by Frank Zafiro
Friend of the Departed
A Stefan Kopriva Novel
By
Frank Zafiro
Friend of the Departed: A Stefan Kopriva Novel (#3)
By Frank Zafiro
© 2015 by Frank Scalise
Cover design by Eric Beetner (Headlight photo: blaster / Foter / CC BY)
For Joe P.,
my departed friend
1
I should learn to keep my mouth shut, especially since I was in a bar. But when you’re drunker than forty bastards, judgment isn’t always sound.
I’d been there for several hours before it happened. Mostly I minded my own business, and drank.
And thought.
And drank.
I thought about how anniversaries are a strange animal. Some we pay attention to, and some we don’t. Mostly, it’s the happy ones we tend to commemorate, but I don’t have too many of those these days, so most of my anniversaries pass by completely unheralded.
Except one.
The first few years after, I celebrated March Fifteenth the same way I was spending most of my time – in a dark room with only a hazy understanding of what was happening around me. I told myself that the only reason I was taking the pain pills was because of the injury to my shoulder and especially the one to my knee. It was a good lie, because the injuries were real, and I’d come by them honestly enough. Some might argue heroically, even. Shot in the line of duty and all that.
But a lie is still a lie, no matter how noble or draped in facts it might be. And the reality was that my injuries were almost a year old when I left the job, and the pain was manageable. But the thing was, I had the prescription. And all I had to do was tell the doctor that it still hurt, and he kept scratching on that pad and tearing off that small white sheet of paper and handing it to me. And at the pharmacy, when I passed them that same slip of paper, they kept filling the bottle.
I didn’t have a prescription for booze, of course. But I drank it because it magnified the impact of the pills. And I lied to myself about that, too. No matter what I told myself, I knew it wasn’t for the pain. At least not the pain in my shoulder, or my knee.
My pain had a name.
So did March Fifteenth.
The name was Amy Dugger. She was six years old that first March Fifteenth, and thanks to my mistake, that is how old she will always be. She was dead because of me. Because I didn’t do my job.
I carried that fact with me for a lot of years. At first, I hid behind the pills and booze. After a while, I finally managed to get off of the pills. Once I realized it was actually a problem, I think it was mostly shame that did it. Imagine an ex-cop becoming a pill junkie. I didn’t want to be that joke.
The booze was another matter, but I slowly got something of a tentative grasp on that problem, too. Or so I told myself. But I did quit, mostly. I even forced myself to drink the occasional beer, which is a stupid thing to do if you’ve got a drinking problem. Maybe I did it to test my resolve, or to prove something to myself. Either way, I went quite a few years in which I rarely drank more than a couple of beers.
I also made a couple of friends in that period of my life. Lost a couple, too. Around the same time, I worked a few cases as an unofficial private detective, and that resulted in making a few dollars. It was also part of the reason I made and lost those friends. Mostly, it was a chance to do something good, something right, and maybe make up for what happened to Amy just a little bit.
Yeah, there were times when I almost believed that.
This year, March Fifteenth snuck up on me, and before I really thought about it, I was in the bar. I’d only planned on having one. When that one was finished, I figured I’d make it two and call it good. By the time the third one was in front of me, all bets were off. And somewhere later in the night, I made the mistake of running my mouth to the wrong person at the wrong time. Then I compounded that mistake by looking away from that person after my comment and reaching for another drink of beer.
That’s probably why I never saw the punch that took me down.
For that matter, I couldn’t remember what it was I actually said to the guy that made him think cracking me in the skull was a good idea in the first place. Like I said, I was drunker than forty bastards, and when you’re that drunk, remembering is hard. It might have been something about his girlfriend. Or lack of one. I don’t remember.
I do remember my knees hitting the floor from the force of the blow. There was a long quiet moment in the bar, or at least that’s what my shaken, wet brain perceived. Then I puked on the floor. Groans and cries of disgust went up from the crowd. In my peripheral vision, I saw a man scramble backwards to get away from me, knocking over a barstool in the process.
“Get up!” Someone shouted at me.
I wiped a stream of spittle with the back of my hand, then noticed it was mixed with blood. The old injury in my left knee throbbed with a slicing pulse in time with my heartbeat.
“I said get up! I’m not finished with you yet.”
My world was a drunken, blurry, confused mess, but some things just come naturally. When the chips are down, or the situation gets dangerous, you’re either a quitter or a warrior. Quitters quit. Warriors get up.
I pushed up from the floor with a lurch, looking around for my attacker. I didn’t have to look far. He stood three feet from me, his fists up and clenched. I brought my own hands up. He waded in, launching another haymaker with his right.
There was no technique to his punch, just a raw brutality. I shuffled to my right, and tried to deflect the blow with my raised arm. His knuckles bit into my forearm. The force of the contact sent me staggering toward the bar. A heavily tattooed couple leapt aside as I crashed into the stools and thudded against the side of the bar.
As soon as I was able to turn around, another punch was on its way. I slipped this one, ducking underneath and driving my right straight into his armpit. He grunted and pulled back, reaching for the injury with both his hands. I didn’t hesitate.
I stepped toward him and snapped a left-right combination straight at his nose. The booze had taken its toll on my judgment, so the first punch barely connected. But I kept moving forward and pivoted my hips, getting everything I had into that second punch. It crunched into his nose and sent an immediate spray of blood in the air.
A few gasps came out of the crowd, along with a couple of subdued cheers.
Most people never get into a real fight in their entire lives. They go through life with nothing more than a playground tussle or two to their credit. They see what fights are supposed to look like on TV or in the movies, and that’s what they expect when the rare moment happens and they actually get into a real fight.
I don’t know what my guy expected would happen but what he got was a broken nose. He staggered back, his hands flying to his face. His eyes went unfocused, and I knew he was vulnerable.
I moved forward.
Time to finish it.
That’s when something blasted me in the back of the head. I heard a thunking noise, along with glass breaking. Liquid spilled down my back, and I fell to my knees again. In front of me, my opponent wavered in and out of focus while my vision flashed dark and light.
Then dark.
2
I must not have been out long, because when I came to my senses, I was still in the bar. I heard a lot of feet scuffling across the floor, but couldn’t tell what direction. Maybe it was all directions.
My head throbbed.
There were voices, too. A mess of them, coming from all sides.
“Did you see that? His nose freakin’ exploded.”
“I saw. It exploded all over on my new shirt.”
“Get him out of here!”
/>
“This is better than Roadhouse.”
“Nothing’s better than Roadhouse.”
“I said, get him out of here! The cops will be here any second.”
I slid my hands and my right knee under my body and pushed up. The movement made me dizzy, so I paused to get right. When everything settled into place, I struggled to stand up.
Someone pushed me from behind, right into the stools again. This time, my head whiplashed into the side of the bar, and things went fuzzy again.
I lay there, unable to move. The fight was over, I was pretty sure. I tried to bite back a groan, but a long, pitiful one slid out of my throat anyway. Darkness was slowly closing over my left eye. I reached up to rub it and winced as soon as my fingers touched the skin.
Damn, that guy punched hard.
More voices.
“Look at him. Boy is messed up.”
“Kinda chicken shit, pushing him from behind like that.”
“What do you care? He’s an asshole.”
And further away.
“We good? Yeah? Then toss the guy out.”
I recognized that one. It was the same voice that said to get me out of the bar just a few moments before. The bartender, or the manager. Or hell, maybe the owner of the place. You never know when someone gets behind the bar. People like it back there. Some kind of authority to it.
I reached up to the bar top and pulled myself slowly upward. I was about halfway up when a pair of strong hands grabbed my jacket in two places.
“Up you go, troublemaker.”
“Get your hands off me,” I slurred.
“Stagger this way,” he said. He pushed me out in front of him and walked me forcefully toward the door.
“Lemme go.”
“In a couple seconds.”
I reached behind myself and tried to strike at him, but he had me at a disadvantage. Several, actually. He had position on me, and momentum was on his side, too. Plus, from the sound of his voice, he wasn’t drunk. Hell, he was probably bigger and stronger, too. Why not?
“Watch the door,” he grunted, then planted my face into it. The door flung open and we powered through it.
“Lemme go,” I repeated.
“Don’t come back,” he warned, and gave me a hard shove.
I lurched forward. My foot caught on something, and I tripped. My head crashed into the pavement, and it was lights out for the second time.
3
This time when I came to, I was surrounded by fire department medics. One of them had a blood pressure cuff on my arm and was taking a reading. Another used the fingers of one hand to press gauze against my mouth while his other hand was behind my head, pressing up.
I groaned.
“He’s conscious,” Gauze Man said.
“BP is fine, all things considered,” said the other medic. “A little elevated.”
“I’ve got big time AOB,” Gauze Man told him.
“You should have been a detective,” BP said sarcastically. “We’re outside a bar and he’s got alcohol on his breath. What a clue.”
“You’re hilarious, El Tee. I’m just saying because it’s a factor.”
“Oh, we’re talking factors now. A factor how?”
“As in, are we going to transport?”
BP shrugged. “How’re those teeth?”
Gauze Man pulled the gauze away. “Looks like just the inside of the lip. If any of his teeth are cracked, I can’t tell.”
“And the back of the head?”
“Lacerated contusion. Witnesses said he lost consciousness inside, and you saw how he was out when we got here.”
BP sighed. “Yeah, we better transport. Let’s get him up.”
Slowly, BP helped me to my feet. Gauze Man kept pressure on both my mouth and the back of the head while they did so.
“Step over here,” BP said. “Slowly.”
They led me to the open door of an ambulance.
“Sit on the bumper there,” BP instructed.
I sank gratefully onto the bumper ledge, breathing heavily through my nose. “Give me a second,” I said, though it probably came out garbled.
Somehow they understood, though, and waited patiently. I sat and stared down the darkened street. Pale yellow street lights tried to pierce that western downtown gloom but weren’t overly successful. The red lights of the ambulance flickering and rotating splashed against it, too, but without much more success. Then I noticed blue and reds join the visual symphony.
“You’re not going to pass out on me, are you?” Gauze Man asked me.
“Nunh-uh.”
The white-shirted ambulance medic came around the corner of the vehicle. “He going?”
BP nodded. “Who’s trauma tonight?”
“Deaconess.”
“Short drive for you, then.” BP turned back to me. “I need to get some information from you, sir, before they take you up to the hospital. Do you have some ID?”
Gingerly, I reached into my back pocket for my wallet. I was mildly relieved to find it still there. When I flipped it open, though, I almost dropped it. Then I tried to pull out my driver’s license, pinching my fingers repeatedly on the edge of the card and watching in frustration as they slipped off. Some of that was the booze. Most of it, probably. But it didn’t help that three people were staring at me while I tried to fish the damn thing out.
BP took my license without comment and started writing on a long pink form on his clipboard. I waited, staring down the dark road, and wondering how the hell I got into this, and if it could get any worse.
Another car door slammed.
Then I realized what the blue and red lights I was seeing meant. The cops were here, too.
I heard the creak of his leather before I ever saw him. The whole time, one thought kept going through my head.
Please don’t let him know me.
When he came around the corner, he was a she.
She was slender and compact, with Asian features. Her dark hair was in a short pony tail. Her uniform was immaculate, which told me she was either wired that way or a rookie. Most graveyard cops don’t bother to keep their uniforms that squared away. Or didn’t when I was on the job, anyway.
The nametag on her chest was hard to read in the dim light, but when she stepped closer, the bright light from the inside of the ambulance washed over her, and I got a good look at it. A. Lee, it read.
“What do you gentlemen have?” she asked, addressing the fire medics.
“Seven Twenty Two,” BP told her.
She hesitated, then gave a short shake of her head. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s our code for a Man Down call,” BP said. He handed her his clipboard. “I thought all you guys knew that one.”
Officer Lee reached for her pen and notepad. “Well, I guess I’m not like all the other guys.”
“I’ll say,” BP said quietly.
She ignored his comment, and flipped open her notepad. We all waited while she jotted down my name and other personal information, copying it from BP’s paperwork. When she’d finished, she handed it back to him. “So just a drunk on the sidewalk? Because radio told me it was a bar fight.”
“Well—”
“I can answer that,” I said, though I don’t know how intelligible I was between the booze slur, the fat lip, and Gauze Man’s fingers pressed to my mouth.
Officer Lee gave me an appraising look. Her eyes flitted up and down my body and then rested on my face. “What can you tell me?” she asked.
I started to answer, then paused to push Gauze Man’s fingers away. “Do you mind?”
He shrugged, though the look on his face suggested I was some kind of asshole.
“Thanks,” I said, and turned back to Officer Lee. “What happened was that I was minding my own business having a beer in the bar—”
“Which bar?”
I looked at her, wondering if maybe she was kidding me. When I saw she wasn’t, I pointed to the bar we were parked in front of. “Th
at one.”
She glanced up at the sign, made a quick note on her pad, and asked, “And how many beers did you have in there?”
“What does it matter?”
“Please just answer the question, sir.”
I almost gave the pat answer of two beers, but then I remembered how many times some liar had told me that back when I was in her role. So instead, I said, “I had two or three.”
“And then?”
“And then some guy sucker punched me.”
“Just like that, out of the blue?”
I thought about it. “No. We were talking. I guess he didn’t like what I said.”
“Did you insult him?”
“That’s probably how he took it.”
“What did you say?”
I sighed. “I don’t remember.”
“Sir…”
“I really don’t remember,” I said.
“He’s been knocked unconscious,” BP interjected.
She looked over at him, but said nothing.
BP pointed at his own head. “Might have affected the short-term memory, is all.”
“It was twice, actually,” I said.
Officer Lee returned her gaze to me. “Twice?”
“Yeah. Once in the bar, when someone hit me over the head with what I’m guessing was a bottle or a pitcher.”
“The sucker punch was with a weapon?”
“No.”
“You said you were hit with a bottle or a pitcher.”
“I was.”
“I consider that a weapon. So does the Revised Code of Washington.”
“I know that.”
She looked at me quizzically. “So you were struck with a weapon.”
“I was. But that wasn’t the sucker punch.”
Officer Lee put her notepad away and slid her pen back into her shirt pocket. “Mr. Kopriva, you’re not making a whole lot of sense.”
“Just let me tell you my story and it’ll all make sense.”
“I’m not interested in a story. I’m interested in the truth.”
“That’s what I meant.”
