“Luke, your mom’s hurt and we need to help her. But we need you to put the knife down. Can you do that?”
The man looked down at his hand as if trying to comprehend the object. The rookie had a death grip on his pistol. His carotid was pumping and his neck muscles were taut. Mike relaxed his own shoulders and opened his arms wider—an invitation to engage the man. I’m in charge now. It’s going to be okay. The officer took his lead and lowered his aim.
“Luke, I need you to help me.”
The man’s belly was hollowed, his pelvic bones sharp and angular. His skin was jaundiced, his dick shrunken. He looked older than thirty-four. Blood streamed down his shins. A flap of flayed skin above his left knee exposed muscle and tendon, but it didn’t seem to bother him.
“Luke, I can see you’re hurt, too. You and your mom need help.”
The man’s calf was twitching. His adrenaline load was in full dump.
“Baby, listen to the policeman. They’re not going to hurt you. You have to go with them to the hospital.”
The man sighted his mother with the knife. “I’m not going back there!”
Mike glared at Raylene: Shut her the fuck up.
The man swung the knife towards Mike, then at the rookie to ward them off. “I didn’t do that!”
The rookie raised his weapon. Mike held up his hand. Don’t fuckin’ pull that trigger.
“Luke, once you put the knife down, you can tell me what happened. I know you want us to help your mom.”
“It wasn’t her.”
The man’s anguish was real. Mike could almost believe him. Poor bastard.
“Luke, this can end now. This is just one bad day. You can have a thousand good ones once you get past this one.” He heard the hollowness of his words. He was sick of saying them.
The ambulance wailed up the street. The man thrust the knife in the direction of the sound and took a step back. Teeth gnashing, the dog hurled itself against the door. Slobber fogged the glass. It clawed at the barrier and the aluminum frame shuddered. The man stepped forward.
The rookie hollered, “Do not move! Do not take another step forward!” The rookie had taken a step forward. His feet were planted. He had assumed the “stand your ground” position.
Mike raised his voice above the siren and the barking dog. “Luke, listen to me. Listen only to me.” For Chrissakes, shut the goddamn siren off. The man’s eyes darted from Mike to the approaching ambulance. He was rocking side to side. He covered one ear with his free hand. Mike was losing him.
“Luke!”
“Shut up shutup shutupshutup…”
“Luke!”
The man slapped the knife blade against his chest. A thin red line welted over his heart.
“Luke, talk to me! Let me help you.”
The ambulance came to a stop. Its sirens ricocheted off the blank, mute houses and throbbed against their chests.
The man wielded his broad knife high, about to charge. “Shut up!”
Mike Tasered him.
One probe penetrated his chest. The other barbed his stomach. The man’s torso clenched rigidly and his pectoral muscles spasmed. Tremors locked his right arm and knife hand mid-air. His mouth wrenched open. He looked down at his chest as though a wasp was stinging him and not 1200 surging volts of electricity.
Tethered to the perp by the fifteen-foot lead, Mike reached for a second cartridge. He should be on the ground. The man raised his left arm, the one punctured with dog bites, and ripped the lead from his chest. His body slumped as if pulled from a pike.
Mike ejected the cartridge and loaded the second charge, stepping between the man and the rookie’s clear shot. He walked briskly forward, two steps, three…The man raised the knife and he fired again. The probes caught him on his thigh just below his testicles. This time he dropped the knife. His knees lurched forward, and he catapulted off the front steps onto the sidewalk. He landed on his chest, his body shuddering and frog legs kicking.
Mike was aware of the mother screaming and sweat stinging his eyes. He was standing over the man still riding the current. He had to force himself to stop pulling the trigger. The electric hornet’s buzz died and the man rag-dolled. The rookie, who had managed to put on gloves, yanked back the man’s arm. His grip slipped on the slick skin. C’mon, c’mon, get the cuffs on. Fumbling for his restraints, the young cop looked to his belt, and the man bucked him off.
Mike threw his weight on top of the naked man. He was acutely aware that he didn’t have his gloves on. He drove his elbow between the man’s shoulder blades. Gripping his forehead, he pulled his head back. His pant leg was rubbing against the man’s bare ass. Urine pooled on the sidewalk. The rookie grappled for control of the arm. A fourth officer, Brickhouse Bill, thank fuck, arrived as the man started to rise, hoisting Mike like a child’s piggyback ride.
Even with three two-hundred-pound officers dog-piling the scrawny crazy to the ground, Mike could barely hang on. They wrestled in the tangled grunt of testosterone, B.O., sweat, blood, cement, and crushed grass. The rookie finally managed to restrain the man’s arms and legs, kneeing him once in the ribs for good measure. Only then did the man stop resisting and begin to howl. He howled just like a dog. Even the dog stopped barking.
Two more uniforms arrived, Steve and John, the friggin’ A team. Mike nodded his appreciation. They’d be talking about this one over beers. He pushed himself off the already bruising man, and pain stabbed his back. His arms were smeared red and his ears were ringing. The sirens and the screaming woman had stopped, but the man was still howling. The other officers picked him up by his elbows and feet. Bill yanked the probes from between his legs and passed the lead back to Mike. Blood and flesh stained the barbs. They carried the howling man face down to the gurney, his dick dragging across the cement.
Mike bent down and retrieved the other cartridge. He picked up his cap and saw the flash of his family’s smiling faces in the photograph tucked inside the lining. He pulled the cap on tight, groaning as he forced himself upright.
The mother was in front of him, her eyes as wild as her son’s. He was about to say they would take good care of him, when she spat in his face. The warm, thick wetness gobbed his cheek. His defensive training kicked in and he gripped her face, smothering her nose and mouth, obliterating her eyes, and shoved her hard. Hard enough to drive her to the ground. Her neck snapped back, her head bounced on the lawn, and her shirt hiked above her stretch-marked, flaccid belly. Blood bloomed from her shoulder wound.
“You said you wouldn’t hurt him. You said…”
She collapsed into incoherent sobs as the paramedic and Constable Wade stepped between them. Raylene had her hands on his chest, walking him backward from the scene. “It was assault. We’ll charge her.”
He didn’t want that. What he wanted was for her to do her job. What he wanted was to scream at the five-eight girl cop pushing him back, who smelled of shampoo and suntan lotion, Where the fuck were you? Your job was to clear her from the scene! Your job was to have my back! Instead, he wiped his cheek on his flak jacket’s shoulder and walked away. The fucking paperwork on this one was going to be a nightmare.
Inside the house, the enraged dog threw itself against the bulging door. Bloody paws smeared the glass. Its mouth was a white froth and its eyes were on him.
He stared the dog down. His hand on his gun. Wanting it to break through.
* * *
—
Forty minutes to shift change. Mike was parked behind the church watching time run down as he wrote up his notes. It had taken eight pages to record the morning’s events in his notebook and over an hour to two-finger-type the incident reports into his computer. He cranked up the air conditioner another notch and looked out at the neighbourhood. No one had spotted him yet.
A chunk of his day had been lost waiting for ER docs to medically clear the perp. Just a corridor over, his colleagues dealt with the mother’s complaints. More time was lost at the mental hospital waiting for ad
mission and custody transfer. He hated waiting. The first hour, the guy kept howling. The second hour, his voice went hoarse and his bays sounded more like a beagle’s. The last hour, he finally shut up and stared at Mike. He refused all offers of water, food, or clothes and allowed only a blanket to be wrapped around his naked body. When Mike handed him over to the psych attendants, the man finally spoke. He said, “I see you.”
Mike had stared back at the oddly elongated facial muscles, the lengthened jawline, sallow skin, constricted pupils, and unblinking ice-blue eyes. Eyes more animal than human in their piercing intensity and focus. The remains of the man were trapped somewhere behind those mad, glassy eyes. “I see you, too,” he said, which set the guy off howling again.
He scanned his tightly lined notebook pages.
Volume 17. Pg. 87.
Brandt
His handwriting never betrayed the emotion of his day. He took great care to make his notes neat, legible, and compact to maximize space. He restricted the narrative to the facts, leaving himself out of the story as much as possible.
7:15 a.m. Overdose. 348 Oakland Road. 52-year-old female. Found in bed by neighbour…
9:36 a.m. (Bob?) 30+ No fixed address. Erratic Behaviour. Possession of crack cocaine…
10:45 a.m. Mentally Unstable Luke Collins, 34, wielding knife. Mother T. Collins, non-fatal stab wound, right shoulder. Resisted arrest. Taser deployed.
He flipped past the notes documenting his actions and the events justifying the use of Taser and restraints, until he reached the end of the entry. He had nothing to justify. If he hadn’t used the Taser, the perp would likely be dead. He didn’t write that down.
After the bodily assault, I pushed T. Collins (mother) back to protect myself. She tripped and fell. Witness: Constable Raylene Wade. Declined pressing charges due to extenuating circumstances and emotional state of the assailant. Accompanied mentally unstable to ER (medically cleared by Dr. Lee) Accompanied mentally unstable to Admission. Custody transferred 1:40 p.m.
He drew a hard, straight line
and started what he hoped was the last entry of the day.
3:00-5:20 p.m. Canvassed neighbourhood of U. Square with Const. J. Ellison. D. Johnson case.
He was grateful he had been assigned with Ellison for the afternoon. James was a community cop, one of the first black officers to receive commendations of excellence, a good guy and a friend. Hell, he was probably Mike’s best friend. He had been at his wedding and Caleb called him uncle. When he came by for a barbecue, he always brought a bottle of wine for Lori. James could make him laugh even when everything was going to hell. That’s the kind of guy he was.
There was something about him that invited people to talk to him, and a real smile that made others smile back. Despite walking a beat, he was easily sixty pounds overweight, and couldn’t chase down a toddler. But people didn’t run from him. He really believed he could make things better.
He coached afterschool basketball. Fundraised for art, basketball, and music programs. He was spearheading a scholarship in the dead boy’s name. His motto was one child at a time. There had been a write-up in the local paper about his own experience as a lost kid and the mentor who saved his life. It was the first he’d heard about his friend’s troubled past.
James once had his three-year sobriety coin and maybe would again. Mike was reticent to admit it, but his friend wasn’t much fun sober. He couldn’t open up to people; couldn’t find that smile. He had cut back a lot and kept his drinking mostly to his days off. Lately, there were fewer sick leaves and fewer times his phone was off the hook. He was still a good cop. He believed in second, third, and fourth chances. Sometimes those he collared couldn’t look him in the eyes. He always said shame was a good first sign.
Being assigned an afternoon with James was like a day of R&R. It was the sergeant’s way of prescribing an unofficial attitude adjustment. But foot patrol made Mike uneasy. It was too exposed. He couldn’t stroll like his partner, and people sensed it.
We’re just here asking about the boy who died, Helen. James knew everyone’s names. Anything you know or heard that could help us?
No one had a bad thing to say about the boy. He was an artist, a musician. No drugs, no gangs, no grudges. No reason why. Every story was the same—nobody knew anything, nobody heard anything. Before moving on, James would ask about their sons, daughters, and husbands. Who was working, who was in jail, who was getting married, who was in university? He held grandchildren and let them wear his cap. In every house, fans and air conditioners hummed. He was offered iced tea and lemonade, while Mike stood silently apart, surveying family portraits, cheap toys, and outdated televisions. Public housing all had the same floor plan, and most walls bore the original builder’s white paint, making the houses seem both temporary and permanent.
Outside in the courtyards, teens held each other closer, knowing that if it could happen to Devon, it could definitely happen to them. Some girls cried. Boys looked at the ground. Nobody heard nothin’. Nobody knew nothin’. They were lying.
James mentioned anonymous tips and reward money. Mike watched their eyes, but no one blinked. One boy with long locs and unscuffed white sneakers asked, “What you gonna do when you find ’em?”
“We’ll take them in to answer for what they did.” James could lie like that.
“I’d shoot ’em like a dog,” the boy said.
“I wouldn’t shoot a dog,” James said.
Mike held his pencil poised above his notebook. Somebody knew something. He had no doubt something was coming and when it did it was going to be bad. Criminals taking care of criminals. Judge and jury with civilians caught in the crossfire. He wrote:
No leads
and drew another hard line.
The car radio squawked. He cocked his ear to the static.
Car vs pedestrian. Quinpool and Harvard. Bus on scene. Requesting detour and traffic assistance. Car 163 responding.
He looked at the map, relieved he wasn’t needed. He had called in a 10-99, Taking a break, almost thirty minutes ago. He knew his car icon was flashing inactive on the IES monitors and the new GPS system was signalling dispatch every hour to check on his status. Standard procedure. We have your back even when you’re hiding. It was a pain in the ass.
Ten-zero, radio check, Car 322.
Mike radioed back. “Ten-two. Good check.”
Each time it had been Tamara checking in. She was working dispatch today as part of the regular rotation through call intake, dispatch, and fire. Her team handled it all.
Male thirty-five years old. Head injury. Said he was assaulted with a baseball bat at Midtown Motel. Does not want to press charges…
Female unconscious. Suspected heat exhaustion. EMS on scene…
Bike vs car. Parties involved fighting. Corner of Cunard and…
Report of dog locked in vehicle. Parking lot of…
Her voice was always calm and in control. She enunciated carefully. She listened. Really listened. She could decipher the white noise and dirty static of their radios’ crappy technology, no matter how degraded or clipped. She told them what she knew and only what they needed to know, directed radio communication so nobody stepped on each other, and she never sent them down the wrong street. She was the best of the best. No one said it, but they all considered Tamara good luck and hoped she’d be the one guiding them in on a bad call. He hadn’t seen her since that morning in the cab. Listening to her now, though, he knew she had got through it. She was tough. Nothing cracked her.
“Car 322. Off-shift in twenty minutes.”
Ten-four. Copy that.
She wouldn’t send him out now unless something bad happened. He stretched his legs. A late-model Jeep, black, two-door, stopped at the small park adjacent to the church. A female—Caucasian, mid- to late twenties, five six, athletic build, blonde, blue T-shirt, jeans—got out and opened the back. An unleashed dog, black, jumped down in violation of Animal Bylaw A-300. The dog curled into a snug sit
against her left leg. Its attention focused solely on its handler.
He watched them enter the greenbelt and was surprised that she walked like a cop. The dog pranced at her side. She had an orange ball-tosser. The car thermometer read 37.8. It wasn’t worth giving up the air conditioning. He was definitely having an off day. The entire week had been off. He blamed it on the damn heat.
He stared at the blank space beneath his last entry. Notebook 17 was almost full and would soon join the others in the fire-safety box at the back of his closet. He flipped through the pages, glimpsing short passages, and five to six hard, straight lines per page. His rookie notes had been more extensive before he realized that he only needed a few lines to recall every detail of an event, regardless of how much time had passed.
Without his crib notes, he couldn’t conjure a single name, place, or incident. Not even from the previous day. He had to see the words. Once read, he would be back in the room or on the street, able to recall the weather, the smell, and forensics. If he read the names, he could see them shouting, crying, bloodied, denying, drunk, stoned, afraid, fearless, combatant. He could walk up to the bodies and see the colour of their eyes. The bottom corners of some pages were marked with three squiggly lines indicating they held children’s names. Don’t look here.
The radio squelched, followed by a piercing repeating tone signifying, Listen up. This is a real emergency.
Two–car MVA, 102 westbound. Need ambulance. Injuries reported. Car 274 and 357 responding. Rollover. Two trapped severely. Fire responding. Car 357, ETA?
The garbled interference and clipped siren of car 357 cut in: Three minutes.
Mike typed in his last notes on the computer. He filtered out the non-stop chatter of the radio and tuned his ears to only his car number, which was unlikely to be called this close to shift end. The shrill repeating alarm was more difficult to ignore. He flicked the air conditioner up another notch.
The Waiting Hours Page 15
