Frank Zafiro: And Every Man Has to Die

“Whatever.”

“It’s true. It ends up reeking like your ass in here.”

“That’s complete bullshit.”

“How would you know? You’re asleep when it happens.”

“More bullshit,” Battaglia said, shaking his head. “How do you live with yourself, making up all this stuff about people?”

“Adam-122?” chirped the radio.

Sully smiled. “Here comes a call.”

“Shit,” Battaglia muttered. “I’m starving.”

“You going to get that?”

Battaglia shook his head. “You’ve got a free hand there with your magic counting fingers. You answer it.”

“I’m driving.”

“What, Irishmen can’t multitask?”

“Adam-122?” the dispatcher repeated, slower and with more force. There was a brief battle of wills, then Sully reached for the mike. Battaglia snatched it off the holder first.

“Adam-122, go ahead,” Battaglia said, smirking at Sully.

“Feckin’ guinea,” Sully said.

Battaglia shot him the bird.

“ Adam-122, respond to 1409 West Grace. The fire department is on scene with a structure fire, requesting traffic control.”

“Wonderful,” Battaglia groused before raising the microphone to his lips. “Copy.”

Sully slowed, checked front and rear, and swung a U-turn.

“Just what we need tonight,” Battaglia complained, replacing the mike on its holder. “Perimeter duty while the fire mopes save another foundation.”

“And no time for Guillermo’s,” Sully added.

“Don’t rub it in.”

“I can swing through the Taco Shack on the way, if you want.”

“Shut up.”

“Really. It’s right on the way.”

“Just drive, bogtrotter.”

Sully smiled and cruised up Monroe. He hung a left on Northwest Boulevard. Battaglia rolled his window down and lifted his nose in the air. “It must be a good one. I can smell the smoke already.”

As he spoke, the unmistakable odor of a burning structure wafted in. “I’ll bet the hose jockeys are beside themselves,” Sully said. “A real working fire.”

The two remained silent until Sully guided the car onto Grace Street. Mid-block, a house was fully engulfed in orange flame. Firemen blasted the fire from two different directions, but it didn’t seem to have any effect.

“Damn,” Battaglia mumbled, staring at the burning home.

“No kidding,” Sully said. He took a deep breath and said, “I’ll drop you here. Why don’t you grab some of the cones and block off the street. I’ll take the car around to the other end of the block and park it there. That ought to keep things under control, traffic-wise.”

Battaglia nodded absently, then got out of the car. Sully popped the trunk and waited while his partner retrieved a small stack of orange traffic cones. Once Batts slammed the hood, he pulled away, drove his car around the block, and parked at the opposite end of Grace Street. He sat in the car for a few minutes, watching the fire from there. Firemen scrambled about the scene, though he didn’t entirely understand what they were up to. He figured it was the same with them watching police work.

Leaving his overhead rotators on, he got out of the car and wandered closer to the fire. Near one of the pumper trucks he encountered Battaglia staring down at the grass. Sully opened his mouth to tease his partner about abandoning his post. Then he followed Battaglia’s gaze and stopped short.

Lying on the grass, bathed in the flashing blue, red, and white light, were three still figures. Sully stared at them dumbly as his mind digested the scene. The largest of the figures was clearly an adult. Given the petite bone structure, Sully guessed her to be female. The two figures beside her were much smaller, clearly children. The tiniest one wore a diaper. Dark streaks covered all three bodies. The woman’s mouth hung open in a slack, silent cry.

Sully felt a stab in his chest. He took a deep, unsteady breath and glanced over at Battaglia. The dark-haired man stood stock-still, his gaze locked on the three bodies. “The children,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “They look almost like little dolls, don’t they?”

Sully’s mind flashed to Battaglia’s children: his daughter, Maggie, and baby son, Anthony Junior, were very close in age to the two on the grass. Sully reached out and clasped Batts on the shoulder, giving him a firm squeeze.

Without meeting Sully’s eyes, Battaglia reached up with his own hand and clasped Sully’s. His eyes glistened in the darkness as the flashing emergency lights splashed across his face. “Life’s so goddamn short to begin with,” he said, “and theirs just barely got started.”

There was nothing for Sully to say.

The two officers stood watch over the three still forms long after the flames burned themselves out, long after Sergeant Shen arrived, his normally impassive face shaded in sadness, and even after Lieutenant Saylor came on scene, his mouth a tight line. They stood by until the fire department’s arson investigator arrived and took control of the scene. Even then, the pair strode back to the patrol car reluctantly, as if somehow they were abandoning the tiny dolls on the lawn.

Monday, July 14th

0907 hours

Renee straightened her skirt for the third time in the last minute, then adjusted her short stack of paperwork so that the corners lined up exactly. She glanced up at the clock on the wall, which told her the same thing it had the last time she looked. As usual, the new chief of police was running late.

She took a deep, tai chi cleansing breath and let it out. She hated that presentations like this made her so nervous. She was confident in her information, her analysis, and her conclusions. So why did making a formal presentation get her so worked up?

The chief’s secretary, Charlotte, appeared in the doorway to mahogany row. A pleasant, dark-haired woman with bright eyes, Charlotte flashed a smile at Renee. “The chief is ready for you now,” she said.

Renee stood, tucking her small stack of papers under her arm. “Thanks.”

Charlotte nodded and motioned her forward. “I love your skirt,” she said as Renee walked past. “Is it new?”

Renee shook her head. “God, no.” She couldn’t remember the last time she bought something new. “I only wear it when I need to feel confident. And I’m not feeling very confident right now.” She smoothed the fabric, more to dry her clammy palms than to erase any wrinkles. “I’ve heard the new chief is a yeller,” she added in a whisper.

Charlotte chuckled and took Renee’s arm. “Well, his career in the army probably made him a bit rougher around the edges than we’re used to. But he’s fair. Eventually.”

“Eventually?”

Charlotte smiled. “Just give him what he needs to know. And remember that he’s used to people calling him ‘sir.’” At the closed door to the chief’s office, she paused and gave Renee another smile. “You’ll do fine,” she whispered.

Before Renee could thank her, Charlotte rapped twice on the door, paused a moment, and turned the knob. Then she stepped aside so that Renee could enter.

Renee walked into the office for the first time since the new occupant had moved in. She’d become quite comfortable with the former chief, a pleasant, contemplative man who’d always given her a ready ear. He’d kept his office decorated with a variety of personal and professional items, all of which had served to give the room a sense of who he was.

The stark emptiness of the office now surprised her. Aside from a couple of framed certificates on the wall behind him and a photograph of a young child on his desk, there were no other decorations to speak of. A few stock items, such as the US and Washington State flags and the department seal, kept the walls from being entirely bare.