Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

“This sucks,” she said.

She wasn’t surprised that she missed being at work. What did surprise her was how much she missed it. She missed the feel and smell of her wool uniform and the leather of her belt. She missed the reassuring weight of her gear on her waist. The anticipation of the possibilities that awaited her on each shift. The opportunity to make a difference. The uncertainty. The chance for action.

More than that, she missed the camaraderie of roll call. Saylor’s confident leadership. Chisolm’s steady presence. The twins cracking wise in their terrible accents. Matt Westboard’s quiet diligence. Hell, she even missed Kahn’s gruffness.

She looked down at her swollen, discolored foot. Six to eight weeks, minimum. That’s what the doctor told her. And that was if they didn’t have to operate. If she didn’t need a pin or two to hold things together.

Katie frowned. She didn’t belong on the couch. She belonged in a police cruiser.

On the television, a crew of doctors and nurses rushed to the bedside of a dying patient. They worked feverishly, the actors spouting jargon that Katie didn’t understand. But the sense of purpose and the unity of action that the entire team exhibited only made her feel worse.

She reached for the remote and changed the channel. Maybe there was some sappy romantic comedy on one of the movie channels. At least there was nothing in her life she could compare that to.

Katie MacLeod flipped through her cable stations, wondering how there could be a hundred and seven channels and nothing on.

2304 hours

Graveyard Shift

The belch came out as a wet, flapping croak. Battaglia glanced over at Sully, his gaze a mixture of concern and disgust. “You feeling all right?”

Sully shook his head. “My stomach is bugging me.”

Battaglia sniffed the air. “Whew. Now it’s bugging me. Roll down your window.”

Sully hit the power switch and slid his window down halfway.

“You want me to drive?” Battaglia asked.

Sully shook his head. “No, I’m okay.”

“What you most certainly are not, brother, is okay. What’d you eat?”

“Lasagna,” Sully answered.

Battaglia scowled. “What?”

“I had lasagna,” Sully repeated.

“And you’re sayin’ that’s why your stomach hurts?”

“Probably. Why?”

Battaglia frowned. “You can blame it on my people’s food all you want. I think it has more to do with your delicate Irish tummy than anything wrong with the lasagna.”

“It’s the lasagna,” Sully said, and belched again. His face pinched in discomfort. “That’s all I had tonight.”

“Yeah, well, it was probably some cheap microwave dinner made by a Polish guy in Cleveland or something. Not real Italian lasagna.”

Sully didn’t reply. For one thing, he was fighting down the nausea. For another, the lasagna had been leftovers that Battaglia’s wife, Rebecca, had sent home with him two weeks ago. It had smelled fine, but-

“You sure you didn’t have any haggis?”

Sully shook his head. “I told you this before, you stupid guinea. Haggis is Scottish, not Irish.”

“Close enough.”

“Not even close. It’d be like me calling you Sicilian.”

Battaglia’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, there’s no need to get nasty.”

“See? No fun to get miscast, is it?”

“My people are from Tuscany,” Battaglia said, indignant. “We are not Sicilian animale .”

Sully smiled in spite of his stomach. “You want to talk about close? You know how many miles it is from the Italian mainland to the Sicilian coast?”

“About a million,” Battaglia said.

Sully opened his mouth to educate Batts, then clamped it shut again as another wave of nausea rolled over him.

“You all right, Sully?”

Sully shook his head rapidly.

“Adam-122, a burglary report,” chirped the radio between them.

Sully turned the wheel hard, whipping the patrol car to the curb. He stomped the brakes, lurching the vehicle to a stop. The sway of the car as it came to rest made the nausea worse.

“Dude, do not puke in this car,” Battaglia warned. “We’ll never get the smell out and-”

Sully pushed open the driver’s door and tried to lean outward. His seatbelt caught him, jerking him to a stop and keeping him upright. The belt released as if by magic. He leaned forward and vomited. A solid spray of red liquid interspersed with white chunks of noodles splattered onto the asphalt.

A moment later he heaved again. This time less came out, but the contraction hurt his stomach more. He let loose with a third round that was largely spittle. He felt Battaglia’s hand patting him on the back through his protective vest as he remained in place, spitting and letting out a small groan.

After a few moments, Sully leaned back into the car. He glanced over at Battaglia, realizing now that it had been his partner who popped the seatbelt loose for him.

“Adam-122?” the dispatcher called again.

Battaglia grabbed the microphone and told her to go ahead with the call. Sully watched as Batts scrolled down the tiny orange screen, reading the details as the dispatcher recited them. Then he copied the call and looked up at Sully.

“You all right?”

Sully shrugged. “You got any gum?”

“Nope. But you’ve got toothpaste in your locker at the station, which is where I’m taking you. Pull forward.”

“Huh?”

“Pull forward,” Battaglia told him.

“Why?”

“We’re changing spots and I don’t want to have to walk in your used microwave lasagna to get into the driver’s seat, that’s why.”

Sully shook his head. “I’m okay. I just need some gum.”

“You got some bad food. You need to go home.”

“I can make it through the shift.”

“That’s another seven hours.”

“I can do it.”

“So you’re feeling better, then?”

Sully started to nod yes, but another surge of nausea hit him. He blinked and fought it down. Without a word, he dropped the patrol car into gear and rolled forward several yards.

“Switch,” was all Battaglia said.

Sully eased himself out of the driver’s seat and walked around the front of the car. He was amazed at how weak his limbs felt. By the time he made it to the passenger side and flopped back into the seat, Battaglia was perched behind the wheel. He goosed the accelerator and the patrol car leapt forward.

“Easy there, crazy,” Sully said. Then he added, “This isn’t Rome.”

“I hope it was the haggis,” Battaglia said. “I hope what you’ve got isn’t catching.”

Sully smiled weakly. “Just don’t let the lasagna sit in the fridge too long,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” Sully said. “Just take me to the station before I puke again, goombah.”

“You should stick to corned beef and cabbage, Sully.” Battaglia glanced over at him. “Seriously.”

Sully’s stomach clenched again. He closed his eyes and groaned.

“Tell Sergeant Shen I went home sick,” he told Battaglia.

“Duh.”

“Don’t forget.”

“Double duh.”

“I mean it. I don’t want him to think I went AWOL or something.”

“Hey, who are you talking to here?” Battaglia affected a look of indignation. “One thing we Italians are good for is taking care of our family.”

“Aye,” Sully replied, barely able to summon any brogue. “’Tis true.”

Station, he thought, then home.

Tuesday, July 15th

0211 hours

Officer B.J. Carson pulled carefully onto Monroe Street from Rowan and headed south. After four months of driving with a field training officer in the passenger seat observing her every move, it felt both strange and liberating for her to be on her own. She knew she was still under observation-perhaps even more so than before, with an entire platoon sitting in judgment-but she felt like she could relax a little bit now that she was alone in her patrol car.