Under a Raging Moon (17 page)

Or maybe she was fooling around with some guy. Who knew?

“Mrs. Wilson,” he recited, “this is a notice of infraction for failing to stop at a steady red light at Division and Indiana. Please sign here.” He held out the ticket book and a pen, indica
t
ing the line for her signature. “Signing is not an admission of guilt, only a promise to respond within fifteen days.”

“But that light was yellow,” she protested, not reaching for the pro
f
fered ticket book.

“It was red, ma’am.”

“Well, I would like to tell you my side of the story.”

“Ma’am, I don’t care about your side of the story. You failed to stop for the light. I am citing you. Please sign.” Kopriva did not raise his voice.

“That isn’t fair,” she told him. Her eyes narrowed and her face tig
h
tened.

“Ma’am, one of your options is to go to court and tell the judge your side of the story.”

“No. I won’t sign it.”

Kopriva paused, staring at her.

“I won’t sign it,” she repeated.

Kopriva suppressed a sigh. “Ma’am, if you do not sign this, I will be forced to write you a criminal cit
a
tion for failing to sign a notice of infraction. If you refuse to sign that, you will be booked into jail.”

She looked at him, obviously shocked at the word ‘jail.’ “Oh, that is just ridiculous.”

“It’s the law.”

She considered, and then reached for the ticket book. She angrily scrawled her name on the ticket. “I want your name and badge number,” she insisted.

“It’s on the ticket,” Kopriva told her, handing her the dri
v
er’s copy. He walked briskly back to his car.

Sitting behind the wheel, he shut off the spotlight with his left hand and punched the button to extinguish the bright take-down lights on top of the car. The woman signaled, paused, and pulled out into traffic. Kopriva slid the ticket in the visor above him.

He didn’t feel any better.

He reached for his mike to clear the stop when a shrill tone broke over his radio.

2215 hours

Patrol Captain Michael Reott sat at the head of the table. He’d just finished a short introduction outlining what he hoped to see any task force accomplish. He also covered some of the pitfalls he hoped such an endeavor would avoid. Lieutenant Hart, Lieutenant Saylor and Sgt. Michaels occupied seats at the table with him. Michaels sat in for the vacationing Lieutenant Powell.

“So what options do we have?” Reott said, signaling that he’d finished talking for awhile.

Hart pounced on the opening. “Sir, the media is skewering us over this. We need to be high profile on this task force. Back them off a little bit.”

Reott paused, considering the logic.

Saylor disagreed. “Cap, the newspaper is going to bash on us no matter what. That’s a given, but the tel
e
vision media has been pretty fair. I mean, the guy has gotten away with how many armed robberies? Fourteen, fifteen?”

“Fifteen,” Hart supplied.

“Fifteen, then,” Saylor allowed. “Plus, he’s shot at cops and now he’s killed a guy.”

“What’s your point, Rob?” Reott asked.

“The point is we have to get this sonofabitch before he kills someone else. Telling everyone that we are forming a task force takes away the element of surprise. If he watches TV and sees a news report, he’ll be more cautious. We need to capitalize on his carelessness.”

Reott considered, but did not commit. “What about the copy-cats?”

Hart jumped in. “A highly publicized effort on our part will deter further copy-cats. They will be too afraid of getting caught.”

“What’s to fear?” Saylor asked. “This guy is fifteen-for-fifteen.”

“And the only copy-cat is oh-for-one,” Hart shot back.

Saylor shrugged. “Even so, you can expect more copy-cats the longer this goes. Which is why we have to shut this guy down.”

Reott looked at Michaels, who gave a shrug. “We need to catch him, that’s all I know. What are the dete
c
tives doing? We don’t want to step on their operations.”

Hart spoke up again. “My plan won’t have any negative impact on whatever the investigative division is doing.”

“Which doesn’t look like much,” Saylor said wryly.

Reott shrugged. “They’ve been as successful as we have.” He motioned to Hart. “Lay out your plan.”

Hart beamed. “Thank you, Captain. My plan is to ask for volunteers during the hours Scarface has hit the most, twenty-two hundred to zero two hundred hours. Seven total cars. Five cars will sit off on particular stores. We’ll rotate which ones throughout the shift. At the same time, two cars will cruise between the five selected stores as a mobile response to augment patrol. Radio silence is to be observed. All units will use their regular call signs if they have to break radio silence. A code-word will be used, which will be given out at roll-call. If a surveilling unit sees a robbery shaping up, they get on the air, call the code-word and location. Instead of a time-delay, we get started before the robbery is even co
m
pleted.”

He leaned back, obviously pleased with his plan.

Saylor nodded his approval. “It’s a good plan. The unit on survei
l
lance has to be extra careful, though, as far as engaging the suspect. Keeping a visual on him would be best, even if he gets out of the store before patrol arrives. At least this way, we might get a good perimeter set up and force him to go to ground. Then we could bring in the K-9 for a track.”

Reott pursed his lips. “Okay, but do you foresee any liability issues with that unit basically watching a robbery take place?”

“No,” both lieutenants responded simultaneously. Saylor motioned for Hart to continue.

“It’s a matter of officer safety, sir,” Hart told him. “We can’t expect a plain-clothes officer to engage an armed robber with no back-up, if all he’s doing is taking the money. We might take some heat in the press, but we’d come out all right.”

“If the guy starts shooting, that’s a different story,” Saylor added. “No cop will stand by while that’s ha
p
pening.”

Reott, nodding, mulled over Hart’s explanation for a few moments, then looked at all three and continued. “I think we’ll go with Alan’s plan. It’s sounds like a good one and it’s better than the wait-and-react we’ve been doing.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hart said.

“Choose your people and brief them carefully,” Reott i
n
structed. “I’ll okay the overtime with the Chief.”

“And the media?” Hart asked.

Reott considered, “Let’s keep this quiet unless the word on the task force leaks out. Then we’ll invite them in and give them the inside scoop if they keep it quiet until we catch the guy. Make ’em an ally for once.”

Saylor and Hart both nodded. Reott felt a sense of acco
m
plishment for his diplomatic effort.

The phone rang. Michaels, being the junior man, automatically answered it. He listened for a few s
e
conds, then replaced the receiver.

“He just hit again,” the sergeant said. “Number sixteen. Time delay is only two minutes.”

Damn,
Reott thought.
This guy is making us all look like fools.
“Okay, Gentleman,” he said. “We have a plan. Do whate
v
er it takes to catch this guy. You have my full support.”

Interlude

Fall 1994

“I don’t really believe in counseling, doc. That’s all.”

“Why is that?” The doctor kept any hint of disapproval out of his voice.

The man shrugged. “I think that it is the refuge of the weak. A man should be able to deal with his own demons.”

“And a woman?”

“Same thing.”

The doctor paused, considering. Thirty minutes had passed in the session and although the officer had b
e
gun to open up, little had been acco
m
plished. He always had the option of requiring further sessions, but he knew full well how the admi
n
istrators at the Police Department would interpret that. Still, the officer’s mental health rated as his primary concern, not his law enforcement career.

“Every man is an island, then?” he asked the officer.

The officer nodded. “Who can you truly count on? I’ve been hung out to dry before.”

“Beginning when?” The doctor asked, think that perhaps a look at the officer’s childhood would reveal something notewo
r
thy.

The officer didn’t bite. “Let’s just say I learned to fend for myself a long time ago and leave it at that, all right?”

The doctor didn’t push the matter, though clearly something existed there. He returned to the previous point. “In your profession, you are required to help a variety of different people, correct? Many of whom are undeserving or whose irresponsibil
i
ty has caused the situation which you now must deal with. Am I right?”

The officer nodded. “Very accurate.”

“Okay,” the doctor continued. “So let’s say there is a woman. She is very young, gets married. Her hu
s
band is abusive, but she won’t or can’t leave him. Maybe she has caused the situation or maybe she hasn’t, but now she is stuck. He hits her. You come to the scene and arrest the husband for assault. She is now free to take action. She is no longer a prisoner of her own fear. There is a window of opportunity for her, and it is your action that empowered her. Is this accurate as well, officer?”

“Yes. Sometimes.”

“Was it wrong of you to help her?”

“No.”

“Wrong of her to accept your assistance?”

“Absolutely not.”

“So now she can face her own demons.” The doctor leaned back and watched the officer’s face.

The officer remained impassive. Finally, he sighed. “I see your point.”

“Good.”

There was a pause, then the officer asked, “You want to hear som
e
thing?”

“Of course.”

“I’m a little angry at the administration. They haven’t stood by me very well. And I did nothing wrong.”

The doctor detected bitterness in the officer’s voice. He could also sense a great deal more under the su
r
face, but he expected that and didn’t see a problem with it.

“Go on.”

“Nothing more to say on that, doc. They should have been calling a press conference and damning the newspaper for the accusations it made. Instead, they open an IA investigation? And do you know the questions they asked me in IA? They all but called me a racist. It’s one thing coming from the jackals at the newspaper. It’s something else entirely when it comes from your own agency.” The officer shook his head. “I did my job and this is my thanks.”

“But you are here.”

“So?”

“So you do not intend to resign over it.”

The officer paused. “Probably not. Maybe.” He sighed heavily. “I don’t know.”

The doctor watched him for several long moments as the officer stared at his own shoes. He cast a surre
p
titious glance at his watch and decided to get to the heart of the matter.

“Tell me about the man you killed, officer.”

The officer looked up then, steel and fury in his eyes. “He tried to kill me. He’s dead. What else do you want to know?”

EIGHT

Tuesday, August 23rd

Day Shift

1614 hours

Karl Winter tucked his shirt into his pants and buckled his belt. The jangling sound carried in the quiet locker room. Winter had caught a late DV call that turned into a huge mess. He’d only just finished the pape
r
work. As he changed, he’d been watching Sgt. David Poole, who sat on the long bench that ran down the center of the aisle between the lockers. He’d been there when Winter walked in at the end of the shift. He continued to sit and stare at his open locker, completely lost in thought, the entire time Winter changed his clothes only five lockers away.

“Sarge?” Winter finally said. “You okay?”

Poole turned slowly to face him but didn’t answer.

Winter’s eyes narrowed with concern.

“Dave?”

“I’m fine, Karl.” Poole answered in a dry, croaking voice. “Just tired. Lots of reports to read at the end of shift.”

Winter knew that was a lie but decided not to push too hard. “Sorry. Mine was one of them. Listen, the guys went over to Duke’s for choir pra
c
tice right after shift. Throw back a few beers, you know?”

“Good,” Poole said in an empty tone.

Winter cleared his throat. “Uh, they’re probably still there. I’m headed over as soon as I get changed. You want to come along?”

Poole shook his head wordlessly and returned to staring at his locker.

Winter stood uncomfortably for a long moment. He d
e
bated asking Poole a second time but knew the next response he got would be less than kind.

He left wordlessly, with Poole still staring darkly into his locker.

2108 hours

Katie MacLeod walked along the row of cars parked in the basement and tossed her black equipment bag onto the front seat of the police patrol car assigned to her. She withdrew her flashlight and placed it in the charger/holder right below the radio. Her side-handle baton went into the small holder in the driver’s door. She then seat-belted the equipment bag into the passenger’s seat, leaving the pockets with her logbook, ticket books and report notebook accessible without having to un-belt the bag.

She took a quick walk around the exterior to check for any damage, finding nothing but dirt. Using the button located in the driver’s door, she popped open the trunk and checked the contents, which she knew by rote. Fire extinguisher, blanket, first aid kit, teddy bear, flex cuffs, rubber gloves and a box of double-ott buck shotgun shells. She removed the shells and closed the trunk. She preferred to have the extra ammo up front where she could get to it quicker.

Once in the driver’s seat, she opened the glove compartment and put the shotgun shells inside. She saw a small city map inside, some hand disinfectant gel and someone’s candy wra
p
per. She grabbed the wrapper and tossed it in the small litter bag next to the transmission hump.

Katie turned the key to the on position. The radio booted up, signaled ready and displayed the word ‘North’ for channel one. She hit the shotgun release button and pulled the 12-gauge from the upright holder between the two seats. Stepping out of the car, she unloaded the four shells inside, cleared the weapon by chec
k
ing the chamber visually, then racking it four times in quick succession. The small bandoleer on the stock held five shells. Pointing the shotgun at the empty concrete wall of the basement sally port, Katie did a tactical reload. If she were to use the gun, she would chamber one round, then immediately replace with one from the band
o
leer. This gave the “street howitzer” five rounds loaded and four on the bandoleer.

As Katie stepped lightly back to the car to replace the shotgun, she saw Matt Westboard removing his from the patrol car in front of her.

“Three-ninety-seven,” he said to her with a grin, pointing to his car with his free hand. He was referring to the patrol car’s fleet number, Katie knew.

“So?” She replied, trying to appear disinterested, but she knew exac
t
ly what he was driving at.

“So? So, I’ve got the queen of the fleet here. Only eighteen hundred miles.” He motioned toward Katie’s car. “That one’s got about a hundred and eighteen thousand on it.”

Katie shrugged, trying not to smile. “Four wheels and a s
i
ren are all I need.”

“How about a horse and buggy, then? Probably faster than that toilet.”

“You just cost yourself a free cup of coffee.” Katie leaned into her car and snapped the shotgun into place, closing the large metal clip that held it securely. Westboard was saying something that she couldn’t make out, but she ignored him, testing her overhead rotator blue-and-reds, her alley lights and her overhead takedown lights. Then she turned on her spotlight and shined it right in Westboard’s face. He smiled, closing his eyes and turning away. Even in the room-level light of the basement, the power of the spotlight was impressive.

Katie snapped the spotlight off after a few torturous moments, then exited her vehicle.

“Anything else you want to say about my car, Westboard?”

Westboard laid the shotgun across his front seat and pretended to be grabbing at floating balls in the air. “I’m blinded by the light,” he sang.

“Doofus,” Katie muttered with a grin. She opened her back door and searched her back seat thoroughly to ensure that nothing had been left in there from the previous shift. She did this, as did everyone, before and after anyone was in the seat. If someone had dumped something in the car, it could be attributed to the proper owner. Especially if the item were contr
a
band, which was usually the case.

Her pre-flight checks complete, Katie returned to the driver’s seat and adjusted the seat position and mi
r
rors. Wes
t
board resumed checking his own car into service. In her rear-view mirror, she could see the newest rookie, Jack Willow, checking and double-checking everything. Well, she had done the same thing while she was in training, hadn’t she?  You couldn’t afford to make a lot of mistakes during that phase. Truth be told, you couldn’t
ever
afford to make a lot of mistakes on this job. Sometimes not even one.

When she looked forward again, Westboard was pulling out of the sally port and up the ramp. She shook her head in amazement. She’d ridden with him a few times and he could check a car into service faster than anyone she knew.

Katie started the car and drove carefully out the sally port and up the ramp. When she turned onto the street, she hit her yelp siren, then the wail siren and air horn; three short bursts to verify each worked. The poor troops on Days and Swings weren’t allowed to blast their siren and air horn because court was in session, but on Gr
a
veyard they were able to blast away.

Last, she checked the intercom, which she tested just by turning it on and clicking the mike. It was fun
c
tional. She turned it off.

Her eyes swept the gauges on the dashboard. Everything was fine except her fuel gauge, which showed at three-eighths of a tank. She frowned.
You can’t tell me the swing-shift officers are too busy to turn in the cars gassed up and ready to go.

She keyed the mike. “Adam-116, in service.”

“Adam-116, go ahead.”

“Officer 407, driving vehicle 341, also.”

“Copy. Go ahead your also.”

“If I’m clear, I need to go signal-five for fuel.” Signal-five meant the city garage where the gas pumps were.

“Copy. You are clear, but I have a neighborhood dispute holding.”

Katie sighed. “Neighborhood disputes” were the bane of swing shift. There weren’t as many on grav
e
yard, but they sometimes popped up early in the shift. A Neighborhood Dispute usually meant some old woman saying “So-and-so pulled my flowers” or two sets of feuding parents called because little Johnny hit little Billy and now they want the little criminal a
r
rested. Seldom was there any law enforcement action that could be taken, and it resulted in an incredible drain on an officer’s time, but it had to be endured. Most of these people were the ones who actually paid taxes and they wanted police service. Since it might be the only time they saw their police department in action unless they were on the receiving end of a traffic citation, all officers were
explicitly
co
m
manded to go and investigate thoroughly and to make everyone as happy as possible. Often, the same call wouldn’t even be dispatched later on in the graveyard shift, or might be dealt with in five minutes if it were. This call was probably a swing shift holdover.

“Go ahead your dispute,” Katie told radio.

“1119 W. Prudence. Caller states neighbor children are harassing her son. Also states the parent of the harassing children encourages it. 1119 W. Prudence.”

“Copy. I’ll be en route when I clear signal-five.”

2125 hours

Just a few minutes into his shift, Thomas Chisolm was already bored. He heard MacLeod get dispatched to a neighbo
r
hood dispute, which told him it was going to be a slow night. Worse yet, a slow night allowed his mind to wander. And it never wandered down bright, sunny paths littered with rose petals and butterflies, either.

The Scarface situation had him frustrated. He’d been on his night off or tied up on other calls during the last few robberies. As many times as the guy was getting away, Chisolm was beginning to think that the robber would never be caught. He remembered that Hart’s task force started tomo
r
row. Despite his dislike for the man and his suspicions of his ulterior motives, Chisolm was glad to see that something was going to be done which was a little more proactive rather than reactive.

Despite his dark thoughts, his mood had remained steady as the shift progressed. He never stayed d
e
pressed too deeply for too long, not even in ‘Nam. He had a serious, dark nature from his father but he also believed that his mother’s indomitable good cheer kept him on an even keel when it came to brooding.

Except for those ghosts,
a voice inside his mind reminded him.

Shut up,
whispered another.

Before an argument could begin, Chisolm swung into an alley. Two transients were seated with their backs to the wall, both holding brown paper bags. One made a clumsy attempt to hide his bottle beneath his coat. A third transient stood a few feet away, his back partially turned to Chisolm. In the flood of light now bathing the alley, Chisolm could see a stream of urine splattering against the wall.

He hit his overhead lights and grabbed the microphone, glad for the diversion. “Adam-112, I’ll be in the alley behind the Army Surplus store on Indiana with three transients. Code four.”

“Copy, Adam-112.”

Chisolm got out of the car and walked slowly up to the group. The urinating transient had finished and was struggling to zip up his pants.

“Evening, gentlemen.” Chisolm drawled, keeping all of their hands in sight.

“Evening, sir,” slurred the standing transient, who Chisolm now thought of as Pissing Man.

“Evening,” the other two muttered, both nodding.

“Seems we have a crime wave here,” Chisolm observed.

“What, sir?” Pissing Man asked.

Chisolm pointed at him. “That’s Lewd Conduct. Specifically, urinating in public.” He pointed at the sea
t
ed two. “And
that
is Open and Consume Alcohol in Public.”

None of the men made any denials. The two-seated men remained still, eyeing Chisolm carefully. Pissing Man stood in place, swaying noticeably.

“Sorry, sir,” he finally said.

“Anyone have ID?” Chisolm asked.

The three looked around at one another, then each shook his head.

“No worries,” Chisolm said. He took out his note pad and asked each man for his name and birth date. They gave the information without hesit
a
tion or grumbling. As Chisolm checked the names on the data channel, he realized one of the seated men looked familiar. He stared at him for a few moments before he realized why. The transient looked almost exactly like, his old Army buddy, Bobby Ramirez.

The man shifted uncomfortably under Chisolm’s gaze. “What’re you loo
k
ing at, man?”

Chisom grinned. “Sorry. You remind of an old friend.”

“I ain’t never met you before, sir,” the man replied softly.

Just like Bobby,
Chisolm thought. Or at least how Bobby would look today. “So where are you guys from?” he asked while waiting for the names to come back.

“Houston,” the other seated men said.

“I,” pronounced Pissing Man, “am from... Sheer... Seeer... fucking S
y
racuse.”