The Trophy Exchange (9 page)

“
Yes, sir.
”
What does that question mean?

“
Take them with you when you leave the office today.
”

Omigod. They’re firing me. I threatened them. And they’re firing me.
She struggled to suppress the intense nausea that rocked her gut and rose in her throat.

“
Tomorrow morning at 0700, you
’
ll report to
Commander
Bullock for reassignment to patrol.
”

For a moment she
’
d stood still fearing what she heard were not his words but just the product of her own wishful thinking.

“
Did you hear me, Pierce?
”

“
No. Yes. Of course. My job. I get it back?
”

“
Yes. Commander Bullock. 0700.
”

“
Thank you, sir.
”

“
Congratulations, Pierce. But don
’
t celebrate overlong. You
’
ll need to stay on top of every situation, every day. You screw up once and they
’
ll drag you down like wounded prey.
”

Nine

In the same week that Lucinda returned to active duty, Ellen and Ted learned that their third child was on the way. They were delighted with the news. From the beginning, they wanted four children and now they were more than halfway there.

This pregnancy was more difficult than the first two for Ellen. From the start, her morning sickness was more intense and often lasted all day. Her mood swings kept her and everyone around her off-balance and on edge.

Jealousy etched like acid in her gut every time Ted mentioned an encounter with Lucinda. In logical moments, she told herself her hormones were mucking up her thinking.
If Ted had anything to hide
, she thought,
he wouldn
’
t ever mention Lucinda
’
s name
.

At other times, her emotions trumped all logic and she snapped at Ted when he updated her on Lucinda
’
s recovery or praised her in any way. Soon, Ted got the message and stopped speaking about Lucinda altogether.

That fueled Ellen
’
s paranoia even more. She spent hours in rage-filled wonder, worrying about what he was hiding, what they were doing, when Ted would leave her. Then, logic would reassert itself and she
’
d smile in recognition of Ted
’
s continued affection and unflagging show of consideration. By the final month of her pregnancy, she settled into an even and serene keel. She relaxed in gestational contentment and basked in Ted
’
s love.

The couple went to the doctor
’
s office together for Ellen
’
s prenatal examination at eight-and-a-half months. Ted held her hand as she lay on the table, her bulging belly hiding the doctor from her view until he stood up and placed a stethoscope on her stomach. As he moved the instrument across her skin, his brow furrowed and the creases deepened. Apprehensive, Ellen turned to Ted, her lips tight, her brow wrinkled. Ted squeezed her hand and smiled. She relaxed her face, took a deep breath and beamed back at him until the doctor raised his head.

He looked back and forth at the couple, cleared his throat and said,
“
We have a problem. I can
’
t find the baby
’
s heartbeat.
”

The rest of the day was a blur. At the end of all the procedures, prayers and physical exertion, only tears and heartache remained. Their baby was dead.

Ted and Ellen stumbled in numb lockstep through the next few days as friends and family helped plan the funeral, order the tiny white coffin and take care of the other two children. Ted pulled out of his stupor first and reached out to comfort Ellen. She resisted, afraid to believe he still loved her after the loss of his child. He persisted in his efforts, melting the barriers and regaining her trust. They sobbed in each other
’
s arms, day after day as they talked through the pain. Ellen didn
’
t believe her hurt would ever go away, but with Ted by her side, she thought it just might be bearable.

About a month after the baby
’
s death, she noticed Ted staring into his top dresser drawer.
Odd
, she thought.
I
’
ve seen him doing that quite often lately
.
“
Looking for something?
”
she asked.

Ted started and jumped.
“
Oh no,
”
he said, shuffling inside the drawer before shoving it closed.

“
Is something wrong, Ted?
”

“
Oh, no. No. Just lost in thought. Well, I
’
ve got to get to work.
”
He kissed her on the forehand and headed for the door.

When Ellen heard his car pull way, she opened the drawer that had him so entranced. At first, she saw only balled-up socks and folded boxer shorts.
How could underwear and footwear captivate his attention so thoroughly?
she wondered.

Idly, she shifted around the contents of his drawer and then she saw it. A charge of static-like electricity sparked in the tip of her finger, raced up her arm and nestled on the top of her head. A snapshot of Lucinda – the one he used to carry in his wallet – lay in the bottom of the drawer. Beneath it, a newspaper clipping with her photo in a news article.

When Ted returned home that evening, he didn
’
t understand the hostility that rose from Ellen like waves of heat from a summer road. He asked her about it, but she would not explain. When he reached out to her, she rebuffed his touch. At night, she turned her back to him and clung to the edge of the bed.

Ellen was non-responsive but she was alert. She watched Ted intently, looking for signs that he was about to leave, to toss her aside and run to Lucinda the Invincible.
Even now, with her face disfigured and hideous, Ted wants Lucinda more than he wants me.

She imagined the worst – a torrid affair. She was convinced everyone in the department knew and they
were
all laughing at her behind her back. Even worse, she imagined Ted laughing at her while he nestled in Lucinda
’
s naked arms. Ellen
’
s resentment toward her husband and his old girlfriend festered and grew.

Ten

Lucinda took the city attorney
’
s advice to heart. She strove harder, worked longer hours, some of it off the clock. Every report filed was precise. Every regulation followed. Every policy obeyed. No short cuts. Ever.

She studied hard and took the lieutenant
’
s test, earning her gold shield and a transfer into Homicide. The rest of her life was dead, but she was born again in the investigation of death.

When the young boy died at Lucinda
’
s hand, Internal Affairs took her work away. The captain assigned all her cases to other investigators. The bureaucrats chained her to her desk. Night after night, she returned from another fruitless day and poured out her pain, her frustration, her emptiness to Chester. She sat for hours, patting his head, scratching his chin, stroking the length of his soft gray back and white belly. As she poured out the contents of her fevered soul into his ears, he purred. He purred through all three months of her exile in the seventh circle of hell.

He didn
’
t even mind when she hugged him tight as the memory of that dreadful day ran through her mind again. Dawn was just breaking in the post-Second World War housing boom neighborhood of old brick terraced houses on that sultry summer morning. A lone jogger pounded her way down the pavement. The air was already thick with humidity. The day promised to be unbearable once the sun rose high in the sky.

The neighborhood was quiet, its hush broken only by the echoing slaps of the runner
’
s feet on the sidewalk. From a distance, she spotted large shapes on the lawn of the end house on the corner lot. They looked out of place. As she got closer, her strides shortened, her pace slowed. Then she came to a complete stop. The shapes were bodies – the bodies of a woman and a young girl. She stepped on to the grass, knelt by the adult and pressed her fingers to the woman
’
s throat.

The coldness of the skin repulsed her. She found no pulse. She saw no sign of life. She looked over at the little girl but could not bear the thought of touching a child in death. She slipped her cellphone out of her pocket and punched 9-1-1.

Black-and-whites and two fire and rescue emergency vehicles swarmed the block
, then
the assistant coroner
arrived in
he
r marked white panel truck
.
She
knelt by the body of the child and turned her face up to speak to Lucinda when
suddenly
the first shot rang out from the window by the front door. The bullet hit the assistant coroner right above her left ear. Lucinda hit the ground and drew her gun. She wrapped an arm around the injured woman and crawled on one elbow dragging them both toward the house and under the cover of a scruffy line of boxwoods.

Lucinda saw the two bodies on the lawn jump from impact as more shots rang out. She checked the assistant coroner
’
s pulse – nothing. Silence slapped the street. Then the muffled voices and electronic squawks of radio communication peppered the air.

“
Lieutenant?
”

Lucinda raised her head and saw Sergeant Ted Branson across the lawn on the side of the street.

“
Yes,
”
she responded.

“
Were you hit?
”

“
No. But the coroner
’
s down. I think she
’
s gone. Who
’
s the shooter?
”

The first responding officer stood up from his crouched position behind his car.
“
We thought the house was empty, Loot. We knocked, rang the doorbell, no response.
”

A loud shattering of glass broke off their conversation. The first responder didn
’
t take cover fast enough. A bullet passed through his shoulder and knocked him to the ground. A flurry of fire followed. The rear window of one patrol car shattered. The tire of another vehicle blew out with a bang. Bullets pinged into the sides of several cars and thunked into the trunks of trees.

On the opposite corner a bevy of neighbors gathered, too far away for the shooter
’
s aim but close enough to get hit by a stray or ricocheted bullet. Lucinda waved them back but no one there paid any attention to her.

She crawled to the corner of the house and looked down the side. She saw the tip of a weapon sticking out of a basement level window. She rolled, sprung to her feet, rose to a crouched shooter
’
s stance. The early morning sun glared on the remains of the window. She could not see the person with the weapon. She just aimed down the barrel of the shooter
’
s rifle and pulled the trigger. The thunderclap of the discharged bullet filled the air. She dropped and rolled back to the cover of the front of the house.

As she moved, she heard a thud. Got him, she thought. She closed her eye to focus her ears on any sounds in the house. She heard nothing.

Once again, Ted shouted out.
“
Are you
okay
, Lieutenant?
”

“
Yes.
”

“
Were you hit?
”

“
No. But I think the shooter was.
”

“
Sit tight, Lieutenant. SWAT
’
s on the way.
”

Lucinda
’
s head jerked. She heard something. Footsteps. Ascending footsteps. The slam of the door.
“
He
’
s out of the basement,
”
she shouted to Ted.

She strained to hear any other sounds of movement. For a few moments, the house was quiet. Then she heard muffled treads again.

“
I think he
’
s headed to the second floor.
”

Above her head, she heard a loud screech, the sound of a seldom opened window being forced up on tracks desperate for oil.
“
Take cover,
”
she shouted as she pressed her body tight against the wall.

A plummeting object flashed past her line of vision. It hit the lawn with a sickening thump. Small bare feet. Navy blue shorts. Tiny baby blue T-shirt. It was the body of a small boy. He couldn
’
t have been more than two or maybe three years old. An ugly red splotch bloomed in the center of his forehead. A large diaper pin attached a white piece of paper to the front of his T-shirt. In red crayon, bold letters proclaimed:
“
This is my son. I didn
’
t do him. Cops did.
”

Nausea threatened to eject the three cups of coffee Lucinda had inhaled that morning on the way to work.
“
Cops did
”
That meant her, she knew. She shot that child. She killed that little boy. Her ears roared so loud she didn
’
t hear the final shot fired from inside the house. It wasn
’
t another round from the semi-automatic rifle. This time, the trigger was pulled on a .45 caliber revolver. That bullet only traveled a short distance: down the barrel of the gun, into the mouth and out the back of the head of the shooter.