Frank Zafiro: And Every Man Has to Die

River City, Washington

July 1998

Friday, July 11th, 1998

2214 hours

Graveyard Shift

“Adam-122, on scene,” chirped Officer Katie MacLeod’s radio.

Adam-122 was the call sign for Officers Battaglia and O’Sullivan. Despite their joking demeanor, Katie was glad they were responding with her. The call came in as a violent domestic dispute in apartment seven of the Delilah Commons. The neighbor who called it in had reported crashing noises and screaming from inside. If there was a scrap going on, it’d be nice to have Sully and Batts at her side.

Katie guided the patrol cruiser along the curb, gliding to a stop. She took a quick look at the four-by-four-inch computer display in the console area. The devices were fairly new to the River City Police Department, though she knew they’d been in cars down in LA for almost a decade. The amber screen was so small that she had to page down twice to read the entire description of the call, including which apartment the witness lived in. Then she reached for her own microphone.

“Adam-116, on scene.”

“Copy, Adam-116.”

Katie glanced around and didn’t see another cruiser. Then she remembered that the Delilah Apartments had a rear entry, too. Battaglia and O’Sullivan had probably parked behind.

Katie grabbed her baton and stepped out of the vehicle. Out of habit, she eased the door shut instead of slamming it. She slid the metal PR-24 side-handle baton into the ring on her belt and made her way to the front door. The heavy sway and solid tap of the baton against her side gave her confidence. Most smaller officers preferred the straight wooden baton, but Katie stuck with the larger side-handle. While some complained that it was unwieldy, she liked the heft. More than that, it got the job done.

The front entrance to the apartment complex was supposed to be secure, but someone had used a softball-sized rock to prop the door open. Probably Sully. He was usually more thoughtful than Batts. A large, steep staircase awaited Katie on the left. On the right was a narrow hallway. A sign indicated that apartments six through ten resided upstairs on the second floor.

Katie started up the stairs toward number seven.

“Adam-122, start medics.” The slight elevation in Battaglia’s voice came through even over the radio. “I’ve got a conscious female, suffering from blows to the head.”

“Copy. Is she breathing?”

“I just said she’s conscious, didn’t I!”

“Copy, but medics need to know-”

The harsh buzz of multiple radio transmissions interrupted her.

“Other unit?” the dispatcher asked.

“22,” O’Sullivan said quickly. “The neighbor says the suspect is probably still in the building. He left less than thirty seconds ago.”

Katie quickened her steps as she neared the top of the steep staircase.

“Description?”

“He’s a white male,” O’Sullivan answered, “large build, wearing a white tank top.”

Katie reached the top of the stairs. She started to turn the corner to her left when a mountain in a sleeveless white T-shirt barreled toward her. He stopped short as soon as his chest brushed up against her, but his momentum jarred her backward. She grasped at the railing to regain her balance.

The man gave Katie an appraising look. She stared back at him resolutely. “Police,” she said in a firm voice, pointing at the top stair. “You need to have a seat right there.”

He stared at her with dark, flat eyes. Katie could see the gears working behind them. She sensed she didn’t have much time. She wrapped her left hand on her side-handle and depressed her radio mike with her right.

“Adam-116, I’ve got him here on the stairs. He’s-”

The man burst forward. He barreled into Katie, driving her backward. Panic flared in her stomach as she lost her balance, falling to the rear. The man’s huge hands clutched at her shoulders and upper arms, pulling her to the ground with him. The two tumbled down the narrow stairs in a heap. As they bounced and jostled awkwardly, the equipment on Katie’s duty belt dug into her sides, caught on the railing, twisted on her belt. Her baton caught in the fold of her knee, causing a twinge of pain.

Suddenly, a shot of piercing pain blazed through Katie’s left ankle. She imagined a piece of the banister had shattered and jabbed through the leather of her boot and into her flesh. She tried to suppress a cry, but could only dampen it to a painful grunt.

The pair flopped into the entryway. Katie landed on her back with his weight on top of her. The bullet-resistant vest softened the sharpness of her landing, but did nothing to blunt the force. Her breath whooshed out as her lungs collapsed. Frantically, she struggled for breath, her mind whirring.

Where’s backup?

What’s my next move?

Why can’t I breathe?

The large man let out a long, ragged grunt and pushed himself up. The sickening feeling of being unable to breathe began to fade as she gasped and labored to fill her lungs.

The man got his knees under him and started to rise, searching for an escape. Katie’s hand flashed out and clutched his wrist.

“You’re under arrest!” she tried to say, but could only wheeze out the final syllable.

His gaze snapped back to Katie. He stared at her a moment, his flat countenance revealing nothing. Katie took advantage of his hesitation to draw a shallow breath and repeated, “You’re under arrest. Stop resisting.” She sensed the ridiculousness of uttering those words while lying on her back beneath his powerful frame.

“ Nyet ,” the man grunted. He jerked his arm, breaking Katie’s grasp on his wrist.

Katie drove her left knee upward with as much force as she could muster, and his eyes bulged in surprised pain. The collision sent throbbing waves down her leg to her injured ankle. She did her best to ignore it.

Katie pushed at his chin. His large form moved slowly, then fell like a giant redwood. Katie scrambled into a sitting position, but the man recovered his senses before she could move to her knees. He drew back his left hand and threw a ham-sized fist at Katie’s head. Instinctively she tucked her chin and pulled up her shoulder. The blow landed square on her shoulder joint. Pain reverberated through her arm and chest. She let out a small cry of pain and anger.

He smiled and drew back his arm again.

Katie raised both arms to defend against the punch. She took the blow on the meaty part of her forearm and bit back a yelp, then rolled away to give herself some distance, bumping and clumping over the gear on her belt. As soon as she was facing him again, she pushed up to her knees.

He rose up like a grizzly bear in front of her, cold anger flashing in his eyes. He muttered something in guttural Russian. She didn’t know what the words meant, but she understood the sentiment.

Katie dropped her hand onto her radio and sought out the small, recessed red button that would tell every cop in the city she needed immediate help. He took a step forward before she could find it.

Katie rose to her feet to meet him, but as soon as she put weight on her left foot, a flood of pain thundered up her leg. She shifted her weight and struggled to remain standing.