “Do you like to be called Patricia?” he asked. “Or Pat? Or is Mrs. Reno best?”
“Patricia,” she answered. “I go by Patricia.”
Gio still made no effort to open his steno pad. “Is it all right if I call you that?”
“Sure,” she said. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” Gio said. After a short pause, he continued. “Ma’am, I understand you were assaulted.”
Patricia nodded slowly, looking away. Her lip quivered. “He... I was raped.”
“Do you know who did this?”
She shook her head.
“When did this happen?”
“About forty minutes before I came up here, I guess.”
Gio opened his pad and noted the time frame.
“Where did this happen, ma’am?”
She let out a long, wavering sigh. “In a park, about five blocks from my house. I don’t know the name.”
“That’s all right. Where do you live?”
She told him her address. Gio wrote it down.
“Was it possibly Corbin Park?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “I know that one. It’s a little park. With some trees...”
Gio nodded. He knew which park she meant. It was about three blocks north of Corbin, just below the hill. He’d have to look up the name on his map.
“That’s good. That will help a lot,” Gio said in an encouraging voice. “Now, do you remember where in the park this happened?”
She took another wavering breath. “There’s a spot on the trail where there’s a break in the bushes. About in the middle of the park. I was running towards my house. It happened there.”
“Okay.” Gio smiled warmly. “Patricia, I am going to call the detectives and send them down there to see if they can find any evidence. Then I’ll be right back to talk with you about the rest of what happened. Will it be all right with you if I take some notes?”
“That’s fine. Could I call my husband, though?”
Gio nodded. “Of course. Or I can call him for you, if you like.”
