RCC03 - Beneath a Weeping Sky (14 page)

“Let’s,” Chisolm said stiffly, folding his hands in front of him.

Hart was staring down at his notes and didn’t notice. “What is your current assignment, Officer?”

“Patrol.”

“Were you working last night?”

“I was.”

“Did you respond to assist Officer MacLeod on a call?”

“Probably more than one,” Chisolm replied evenly.

“This would have been at 2325 hours.”

“That’s a very precise time.”

Hart looked up. “It is, Officer. Do you recall responding to assist Officer MacLeod at that time?”

“No,” said Chisolm. “Why don’t you refresh my memory?”

“It was at Northgate.”

Chisolm raised his eyebrows in recognition. “Ah. Then yes.”

“You remember now?”

“Yes.”

“Did you respond Code-3?”

“We don’t tend to call it Code-3 anymore, Lieutenant.”

“What?”

“Lights and siren?” Chisolm answered. “We don’t usually call it Code-3 anymore. We’re moving to plain language on the radio. We just say ‘responding code’ now.”

“Well—”

“That’s probably changed since they moved you out of patrol,” Chisolm added.

“What?” Hart’s jaw clenched. He glared at Chisolm.

The veteran officer kept his face impassive, despite the howling laughter he felt inside. “I’m just letting you know. I think it’s a recent change.”

“Fine,” Hart said, biting off the word. “Thank you. Now—”

“Since you were moved out of patrol, I mean,” Chisolm said.

Hart stopped and stared daggers at Chisolm. Chisolm maintained a calm exterior.

You got nothing, Hart,
he thought.
And you never will.

Hart cleared his throat. “Did you have on your lights and siren, Officer?”

“No, Lieutenant, I did not.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t need to.”

“Why not?”

“Traffic was light to non-existent. I was able to respond safely without activating my emergency equipment.”

“So you sped.”

Chisolm shrugged. “I don’t know. I responded quickly and effectively, though.”

“What if I told you that a citizen saw you driving recklessly?”

“I wasn’t driving recklessly.”

Hart ignored him. “What if this citizen paced you at almost fifty miles an hour?”

“What if worms had .45s?”

“Huh?” Hart cocked his head at Chisolm.

“I said, what if worms had .45s?” Chisolm allowed himself a slight grin.

Hart shook his head slowly in confusion.

“Well,” Chisolm said, “if worms had .45s, then birds wouldn’t fuck with them.”

The blood left Hart’s face. Chisolm had seen this before. It usually presaged an outburst. He waited patiently for the storm to hit.

But the lieutenant seemed to bite back whatever had been rising up inside of him. Instead, he said in clipped tones, “That’s very unprofessional, Officer. And it doesn’t answer my question.”

Chisolm considered. “Well, if what the citizen said is true, then I’d say he was driving recklessly to keep up with me.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I’d say it’s pretty important, since he had no reason whatsoever to be speeding. If I was speeding, it was to assist an officer. What’s his excuse?”

Hart shook his head. “No. He’s the citizen. We serve the citizenry. You don’t get to question him. He was monitoring your poor behavior.”

Chisolm snorted. “Did you bother to look up the call that MacLeod was on?”

“Of course I did.”

“It was a rape,” Chisolm said, ignoring him. “And the second one that was stranger-to-stranger this week.”

“So?”

“So?”
Chisolm’s eyes flew open. “So I figured that I was best serving the public to get to the call quickly.”

“Without using your lights,” Hart stated.

“There was no need.”

“And speeding.”

Chisolm shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I don’t say so,” Hart said. “A citizen is saying so. Someone who pays our wages, Officer Chisolm.”

Chisolm nodded slowly. “I see. And who is this stand-up citizen?”

“That’s not important.”

“
I
think it’s important.”

“What you think isn’t—”

“I have a right to know who my accuser is,” Chisolm insisted. “In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s policy.”

Hart paused, then shrugged. “Fine. But understand that any retaliation on your part will be actionable.”

Chisolm held up his hands, palms up.

“Just so we’re clear, then,” Hart said. He turned a page in his notes. “The complainant’s name is Marty Heath.”

Chisolm sat still for a moment, then his jaw dropped. “Marty
Heath
?”

Hart nodded.

“The same Marty Heath that lives in the apartments off of Euclid?”

Hart glanced down at this notes. “Yes. How did you know that?”

Chisolm shook his head in disgust. “He’s a child molester. I served registration papers on him about six months ago.”

Hart stared back at Chisolm, disbelieving.

“He raped a little girl in his basement after he kidnapped her,” Chisolm said.

“Raped?” Hart asked, his voice faltering.

“Yeah,” Chisolm snarled. “He snatched her and raped her. Then he went to prison. Now he lives just a few feet beyond the legal distance he is required to be away from an elementary school.”

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t check his record?”

Hart held up the snapshots of Chisolm’s vehicle. “He had pictures. He said—”

“He’s a scumbag rapist piece of shit,” Chisolm said.

“Officer, that’s not—”

“We’re done here,” Chisolm said, standing up. “If you want to rip me for supposedly speeding based on the word of this lowlife, go for it.”

Hart swallowed, unable to reply.

Chisolm turned and stalked from the room.

What an asshole,
he thought. That thought was quickly followed by,
Seems like old times.

Chisolm smiled slightly as he left the Internal Affairs office.

2043 hours

“You want a beer, hon?”

Tower looked up from his hands. Stephanie stood at the glass slider door with a pair of Kokanee bottles in her hand.

“Sure,” he said.

She stepped outside onto the small patio and slid the door closed. When she settled into the chair next to him, she proffered one of the beers. He took it wordlessly.

The two sat in silence for several minutes. Tower sipped his beer and listened as Stephanie sipped hers. After a while, he became aware of her shivering, despite wearing his bulky sweater.

“You can go inside,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shivering.”

“It’s the beer, that’s all.”

“Steph, you’re cold. Go inside.”

“I want to sit with you.”

Tower glanced over. “It’s okay. You can go inside.”

Stephanie responded by pulling the large sweater close to her and drawing her knees to her chest. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Stephanie sighed. “You’re such a guy, John.”

“Should I say thank you?”

“If you had a hole in your chest, you’d deny it was bleeding.”

“Only if it wasn’t.”

“It is,” Stephanie said. “Now what’s the matter?”

Tower shrugged. “Just work.”

“I figured that. What specifically?”

It was Tower’s turn to sigh. “I caught a couple of rapes.”

“That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s the big deal—wait! Do you mean that one on the news? The Rainy Rapist or whatever?”

Tower nodded glumly. “That’s the one.”

“Oh, John,” Stephanie said. “That’s scary. Some strange guy out there raping women? It makes every woman worry.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

“Are you going to catch him soon?”

“I’m trying.”

“Are you close?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Jesus!” Tower stood suddenly and drained the beer. He fixed Stephanie with a tight, cold smile. “Well, I’m fucking trying, all right?”

He strode to the sliding door and flung it open. Once inside, he didn’t know where to go, so he stalked into the kitchen and then stomped down the hall to the bedroom. The stalking and the stomping didn’t make him feel any better, so he slammed the door.

The slamming felt good. He took a few deep breaths.

What the hell?

The thought floated through his mind as he stood next to the bed. His pulse pounded in his neck. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared down at his feet. Why was he so stressed? He’d had tough cases before. Hell, the Dugger case last year had been a huge burden. Missing child? That brought some serious pressure. So why was this getting to him?

He knew the answer, of course. This one was all his. No partner. And the guy was still out there, planning his next attack. That is, if he planned. Either way, he was a ticking time bomb. And all he could do at this point was sit and wait for that bomb to go off.

Tower took another deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly through his mouth.

Relax.

Nothing more you can do tonight.

He took another breath.

I want to catch this son of a bitch.

Another breath.

Stephanie didn’t deserve that outburst, he realized. For that matter, neither did Renee earlier in the day. Both of them were trying to help him. He shouldn’t have treated them so poorly.

He drifted into the facts of the case again. He ran through the facts that he did know, the precious few things he could say he knew for sure. What did they reveal? Nothing of value. So what were his options? He could wear out shoe leather, a la Crawford. Or he could hope that Renee got lucky with her computer searches. But if one of those approaches didn’t yield some results quickly, he knew his next step was going to be to simply wait for this guy to strike again.

Great police work, John.

He drove his fist into his palm. He hated this feeling of impotence that coursed through him. There had to be something he could do.

Renee’s words came back to him. She wanted him to use his imagination. That meant trying to climb inside the mind of this sick fuck. He didn’t relish the prospect of doing that. Still, maybe she had a point.

The sound of the door opening caused him to look up. Stephanie stood in the doorway. Her eyes were wet with tears, but her mouth formed a tight, angry line.

“John, I know you’re under stress, but –”

He stood and stepped toward her.

“—there’s no reason for you to take it out on me.”

He reached out to her and pulled her into his arms. “You’re right, Steph. I’m sorry.”

“I was only trying to help,” she said, her voice dissolving into a squeak. He felt her shoulders hitch.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Stephanie cried into his chest.

They stood in the bedroom, finding each other in the silence.

SEVEN

Wednesday, April 17th

GRAVEYARD SHIFT

2119 hours

“If I knew anything more about it,” Sergeant Shen told Sully and Battaglia, “I’d tell you. All I know is that Lieutenant Hart wants to see you both at 0600 hours tomorrow morning. He didn’t say what it was about.”

“Both of us?” Sully asked.

Shen nodded. “Both.”

“Do we need Union representation?”

Shen shrugged. “Your call. You’re entitled if you want it.”

Sully glanced over at Battaglia. “Who’s the Graveyard Union rep?”

Battaglia shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

Sully looked back at Shen. “Did he say if we were a witness or an accused?”

Shen shook his head. “I told you everything I know. Zero six hundred tomorrow. That’s it. Anything you want to tell me?”

“No,” Sully said.

“No,” Battaglia said.

Shen looked from one officer to the other. “Then you’re dismissed.”

Sully and Battaglia turned in unison and left the office.

“It’s that fucking gnome,” Battaglia whispered as they headed down the hallway outside the sergeant’s office.

Sully shushed him.

“I’m telling you—”

“Shhhh.”

Battaglia reluctantly stopped talking.

When they reached the basement, Sully finally spoke. “I told you that guy would complain.”

Battaglia opened up the trunk and tossed in his patrol bag. “So?”

“So, now we’re in hot water.”

“That guy was an asshole.”

“So were we.”

Battaglia shrugged. “It’s small time, Sully.”

“That’s why Hart wants to see us?”

Battaglia snorted. “Hart will make a mountain out of a mole-hill.”

“True,” Sully agreed. “But he’ll make sure you get suspended for that mole-hill, too.”

Battaglia nodded. “You’re right. Now let’s go work.”

Sully stared at him in surprise. “How can you shrug it off like that?”

Battaglia removed his side handle baton and slid it into the holder on the passenger side of the patrol car. Then he looked up at Sully. “I figure, what the hell can I do about it now? So let’s go work.”

Sully met his gaze, his mind processing Battaglia’s words. Then he shrugged, too. “You’re right.”

“I know.”

“Let’s go.”

Battaglia nodded. “Now you’re talking. And you know what?”

“What?”

“Screw Hart,” Battaglia said.

Sully smiled. “Yeah. You’re right. Screw him.”

Battaglia nodded again and dropped into the passenger seat. While Sully checked the exterior of the vehicle, Battaglia loaded the shotgun and racked a round into the chamber. Between the two of them, the car was ready for service in less than two minutes.

Without a word, Sully fired up the engine. As they zipped out of the basement and up the ramp, Battaglia cycled the lights, sirens and the air horn.

They headed out into the night.

Thursday, April 18th

0129 hours

Katie MacLeod cruised slowly toward the call without any urgency. According to Radio, some mental guy was breaking up his house, talking with Mental Health, and then the line went dead. Katie was cautious when dealing with mentals, or Forty-eights, as they were called in police jargon. It seemed like they were always doing some whacked-out thing or another. In most cases, it was impossible to reason with them. But the majority of them were too smart to be manipulated, too. She just hoped that this one hadn’t cut himself or done something foolish like that.