RCC01 - Under a Raging Moon

by Frank Zafiro

  “Tell me about the man you killed, officer.”

  The officer looked up then, steel and fury in his eyes. “He tried to kill me. He’s dead. What else do you want to know?”

  EIGHT

  Tuesday, August 23rd

  Day Shift

  1614 hours

  Karl Winter tucked his shirt into his pants and buckled his belt. The jangling sound carried in the quiet locker room. Winter had caught a late DV call that turned into a huge mess. He’d only just finished the paperwork. As he changed, he’d been watching Sgt. David Poole, who sat on the long bench that ran down the center of the aisle between the lockers. He’d been there when Winter walked in at the end of the shift. He continued to sit and stare at his open locker, completely lost in thought, the entire time Winter changed his clothes only five lockers away.

  “Sarge?” Winter finally said. “You okay?”

  Poole turned slowly to face him but didn’t answer.

  Winter’s eyes narrowed with concern.

  “Dave?”

  “I’m fine, Karl.” Poole answered in a dry, croaking voice. “Just tired. Lots of reports to read at the end of shift.”

  Winter knew that was a lie but decided not to push too hard. “Sorry. Mine was one of them. Listen, the guys went over to Duke’s for choir practice right after shift. Throw back a few beers, you know?”

  “Good,” Poole said in an empty tone.

  Winter cleared his throat. “Uh, they’re probably still there. I’m headed over as soon as I get changed. You want to come along?”

  Poole shook his head wordlessly and returned to staring at his locker.

  Winter stood uncomfortably for a long moment. He debated asking Poole a second time but knew the next response he got would be less than kind.

  He left wordlessly, with Poole still staring darkly into his locker.

  2108 hours

  Katie MacLeod walked along the row of cars parked in the basement and tossed her black equipment bag onto the front seat of the police patrol car assigned to her. She withdrew her flashlight and placed it in the charger/holder right below the radio. Her side-handle baton went into the small holder in the driver’s door. She then seat-belted the equipment bag into the passenger’s seat, leaving the pockets with her logbook, ticket books and report notebook accessible without having to un-belt the bag.

  She took a quick walk around the exterior to check for any damage, finding nothing but dirt. Using the button located in the driver’s door, she popped open the trunk and checked the contents, which she knew by rote. Fire extinguisher, blanket, first aid kit, teddy bear, flex cuffs, rubber gloves and a box of double-ott buck shotgun shells. She removed the shells and closed the trunk. She preferred to have the extra ammo up front where she could get to it quicker.

  Once in the driver’s seat, she opened the glove compartment and put the shotgun shells inside. She saw a small city map inside, some hand disinfectant gel and someone’s candy wrapper. She grabbed the wrapper and tossed it in the small litter bag next to the transmission hump.

  Katie turned the key to the on position. The radio booted up, signaled ready and displayed the word ‘North’ for channel one. She hit the shotgun release button and pulled the 12-gauge from the upright holder between the two seats. Stepping out of the car, she unloaded the four shells inside, cleared the weapon by checking the chamber visually, then racking it four times in quick succession. The small bandoleer on the stock held five shells. Pointing the shotgun at the empty concrete wall of the basement sally port, Katie did a tactical reload. If she were to use the gun, she would chamber one round, then immediately replace with one from the bandoleer. This gave the “street howitzer” five rounds loaded and four on the bandoleer.

  As Katie stepped lightly back to the car to replace the shotgun, she saw Matt Westboard removing his from the patrol car in front of her.

  “Three-ninety-seven,” he said to her with a grin, pointing to his car with his free hand. He was referring to the patrol car’s fleet number, Katie knew.

  “So?” She replied, trying to appear disinterested, but she knew exactly what he was driving at.

  “So? So, I’ve got the queen of the fleet here. Only eighteen hundred miles.” He motioned toward Katie’s car. “That one’s got about a hundred and eighteen thousand on it.”

  Katie shrugged, trying not to smile. “Four wheels and a siren are all I need.”

  “How about a horse and buggy, then? Probably faster than that toilet.”

  “You just cost yourself a free cup of coffee.” Katie leaned into her car and snapped the shotgun into place, closing the large metal clip that held it securely. Westboard was saying something that she couldn’t make out, but she ignored him, testing her overhead rotator blue-and-reds, her alley lights and her overhead takedown lights. Then she turned on her spotlight and shined it right in Westboard’s face. He smiled, closing his eyes and turning away. Even in the room-level light of the basement, the power of the spotlight was impressive.

  Katie snapped the spotlight off after a few torturous moments, then exited her vehicle.

  “Anything else you want to say about my car, Westboard?”

  Westboard laid the shotgun across his front seat and pretended to be grabbing at floating balls in the air. “I’m blinded by the light,” he sang.

  “Doofus,” Katie muttered with a grin. She opened her back door and searched her back seat thoroughly to ensure that nothing had been left in there from the previous shift. She did this, as did everyone, before and after anyone was in the seat. If someone had dumped something in the car, it could be attributed to the proper owner. Especially if the item were contraband, which was usually the case.

  Her pre-flight checks complete, Katie returned to the driver’s seat and adjusted the seat position and mirrors. Westboard resumed checking his own car into service. In her rear-view mirror, she could see the newest rookie, Jack Willow, checking and double-checking everything. Well, she had done the same thing while she was in training, hadn’t she? You couldn’t afford to make a lot of mistakes during that phase. Truth be told, you couldn’t ever afford to make a lot of mistakes on this job. Sometimes not even one.

  When she looked forward again, Westboard was pulling out of the sally port and up the ramp. She shook her head in amazement. She’d ridden with him a few times and he could check a car into service faster than anyone she knew.

  Katie started the car and drove carefully out the sally port and up the ramp. When she turned onto the street, she hit her yelp siren, then the wail siren and air horn; three short bursts to verify each worked. The poor troops on Days and Swings weren’t allowed to blast their siren and air horn because court was in session, but on Graveyard they were able to blast away.

  Last, she checked the intercom, which she tested just by turning it on and clicking the mike. It was functional. She turned it off.

  Her eyes swept the gauges on the dashboard. Everything was fine except her fuel gauge, which showed at three-eighths of a tank. She frowned. You can’t tell me the swing-shift officers are too busy to turn in the cars gassed up and ready to go.

  She keyed the mike. “Adam-116, in service.”

  “Adam-116, go ahead.”

  “Officer 407, driving vehicle 341, also.”

  “Copy. Go ahead your also.”

  “If I’m clear, I need to go signal-five for fuel.” Signal-five meant the city garage where the gas pumps were.

  “Copy. You are clear, but I have a neighborhood dispute holding.”

  Katie sighed. “Neighborhood disputes” were the bane of swing shift. There weren’t as many on graveyard, but they sometimes popped up early in the shift. A Neighborhood Dispute usually meant some old woman saying “So-and-so pulled my flowers” or two sets of feuding parents called because little Johnny hit little Billy and now they want the little criminal arrested. Seldom was there any law enforcement action that could be taken, and it resulted in an incredible drain on an officer’s time, but it had to
be endured. Most of these people were the ones who actually paid taxes and they wanted police service. Since it might be the only time they saw their police department in action unless they were on the receiving end of a traffic citation, all officers were explicitly commanded to go and investigate thoroughly and to make everyone as happy as possible. Often, the same call wouldn’t even be dispatched later on in the graveyard shift, or might be dealt with in five minutes if it were. This call was probably a swing shift holdover.

  “Go ahead your dispute,” Katie told radio.

  “1119 W. Prudence. Caller states neighbor children are harassing her son. Also states the parent of the harassing children encourages it. 1119 W. Prudence.”

  “Copy. I’ll be en route when I clear signal-five.”

  2125 hours

  Just a few minutes into his shift, Thomas Chisolm was already bored. He heard MacLeod get dispatched to a neighborhood dispute, which told him it was going to be a slow night. Worse yet, a slow night allowed his mind to wander. And it never wandered down bright, sunny paths littered with rose petals and butterflies, either.

  The Scarface situation had him frustrated. He’d been on his night off or tied up on other calls during the last few robberies. As many times as the guy was getting away, Chisolm was beginning to think that the robber would never be caught. He remembered that Hart’s task force started tomorrow. Despite his dislike for the man and his suspicions of his ulterior motives, Chisolm was glad to see that something was going to be done which was a little more proactive rather than reactive.

  Despite his dark thoughts, his mood had remained steady as the shift progressed. He never stayed depressed too deeply for too long, not even in ‘Nam. He had a serious, dark nature from his father but he also believed that his mother’s indomitable good cheer kept him on an even keel when it came to brooding.

  Except for those ghosts, a voice inside his mind reminded him.

  Shut up, whispered another.

  Before an argument could begin, Chisolm swung into an alley. Two transients were seated with their backs to the wall, both holding brown paper bags. One made a clumsy attempt to hide his bottle beneath his coat. A third transient stood a few feet away, his back partially turned to Chisolm. In the flood of light now bathing the alley, Chisolm could see a stream of urine splattering against the wall.

  He hit his overhead lights and grabbed the microphone, glad for the diversion. “Adam-112, I’ll be in the alley behind the Army Surplus store on Indiana with three transients. Code four.”

  “Copy, Adam-112.”

  Chisolm got out of the car and walked slowly up to the group. The urinating transient had finished and was struggling to zip up his pants.

  “Evening, gentlemen.” Chisolm drawled, keeping all of their hands in sight.

  “Evening, sir,” slurred the standing transient, who Chisolm now thought of as Pissing Man.

  “Evening,” the other two muttered, both nodding.

  “Seems we have a crime wave here,” Chisolm observed.

  “What, sir?” Pissing Man asked.

  Chisolm pointed at him. “That’s Lewd Conduct. Specifically, urinating in public.” He pointed at the seated two. “And that is Open and Consume Alcohol in Public.”

  None of the men made any denials. The two-seated men remained still, eyeing Chisolm carefully. Pissing Man stood in place, swaying noticeably.

  “Sorry, sir,” he finally said.

  “Anyone have ID?” Chisolm asked.

  The three looked around at one another, then each shook his head.

  “No worries,” Chisolm said. He took out his note pad and asked each man for his name and birth date. They gave the information without hesitation or grumbling. As Chisolm checked the names on the data channel, he realized one of the seated men looked familiar. He stared at him for a few moments before he realized why. The transient looked almost exactly like, his old Army buddy, Bobby Ramirez.

  The man shifted uncomfortably under Chisolm’s gaze. “What’re you looking at, man?”

  Chisom grinned. “Sorry. You remind of an old friend.”

  “I ain’t never met you before, sir,” the man replied softly.

  Just like Bobby, Chisolm thought. Or at least how Bobby would look today. “So where are you guys from?” he asked while waiting for the names to come back.

  “Houston,” the other seated men said.

  “I,” pronounced Pissing Man, “am from... Sheer... Seeer... fucking Syracuse.”

  “New York?”

  Pissing Man nodded. “Fucking New York. Syracuse. Yes, sir.” He paused. “You got a problem with that?”

  “None at all.” Chisolm motioned to Bobby Ramirez’s twin. “You?”

  “Pittsburgh,” the man answered.

  “Pennsylvania?” Chisolm asked.

  “No. Pittsburgh, California.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Where’s California?” Pissing Man interrupted, incredulous. He pointed. “It’s that way.”

  Chisolm allowed himself a slight chuckle.

  Encouraged, Pissing Man pointed the other direction, crossing his hands in front of him. “And Syracuse is that way, brother!”

  “Well, thanks for the geography lesson,” Chisolm said. He returned his gaze to Bobby’s twin. “Where in California?”

  He cleared his throat. “East Bay area. Sorta near San Francisco.”

  Chisolm nodded. “I see.”

  “Adam-112?”

  He reached for his radio. “Go ahead.”

  “All subjects in locally, no wants.”

  “Copy.” Chisolm turned to the three disheveled men. “Well, gentlemen, the good news is that none of you have any warrants.”

  “Yay.” Pissing Man clapped with exaggerated slowness.

  “The bad news,” Chisolm continued, “is that I have each of you in violation of a misdemeanor. So I am facing what we call in police circles as a decision point. I could arrest you all. Or I could issue you a citation. Or I could just let it go.”

  Houston and Bobby’s twin remained quiet, waiting. Pissing Man looked at each of them, then said, “Well, I vote for the letting it go part.”

  “Tell you what,” Chisolm continued, pulling a quarter from his pocket. “I’ll flip you for it. Heads, I cite you. Tails, I walk away. What do you say?”

  The men paused, unsure. Pissing Man let out a loud laugh. “You’re on!” He turned to the others. “Nothing to lose,” he told them.

  Houston and Bobby’s twin nodded in agreement.

  “Okay,” Chisolm grinned. “Gambling men. I like that.”

  He flipped the coin in the air and caught it deftly. With great flourish, he slapped it onto his forearm. After giving the three of them a quick glance, Chisolm lifted his hand away.

  Heads.

  “Bad news, fellas,” Chisolm reported. “Let me have those bottles.”

  Three bottles were extended towards him. He took the first two and dumped out their contents on the dirt alley. All three men watched the golden liquid splatter out onto the ground with mournful expressions.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Chisolm said. “You were just renting it, anyway. Another half an hour and you’d have been pissing it out, right?”

  The men shrugged and watched on.

  “That should be the goddamn crime,” Pissing Man slurred.

  The third bottle was still unopened. He handed it back to Houston. “Just don’t drink it in public,” he told the man, knowing full well that they’d simply find a better hiding place and pass the lone remaining bottle between them.

  Houston nodded his thanks.

  “Are you gentlemen true gamblers?” Chisolm smiled broadly. “Want to go double-or-nothing?”

  “Howzat work?” Pissing Man asked.

  “Simple. I win, I get to book you on these charges. You win, you get to walk. Just toss those empty bottles in the trash.” Chisolm looked from face to face. “What do you say?”

  The men nodded enthusiastically.
<
br />   “Okay. Here goes.” Chisolm flipped the coin again, slapping it to his forearm. After a dramatic pause, he revealed the result. It came up tails this time.

  Chisolm gave a half-bow, his eyes not leaving the three. “Gentlemen, you are true sporting men and you have won your freedom. Please don’t drink or whiz in public. Good night.”

  The men returned his farewell as Chisolm walked back toward his car.

  “Hey, officer!”

  Chisolm looked up to see Bobby’s twin looking his way. “Yeah?”

  “I really look just like your friend?” he asked.

  Chisolm nodded. “Yeah. Within a stone’s throw, anyway.”

  “Tell him I said hi, then.”

  Chisolm smiled sadly. “Bobby served with me in Vietnam. He didn’t make it back.”

  A curious quiet fell over the group. The sound of the patrol light bar rotators hissed and whizzed while the cruiser’s engine hummed, but all else was silent.

  After a few moments, the man nodded his head toward Chisolm. “I’m sorry about that,” he said.

  “So was his mother,” Chisolm replied, trying to keep a light tone. “And so was I. Good night, gentlemen.”

  Without a word, he got back into the patrol car and killed the overhead lights. He backed out of the alley and onto Indiana Avenue, then headed west.

  As he drove, he chuckled slightly. Despite the memories that man’s face brought him, or perhaps because of them, he had enjoyed the stop. It amused him to watch the surprise and enthusiasm of all three men when he didn’t act like every other cop they’d ever met. He had a couple more flips he could have given them for double or nothing until they won. Who wanted to arrest and book on those piddly charges?

  Especially not when one of them could’ve been Bobby Ramirez’s brother.

  Chisolm whistled along with tune on the radio. Strangely, his world felt slightly more at ease.

  2150 hours

  Katie MacLeod felt her patience slipping away.

  “Just what is it you want me to do, ma’am?” she asked for the third time.