Lethal Rage

by Brent Pilkey

  “Says he don’t like niggers. Right to my face, he says that! Damn little shitter. If I was ten years younger, I’da smacked him good.” Phil worked a rumpled cigarette pack from his shirt pocket. Jack felt sorry for him, watching him concentrate on making his gnarled fingers slide a cigarette out of the pack. Once he had it wedged firmly between his fingers and the pack safely in the pocket, Phil asked, “You fellers mind if’n I smoke?”

  “Not at all, Phil; it’s your home. Let me get that for you.” Sy produced a lighter and held the flame out for Phil’s cigarette.

  Phil leaned forward to meet the flame and Jack wasn’t sure which creaked more: his back or the chair. The cigarette tip danced erratically around the flame until Phil steadied it with a second hand. After several weak drags, the tip began glowing to his satisfaction and he eased back in the chair gratefully.

  Sy was patient through the cigarette-lighting ordeal. When Phil blew out a pitifully small plume of blue smoke, sighing contentedly, Sy continued with his questions. As he took down Phil’s particulars, Jack used his radio. “5106 for a check on a male.”

  “ 5106 , go ahead.”

  “Surname, Carlsberg, like the beer. Given, Jake. No date of birth, so run him between twenty-five and thirty-five. 10-4?”

  “10-4. Stand by.”

  Jack listened to the dispatcher hand out a couple of calls to other units. Then he heard, “5106, I have your return. Is the party nearby?”

  “Negative, dispatch. We haven’t gone to talk to him yet.”

  “Carlsberg, Jacob. DOB ’68-07-12. On file for mental instability, violence and suicidal tendencies. Accused: assault times two, awaiting disposition. 53 Division case. 10-4?”

  “Got it, dispatch. Any conditions to go with the assault charges?”

  “Must reside 35 Thorncliffe Park Drive; not to possess or consume alcohol. That’s it.”

  “Thanks, dispatch. Could we also have a SOCO attend here for victim photos?”

  “Is there a SOCO on the air in 51 ?” she voiced out.

  They waited, then, “5103, I’m just clearing the station. Who needs a SOCO?”

  As the dispatcher began to give 5103 details, Jack replaced his radio and turned to Sy and Phil. “Looks like our boy just moved into the division. We can add a fail to comply to the assault.”

  “The more the merrier.”

  “What’s soccer got to do with that little shitter?” Phil asked, squinting at Jack.

  “Soccer? Oh, SOCO. Saw-koe. Scenes of crime officer,” Jack explained. “An officer’s going to come by and take some photos of that lump under your eye.”

  “You fellers did’n say nothin’ ’bout me posin’ for no pictures.” Phil tapped ash from his cigarette into one of the heaped trays. “Shee-it. And I did’n shave or brush my hair or nothin’.” He ran a hand over his bald scalp and laughed. Or coughed. Or maybe both.

  “Don’t worry about that, Phil, you’re beautiful as you are. Now,” Sy began, his pen poised over his memo book, “while we’re waiting for the soccer, I’m going to take your statement. After that, my partner and I will go drag this Carlsberg coward off to jail. How’s that sound?”

  “Sounds mighty good t’me.”

  Jack listened with half an ear while Sy jotted the old man’s words in his book. According to Phil, Carlsberg had moved in a few weeks earlier and enjoyed terrorizing the other tenants, especially the man he called “the nigger.” Jack hated that word and wished he could solidify it and shove it down the throat of anyone who used it, especially against someone as defenceless as Phil. Jack was looking forward to meeting Carlsberg. Maybe the piece of shit would decide to fight.

  “So, I was havin’ a smoke out here with Bear when that little shitter — don’t write that, it don’t sound too good — when Carlsberg comes up t’me and says, ‘I’ve got something for you, nigger.’ Then he up and smacks me.”

  “Who’s Bear? A friend of yours?” Sy asked.

  “Friend? ’Course he’s my friend. Best friend I’ve got.” Phil looked around the deck, perplexed. “Now where’d that little bugger get to? Bear?” He cocked his head and aimed a shout at the yard. “Bear! C’mere, Bear!”

  There were shuffling and clicking noises at the back of the deck and a grey-haired and arthritic little dog hobbled into view, then shuffled over to Phil, his nails clicking on the wood of the deck. His legs may have been well past their prime, but his stubby tail beat enthusiastically as Phil reached down to scratch him tenderly behind the ears.

  “This here’s Bear, my best friend. He’s been with me nigh on fourteen years.” A tear glistened in Phil’s eye as he introduced his cherished companion.

  “Nice to meet you, Bear.” Sy reached out, but the dog shied away.

  “He’s a little timid ’round new folks,” Phil explained.

  “Me, too,” Sy said. “Let’s finish up this statement.”

  While Sy wrote, Jack squatted and softly coaxed Bear out from under Phil’s chair. The little guy — he had to be no more than fifteen pounds — hesitantly approached Jack’s hand and gave it a tentative sniff, then nuzzled Jack’s hand, asking for an ear scratch. Jack obliged gently.

  Phil looked shocked. “You must be special. Bear don’t normally take t’people like that.”

  “I’ve always had a way with dogs,” Jack answered, smiling down at Bear. “Why is he trembling, though? Is there something wrong with him?”

  “Oh, no. That little shitter took a kick at him. That’s why he’s shakin’ like that.”

  Sy’s pen and Jack’s fingers stopped simultaneously.

  Jack slowly looked at Phil and very carefully, very clearly, asked, “Kicked at him or kicked him?”

  “Kicked him,” Phil clarified. “When that shitter hit me, Bear went for his leg, but his teeth ain’t what they used t’be. That’s when that shitter kicked him.”

  Without looking at each other, Jack and Sy stood up. Sy tucked away his memo book and Jack pulled on his leather gloves, then flexed his fingers eagerly against the Kevlar lining. They headed for the hall. Over his shoulder, Sy said, “Wait here, Phil. We’ll be back in a minute.”

  They flanked Carlsberg’s door and Jack put his ear close to the wood. Faint sounds came through the door, footsteps and muffled words, but Jack heard only a single voice. He held up one finger and Sy nodded, then gestured for Jack to check the doorknob. It was locked.

  Jack unholstered his collapsed baton and slammed the butt against the wood several times in rapid succession. “Police! Open the door!” There was sudden silence from the apartment and Jack raised his stick to knock again.

  “What do you want?” a voice asked from the other side of the door.

  Sneaky little bastard. “Police. Open the door. Now.”

  “Open the door, Carlsberg, or we’ll fucking kick it in.” Sy looked pissed enough to chew through the door.

  Locks clacked and the door cracked open, stopped by a security chain. Through the hand-width gap, a suspicious face peered out at them. “What do you want?”

  “You,” Jack snarled and slammed his shoulder into the door. It flew open, striking Carlsberg in the face, and Jack kept going into the apartment with Sy right behind him. Carlsberg backpedalled, his hands clasped to his face. Sy and Jack each grabbed a wrist and wrenched Carlsberg’s arms down, then flung him to the floor.

  “What did I do? What did I do?” Carlsberg bleated as Jack snapped on the handcuffs.

  “Punched the old man and kicked his dog. Now shut the fuck up.” Jack hauled Carlsberg roughly to his feet and, while Sy held him, searched him quickly. He was a beefy enough guy to be intimidating, but there wasn’t much more than flab under his dirty T-shirt and jeans.

  “That dog attacked me! It’s vicious!” Carlsberg may have been a big man physically, but his voice squeaked like a coward’s. “The old nigger sicced it on me.”

  Sy’s open hand smacked off the back of Carlsberg’s head. “Use that word again, asshole, and I’ll put you in the fucking ho
spital.”

  Carlsberg stared at Sy, wide-eyed, probably imagining numerous injuries that could require a trip to the emergency. “You wouldn’t,” he whispered.

  Sy smiled.

  “No, he wouldn’t,” Jack said and Carlsberg looked relieved until Jack added, “we both would. Welcome to 51, fuckhead.”

  “So you just broke down his door?” Karen asked incredulously.

  She had waited up for him — an advantage of having a wife who had summers off. They were sitting on the deck again, but his old police shirt was in the wash and there were no cold beer bottles for her to play with. She still looked fantastic to him, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt — amazingly, the night air had a slight chill to it — with her hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  They were enjoying the coolness — no need to sleep with the ac on that night, thankfully — and a cup of tea before calling it a night. Karen was on a lounge chair with her legs stretched out; Jack sat on the stairs leading to the lawn. His free hand was casually rubbing her bare feet. He thought she would be happy, maybe even proud, about them arresting Carlsberg, but she wasn’t.

  “It’s not like we broke the door, Kare, just the chain.” Trust her not to see the positive side of the job.

  “I realize that.” He heard a hint of irritation in her voice. “But don’t you need a warrant or something before breaking into someone’s home? Even if it is just the chain?”

  “Technically, yes. But if we left to get a warrant, there’s no telling what he would have done while we were gone. And there’s no way a sergeant would have authorized us to guard the door until a warrant was obtained.”

  “It still seems wrong to me.” Karen drew her knees up to her chest, sliding her feet away from his touch.

  Great. Now she’s really pissed. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking. How to make her understand? “You should have seen this guy, Kare. Eighty-three years old, built like a toothpick, not bothering anyone, and this . . .” He searched for the right words to express his utter contempt for Carlsberg and decided blunt was best. “This fucking gutless coward comes out and sucker-punches him for no reason. Just because he knows Phil can’t fight back.”

  “I understand, but —”

  Jack held up a hand. He needed her to really understand. “After he knocks Phil down, and we’re lucky he didn’t break a hip or something, Carlsberg draws his foot back to lay the boots to him, and Bear defends his owner. Kare, you should have seen this dog. Fourteen years old, twenty pounds tops, so arthritic he can barely walk, and he goes after this guy to protect his owner.” Jack felt himself tearing up. Bear had made quite the impression on him. “If not for that dog, Carlsberg could have stomped Phil to death.”

  “Why did he stop?” Her voice was softer. Maybe she was beginning to understand.

  “Phil’s good luck. After Carlsberg kicked Bear across the deck, a couple more tenants came out, and I guess he didn’t want an audience. He beats up a defenceless old man and his dog and then hides behind his door when we arrive. I’m learning there’s a huge difference between what’s illegal and what’s wrong. So, please, don’t tell me what we did was wrong.”

  She sat quietly, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He knew she was thinking it over, trying to overcome the logical, straightforward, black-and-white world she had been raised in. He admired her, sitting quietly, sipping his tea while she reached a decision.

  Finally, she got up and sat beside him on the steps. She wrapped an arm around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Sorry. Guess I’ve still got a lot to learn about being a policeman’s wife.”

  He laughed. “Not as much as I have to learn about being a cop.” He slipped an arm around her. “Want to hear some more news?”

  She straightened, a comically horrified look on her face. “It doesn’t involve you breaking down a door, does it?”

  “No.” Jack laughed. “Well, maybe. Remember the drug dealer I chased back on day shift?”

  It was her turn to laugh. “You mean the one who got away from you twice?” For some reason, she still found that story amusing.

  “Yes,” he replied dryly. “And, technically, he only got away from me once. Anyway, he was dealing that new crack, the black stuff, and when the Major Crime boys talked to him, he gave up some information. So, Saturday they’re doing a search warrant, and Sy and I are going with them.”

  “It isn’t dangerous, is it?”

  Jack shrugged. “Guess we won’t know till we get there. But don’t worry. There’ll be plenty of us and these guys know what they’re doing. Sy says they’re bringing us along as a thank-you for the arrest and to have a uniform presence there. That’s all. I bet we won’t even be allowed in the house or whatever it is we’re going to.”

  “So you’re not the one breaking down the door?” she persisted, really concerned.

  “I wish, but there’s no way they’ll let that happen.”

  “Good. Not that I don’t think you could do it.” She felt up his chest. “The way you’ve been working out with Simon, you could probably push it open with one hand.” The caressing hand started poking his chest. “You’re not going to get all big and bulky like a bodybuilder, are you?”

  “Again, I wish.”

  “I’m serious, Jack. I don’t want you getting too big. I like the size you are now. You’re more of a Stallone than a Schwarzenegger.”

  “Wow, you didn’t sleep through those movies when we were dating after all. I’m shocked. Next you’ll be telling me you enjoyed them.”

  “Let’s not go that far.” She stood up, stretching. “Come on, Rocky, let’s call it a night.”

  “Right behind you, babe.” Following her across the deck, he added, “You know, I’ve always seen myself as more of a Terminator than a Rocky.”

  Saturday, 19 August

  1400 hours

  “Terminator, huh? Did you tell her ‘Ah’ll be back’ when you left for work today?”

  “Nah. I don’t think Karen would have gotten the reference.”

  Sy snorted. “Typical woman. No taste in movies.”

  They were sitting in the station’s basement parade room, down the hall from the change rooms. The room held five rows of metal tables and chairs facing the sergeants’ wood lectern, but Jack and Sy were the only ones there. The lights were off, but sharp summer light slanted in from the windows near the ceiling, fighting the air conditioning for control of the room.

  “I hope we don’t end up standing outside somewhere while the Major Crime guys search the building. It’s too damn hot out there.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you,” Sy commented. He had his feet up on a table and was reclining comfortably in one of the few decent chairs in the room.

  “Oh? What do you know that I don’t?”

  Sy snorted again. “That list would take years to read, grasshopper. But if you’re referring to the warrant —”

  “Hey, sexy! No one said I was going to get to work with you today.” Jenny strolled into the room and Jack forgot about the warrant. Even in the unflattering uniform shorts, her legs looked good. Long, tanned and nicely curved with feminine muscle, they had him thinking about what she would look like out of uniform. Completely out of uniform.

  Jenny was tall for a woman. Jack figured she would look him straight in the eye were she ever to hug him. Slender but not skinny, she carried herself well as she crossed the room. Hopping up on the table next to Sy’s feet, she flashed Jack a smile that was even better than her legs. The first time they had met, down at Queen and Sherbourne, she had been wearing sunglasses and a bike helmet and he hadn’t gotten a good look at her face. Now he soaked it in from only two tables away. Her eyes were a sharp, crystal blue and her hair, done up in a French braid, was raven black, a vibrant contrast to her eyes.

  Damn. If I wasn’t married. . . . Then he noticed the gold band on her ring finger. Lucky bastard.

  “You should know I’m pissed at you,” Sy announced, glaring at
Jenny but not bothering to sit up.

  “Me? What did I do?” She looked completely innocent and shocked.

  “Don’t give me that look. I taught it to you, remember? You were supposed to come out for beers on day shift, but you never showed. I was even going to buy you one.”

  “Actually, I think you said Jack was going to buy me one for you.”

  “That’s right. So we’re both mad at you.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I went home to look after the kids —” Damn! Kids too! “— and was planning to head down, but I was just too tired.” Jenny slid off the table provocatively — Jack never knew anyone could move provocatively in a police uniform — and swayed her way behind Sy’s chair. She traced her fingers up his arms, then began to knead his shoulders. “What can I do to make it up to you?” she purred.

  “I’ll think of something,” Sy grumbled. He wilted under her touch.

  It was too much for Jack. “Hey,” he protested. “Don’t forget I’m mad at you too.”

  “Forget it, grasshopper. She’s mine. You can work on your own today.”

  “Don’t get him too excited, he’s liable to have a heart attack.” Detective Mason came into the room and headed for the lectern, sparing only a glance at Sy and Jenny.

  “I can think of worse ways to go.”

  Sy reminded Jack of an old bulldog lying in a sunbeam, luxuriating in the warmth. “Like getting shot by some crackhead ’cause you slept through the briefing?”

  “Oh, bloody hell.” Sy patted Jenny’s hand. “We’ll have to finish up another time, love.”

  She walked to a chair, shaking her head. “Typical man. Gets what he wants and leaves me hanging.”

  “If I may interrupt this little lovers’ tryst . . .” Mason said. “Wasn’t I supposed to get four of you from the Foot?” The big detective’s brow furrowed beneath his cropped hair as he gave her an accusing look, as if the missing officers were her fault.

  “The guys are upstairs finishing lunch.”

  Muttering to himself, Mason crossed to the wall-mounted phone and punched the code for the PA system, then spoke loudly into the receiver. “Any lazy bastards who are supposed to be in the parade room for a briefing better get their asses down here before I decide to replace them with some competent officers.” He slammed the phone down.