Cop Town (10 page)

Kate glanced at Maggie, guessing by her bare ring finger that Sergeant Lawson was a male relation.

Vick continued, “Before I start, I wanna make sure every single one of you peckerheads is out there with his eyes open. Nobody goes out alone today. Nobody runs off trying to play cowboy. We get this dirtbag together. You hear?”

None of the women answered, but all the men shouted, “Yes, sir.”

“This ain’t gonna be a repeat of six months ago. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” they repeated.

Kate glanced around. Everyone seemed to know what had happened six months ago except for her.

Vick started the roll call. “Anderson?”

There was a gruff “Here,” followed by another name, then another.

Kate shifted in her chair, trying to keep her flashlight from stabbing into her side. She shifted again and the handle of the nightstick jammed into her thigh. Kate moved again, and several people turned to stare. Her new leather belt was creaking, announcing her every move.

She looked at Maggie, then Clack, then Compton, and realized their knees were apart to more evenly distribute the weight from the belts. Kate carefully uncrossed her legs. She inched her feet away from each other. Her face burned with embarrassment. She’d kept her knees together or legs crossed since she was old enough to sit up on her own. Maybe there was another way. Or maybe these women had something in them that Kate did not.

She couldn’t think about that. If she admitted that she was different, she would have to admit that she wasn’t cut out for this. Frankly, she wasn’t cut out for much of anything. She hadn’t the patience for being stuck in a classroom full of children. She hadn’t the training to be a nurse. Her father had gotten her three different secretarial jobs in a row, but Kate had been unable to keep any of them. Her typing speed was laughable. Her dictation was atrocious. She could fetch coffee and look pretty, but there were plenty of younger girls who were willing to do that for a hell of a lot less money than a grown person could live on.

The police force had to pay women the same salary as men. They had to give you benefits and a pension. They had to train you, such as it was. Perhaps most importantly of all, they had to let you do your job. Kate had worked her ass off at the academy. She’d studied more than she ever had in college. She’d practiced looking people directly in the eye. Raising her voice. Standing her ground. She’d worked on not apologizing when someone bumped into her, not explaining herself in restaurants when her order was wrong or asking for forgiveness before gently complaining to the dry cleaner that he’d ruined her favorite blouse.

“Wake up.” Maggie bumped Kate’s elbow. Everyone had their spiral notebooks out. Kate’s was in her purse, which was in Maggie’s locker.

Vick said, “Terry, you wanna take over?”

Kate studied the new man behind the podium. White, as with everyone else in charge. He had a thick neck and squinty eyes that scanned the room. Sergeant Terry Lawson, she presumed.

He unfolded a sheet of paper and read haltingly. “The suspect is a black male. Afro, long sideburns and mustache. Approximately twenty to twenty-five years of age. No distinguishing tattoos or birthmarks.” He looked up, making sure he was being followed. “Five-ten, maybe six foot. Dressed like a hippie. Levis and a red shirt. He wore gloves. Black gloves. The weapon was a Saturday night special.” Terry paused again as they all recorded the details into their notebooks. Even the blacks were taking notes. Suddenly, they’d all come together.

Terry said, “Chipper?”

Chip Bixby. Kate recognized him from the academy. He and a man
named Bud Deacon had been responsible for teaching them how to shoot. Both men had worn matching red ties, seemingly for the sole purpose of telling the women that the only rule in handling a gun was not to shoot the men wearing red ties.

“Gentlemen.” Chip waited for silence. “The Shooter carried a weapon similar to the pistol in my hand.” He held a handgun over his head that looked nothing like the revolver Kate had been issued. “This is a Raven MP-25 from the original Ring of Fire. Twenty-five-cal semi with a blowback action. Holds six in the mag and one in the chamber. A piece of shit, this gun. Jams all the time. American made, so what’s their excuse?”

“No excuse!” a drunken voice called. Jett Elliott. Kate recognized him from the shooting range. He was sitting in the front row, listing to the side. The man beside him held a hand at his back to keep him from toppling over.

“Okay.” Terry took over again. “This Raven handgun is the type what took out Don Wesley. Chip’s has the wood grain grip. The one that killed Don had imitation pearl. Anybody not familiar with this weapon, come up after and take a look. I want the real deal in my hands by close of business today. That sound like a plan?”

There were nods around the room.

Terry said, “Since all of ya’ll are wondering, I’m gonna make it easy for you and lay out what happened straight from Jimmy’s statement. I don’t want no gossip after this. Nobody pimpin’ to no damn reporters.”

Jett spoke up again. “Nobody pimpin’ to Reggie, neither.”

There were mumurs of agreement around the room.

Reginald Eaves, Kate assumed. At the academy, she’d heard a lot of whispers about pimping to Reggie, which she gathered meant reporting infractions to the commissioner.

“Jett’s right,” Terry said. “Everything I tell you stays in this room. No pimpin’ up to nobody.”

“Damn straight.” This came from the man sitting beside the drunk. They were strikingly similar with their cheap suits and bad haircuts. Kate wondered if they were twins, then decided they were both stamped
from the same blue-collar machine that had spit out Cal Vick and Terry Lawson.

“All right, quiet down,” Terry said. He bent down his head and read from the report again. “Last night around three in the a.m., Officer Don Wesley and Officer Jimmy Lawson received a report of a possible break-in at the C&S Bank, Five Points, off of Whitehall Road. They went to investigate. Officer Wesley was on foot, checking the back entrance, while Officer Lawson, also on foot, checked the front.”

Kate felt Maggie stiffen beside her. Another Lawson. The place was crawling with them.

Terry folded up the paper. He rested his elbow on the podium like an old man telling a story. “Jimmy finished securing the front and called in a false alarm. He was maybe ten, fifteen feet away from Don in the alley behind the bank when out of nowhere, this black brother rounds the corner. Brother fires. Twice. Don takes both in the head. Jimmy goes for cover. He squeezes off three shots, but the brother hoofs it. Jimmy has to stay with his partner.” He paused. “Your partner’s safety is your first priority. Right?”

Staunch, manly echoes of “Right” bounced around the room.

Beside Kate, Maggie put down her pen.

Terry said, “We’re gonna shut this city down today, gentlemen. Nobody does any business until we get a name.”

There were whoops all around.

Terry banged his fist on the podium. “We’re gonna shake the monkeys outta the trees. We’re gonna knock some heads. We’re gonna get this asshole.” The bang turned into a drumbeat. Some men had joined him, hitting the tables. “Am I right?”

There was an eruption of noise—banging on tables, stamping the floor, calls for blood. Kate wondered if this was what halftime inside a football locker room was like.

“All right. All right.” Vick took Terry’s place behind the podium. He calmed them with his hands, lowering the tone. “Jimmy’s working with a sketch artist, so we’ll have something to release to the press and TV news.” Vick raised his voice over the rumble of disgust. “Check your
usual places for the Raven, see if anybody’s pawned it or tossed it.” He stared over the crowd, expectant. Everyone turned to look at the young man standing in the back of the room. He was handsome, with an athletic build, and long sideburns that framed his square jaw.

Vick asked, “We miss anything, Jimmy?”

Jimmy shook his head. His eyes scanned the crowd, settling on Kate first, then Maggie. Or, technically, on the back of Maggie’s head. She was the only one in the room who had not turned around to look at Jimmy.

She obviously sensed Kate’s scrutiny. Maggie nodded toward Jimmy. “Brother.” She nodded toward the man at the podium. “Uncle.”

Kate mumbled, “I’m sorry for what happened.”

Maggie stared ahead.

“All right.” Terry held up two sheets of mimeographed paper. “I got your assignments. They’ll be posted on the board.” He stacked the pages together. “This is serious business out there today, gentlemen. No chicks riding with dicks. Except you. New girl.” Kate’s heart jumped in her chest. He was pointing at her. Everybody was looking. “You’re with Jimmy.”

There were some wolf whistles and laughs. Kate felt her face turning red.

“That’s enough,” Terry said. “Get to work. Remember, no cowboys.”

Kate turned to Maggie, hoping for help. “What should I—”

Maggie stood up and walked away.

Clack and Compton hadn’t abandoned her, but Kate was under no impression they’d stuck around to help.

“Jimmy-boy,” Clack said. “Lucky you.”

Kate tried, “I didn’t ask—”

“Do yourself a favor, sweetheart. Put a towel down if you let him fuck you in the back of his squad car.”

7

Kate followed Jimmy Lawson across the parking lot, feeling like the walking embodiment of a Keystone Kop. She had to shuffle her feet to keep them from slipping out of her too-large shoes. Her nightstick slapped her leg. The hooks on her belt dug into her sides. She kept having to tip back her hat on her head so she could see. She felt as if her every move was being scrutinized, though the crowd around her seemed intent on leaving, not watching the FNG to see what mayhem would befall her.

Despite Jimmy’s quick pace, he walked with a pronounced limp. She wondered if he’d been injured in Vietnam. She doubted she’d find out his life story. He hadn’t spoken one word to her, just nodded toward the door and started walking. Kate had prayed to be partnered with a male cop. She should’ve been more specific. Jimmy seemed to be the only guy on the squad who wanted nothing to do with Kate.

He stopped to talk to a group of men. Kate recognized Jett Elliott and his seatmate as well as Captain Cal Vick, Chip Bixby, Bud Deacon,
Terry Lawson, and a handful of other men who could easily be mistaken for extras in a Sam Peckinpah movie. They showed Jimmy great deference, which was strange considering they all had at least two decades on the younger man. Maybe this was because Jimmy’s partner had been shot. Or because they were drunks making an effort to appear sober.

Kate didn’t know what to make of their drinking and she was hard pressed to care. Instead, she thought of all the things she’d left in her purse. And then she wondered how she was going to retrieve her purse at the end of the day. Maggie hadn’t told her the combination to the lock.

“Let’s go.” Jimmy spun his key ring around his middle finger. The keys made a clinking sound every time he caught them. The noise corresponded with his limp as he made his way toward one of the last cruisers left in the lot. The white Plymouth Fury mirrored the early morning sun. The red and blue Atlanta Police Department badge on the door was faded to almost pink and baby blue.

Jimmy popped the trunk so he could secure the shotgun over the spare wheel well. He told Kate, “Check the car.”

She had learned basic patrol procedures at the academy. Kate knew how to take apart a back seat, replace a flat tire, and top off a radiator. She’d even learned how to pump gas into the tank, which was the only thing Kate learned at the police academy that had truly shocked her father.

She inspected the inside of the car as instructed, checking for weapons or personal belongings that had been left behind. It was important to ascertain that there was nothing in the back seat that an arrestee might find and use as a weapon. The flimsy chain-link fence was the only thing separating the front of the car from the back. A knife or even a sharpened plastic fork could be easily jammed through the diamond-shaped openings.

Jimmy pulled on a pair of leather racing gloves as he watched her. “You gonna take all day?”

Kate locked the back seat into place with her knee. “Ready.”

He unclipped the transmitter from the back of his belt, then climbed
behind the wheel. He had to angle his leg because of his bum knee. When he shut the door, he gave Kate a challenging look, daring her to mention the injury.

Kate unclipped her transmitter. She rested it in her lap as opposed to between her legs, as Jimmy had. “I’m sorry about your partner.”

“Why? You didn’t know him.” He turned the key in the ignition. “Write this down, ’cause I ain’t gonna repeat it.” He put the gear in reverse, but didn’t move the car. “Where’s your notebook?”

“In my—” She cut to the point. “In the locker room.”

Jimmy slammed the gear back into park. “Go get it.”

Kate felt her cheeks burning again. “It’s in somebody else’s locker.”

“Motherfucker.”

Kate flinched at the word. She didn’t know why. She’d certainly heard it before.

Fortunately, Jimmy didn’t seem to notice her reaction. He leaned over and opened the glove box. Instinctively, Kate pulled away from him. He glared at her as he dropped a spare notebook on her lap. “First rule is, don’t leave your fucking notebook.”

She flipped the cover open to a blank sheet, but she didn’t have anything to write with.

“Christ.” Jimmy took a pen out of his pocket and threw it in her direction.

Kate missed the pen. Of course she missed it. She leaned down to retrieve it from the floor just as he backed up the car. The brim of her hat slammed into the dash, sending a slash of pain across her forehead. Kate felt something close to a swoon. Her vision blurred. Her stomach curdled.

Jimmy pulled out onto the road. “Write that down,” he said. “Never forget your notebook.”

Kate sat up. She pushed her hat back on her head. She was still seeing pricks of stars, but she clicked the pen, started writing:
Never forget your notebook
. She felt like an idiot, but she looked to him for more.