Frank Zafiro: And Every Man Has to Die

He glanced up from his own timeworn hands to the woman seated across from him. She was new to the platoon and tonight was her first shift. Her blue nametag, designating her as a probationer, read B.J. Carson. Chisolm knew it stood for “Billie Jo,” but wondered how much adolescent ribbing she’d suffered as a result of those unfortunate initials.

Carson seemed to sense his glance. She flashed Chisolm a shy smile. He saw strains of confidence in that smile, but he recognized other traits, too. Traits he wasn’t entirely comfortable with in a new cop, whether he saw them in a man or a woman. She was worried about proving herself.

Chisolm’s own rookie campaign was eighteen years in the past, though he could recall that rite of passage in great detail. Of course, it had been different for him than most new cops these days. He’d walked in with significant military experience, including his two tours in Vietnam with Special Forces. Police work wasn’t a tremendous adaptation for him, whereas most of the rookies he saw coming on now had to transition from civilian life into the quasi-military world of police work.

In Chisolm’s mind, it was a good thing if a new recruit wanted to prove himself. That was how he eventually fit in-by proving he could do this job. There were a lot of areas where the new guy was required to prove himself, too. Snagging calls for service, writing a ton of paper, and showing that he could talk to all kinds of people in all kinds of situations were all on that list. The final exam, though, was being willing to jump into a fight when it happened. Prove you could hold your mud when things got dirty.

Wanting to prove yourself, to Chisolm, was a good thing. Worrying about being able to was quite another. And he saw a little bit of that in B.J. Carson.

He flashed back to the last recruit he’d trained who didn’t have what it took to be a cop. Four years ago, he tried to teach Maurice Payne what he needed to know in order to make it on the streets, but he’d ultimately failed. Payne could do the softer side of the job, but failed utterly when it came to pressure or violence. Even though it took another training officer to sign off on Chisolm’s evaluation-thanks to that self-righteous prick, Lieutenant Alan Hart-the department eventually let Payne go. Chisolm took very little joy in seeing that happen, and none of it at the expense of Payne. He hoped the young man landed on his feet somewhere more appropriate for his skill set. The satisfaction for Chisolm was in showing the arrogant Lieutenant Hart that he’d been right, in spite of the shiny gold bar that Hart wore on his collar.

Since training Payne, none of the recruits that rode in Chisolm’s car had failed to make probation, a fact of which he was quite proud. More than that, he hoped that he instilled in this new, younger breed of cop what it meant to enter law enforcement. Almost all of them were untested by warfare and some hadn’t even suffered some of life’s hard knocks. Yet Chisolm had to teach them how to be a warrior in peacetime, which was one of the most difficult jobs in the world.

Chisolm didn’t avert his eyes from Carson after her shy smile, but she averted hers. She was a beautiful woman. It might have made some things in life easier for her up to now. If anything, though, now it was going to make things more difficult for her rather than less. From the cops and the criminals.

Chisolm’s gaze shifted to Anthony Battaglia. Batts was watching Carson. His face was mostly expressionless, but Chisolm detected the faintest bit of hunger in the Italian’s dark eyes.

Battaglia seemed to sense Chisolm’s attention. He turned his eyes to the older officer and tipped him a wink. “Another night beatin’ down crime. Right, Tom?”

Chisolm nodded. “You said it.”

Battaglia flashed him a toothy grin. “Fuckin’ scumbags won’t know what hit ’em.”

That forced a smile to Chisolm’s lips. “Probably not.”

“You know it,” Battaglia said. He turned to O’Sullivan. “Hey, asshole, are you done with that yet?”

“If I was done, lad,” Sully shot back, “I would nae be looking at it anymore.”

“You know, you’re not supposed move your lips when you read,” Battaglia observed, his thick Brooklyn accent clashing with Sully’s Irish lilt.

“Like you know anyt’ing about reading.”

“I know it takes you for-fuckin’-evah.”

“Oh, fer the love of Saint Francis,” Sully sighed. He slid the binder across the table toward Battaglia. “Here. All you want to do is look at the pictures anyway.”

“Ohh, yeahhhh,” Battaglia said, smiling broadly. He flipped open the flyer and peered down in mock lust. “Ooh, hot . You know, methamphetamine really does wonders for a woman’s looks.”

“Aye,” Sully replied. “Vitamin M is the new wonder drug.”

Chisolm watched the exchange silently. It was nearly the same every night. Sometimes, if veteran officer James Kahn was in a grumpy mood, he might berate the two of them for their antics, but that usually only fueled their act. Once in a while Katie MacLeod got involved in their exchanges. Chisolm smiled. In most cases she bested the both of them at their own game, something that Chisolm believed only made the brothers like her even more.

Katie. Chisolm noticed her seat was empty. He assumed that she’d taken a vacation day, since it wasn’t her regular day off.

The only other person missing from the table was Matt Westboard. The quiet, solid officer was on his days off.

Chisolm returned his gaze to his own hands. Every day, he took stock of the men and women at the table around him. It was a habit he’d learned from his commanding officer in Vietnam, Captain Mack Greene. “Know your people,” the grizzled Green Beret leader told him repeatedly. “And know them again every single day.”

Of course, they weren’t technically Chisolm’s people. He didn’t command them. He was one of them. Sergeant Shen ran the platoon and Lieutenant Saylor commanded the shift. Even so, as an eighteen-year vet who remained on graveyard shift by choice, Chisolm knew that a lot of the team members looked to him for leadership. And he would not disappoint. Ever.

That was his burden in life, and he knew it. It wasn’t that he particularly wanted such a responsibility, but rather that he knew he could handle it. Not many others could, even among his fellow cops. So it fell to him to do so. He had the knowledge and the experience.

The door to the roll call room swung open. Lieutenant Robert Saylor led the way in, the red clipboard full of announcements tucked under his arm. Sergeant Miyamoto Shen followed behind him and took a seat at the head of the Adam Sector table. His gaze swept the table, his features impassive.

“Listen up,” Lieutenant Saylor rumbled from the lectern. He waited for a moment until the chatter dwindled to silence. “There’s a couple of new stolens on the board tonight,” he began, rattling off the license plates of the stolen vehicles. Then he flicked the page. “Let’s do some prowl checks at the River City Arena over the next few nights. The circus is coming to town and our Criminal Intelligence Unit believes that the animal rights groups might be active in some form of protest.”

“Hell,” Kahn muttered, “the circus is in town all year. It’s down on mahogany row, starting in the chief’s office.”

Saylor glanced up from the hot board, fixing his eyes on Kahn. “Did you have something to add?” he asked.

Kahn cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Do the intel guys have anything more specific than that?”

Saylor shook his head. “Just what I read.”

“That’s not very helpful.”

Saylor smiled slightly. “I’ll forward your dissatisfaction, Officer Kahn. I’m sure they’ll be happy for the feedback.”