Frank Zafiro - Beneath a Weeping Sky

“See?” Battaglia said. “This could be the big one right here. You never know.”

“Also,” the dispatcher continued, “the suspect is apparently wearing a clown suit.”

Sully and Battaglia looked at each other. A slow smile spread over each man’s face.

“Or maybe not,” Sully said.

Battaglia pushed the button on the mike. “Copy on the clown,” he said.

“This call is a joke,” Sully deadpanned.

Battaglia chuckled. He motioned toward the light controls. “We should run lights and siren.”

“Oh, Lieutenant Hart would love that.”

“Hell,” Battaglia said, “it probably is Lieutenant Hart. This is probably his off duty hobby. Getting drunk, dressing in a clown suit and raising hell.”

Sully let out a loud laugh.

“Oh, man,” Battaglia said, shaking his head, “We were born to take this call.”

Saturday, May 10th, 1996

0913 hours

Lieutenant Alan Hart sat at his desk. It being a Saturday, he was dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a neatly pressed collared shirt. The silence of his office was the same as it was every other day of the week, no change in his lonely existence.

He’d told his wife, Marianne, that he’d needed to run a couple of errands. That was true, he supposed, but he still ended up seated at his desk, whether by design or happenstance. He stared at the far wall, which was adorned with photographs of all River City police officers. Everyone was there, from the Chief of Police to the newest recruit in the Academy.

And I’m here to watch over them.

It’s not like anyone else would. He saw the summary judgment that the Patrol Captain filed on Officer MacLeod’s so-called accidental discharge. A cop lets a bullet fly in a public park, and all she gets is a written reprimand? All Hart saw there was a continuation of the century-old code of silence that has permeated and corrupted law enforcement for far too long. It was that same warped sense of loyalty that no doubt motivated the Chief to issue oral reprimands for O’Sullivan and Battaglia. Worse yet, he didn’t even give that light punishment to Chisolm for his violations.

Clearly, the cops in River City believed they were above the law.

“They aren’t,” Hart muttered, turning a heavy, gold pen over in his hands.

And it was his job to watch over them, to make sure that they paid for their mistakes. The public deserved it. Justice demanded it.

He knew the cost. Ridicule. Hatred. Ostracism. It was a small price to pay to do the right thing.

The River City Herald lay open on his desk. The front page headline blared RAINY DAY RAPIST CAUGHT! He’d read the article. Normally critical of the police department, the editors allowed this story to positively praise the stalwart bravery of Officer Katie MacLeod. The only negative element of the story was a subtle jab at Detective John Tower for failing to identify the suspect before the attack. The close resemblance between the police sketch and the suspect’s photograph made that failure seem like a particularly inept one.

Hart wasn’t concerned so much with that. There had been other mistakes. He was sure of it. Those mistakes needed to be answered for. Not just with an oral or written reprimand, either. With suspensions. Maybe badges.

How high did the mistakes go? He knew the only way to find out was to investigate thoroughly.

Lieutenant Alan Hart fired up his computer. He opened his word processor program and began drafting a memorandum to send to the Chief.

He planned on getting to the bottom of things.

1113 hours

Chisolm set aside the newspaper after reading the article about Katie for a third time. The reporter rightfully made Katie out to be a hero, but he didn’t like the dig against Tower. He knew the detective did the best job he could. Hell, if anyone was at fault, it was Chisolm.

Once again, he’d failed to be where he was needed.

Just like Mai. The image of the young prostitute was burned into his mind. Despite stopping two assaults on her, he couldn’t save her in the end.

Hell, Bobby Ramirez, too. When a sniper took his best friend’s life, had he done anything to prevent it?

No. He’d failed.

And, of course, there was Officer Karl Winter. He was a good man who died alone on the dark asphalt of a River City street. No help from Chisolm.

Other faces danced in front of his eyes. That kid he and Ramirez had teased mercilessly from the day he arrived in the unit until the day he hit a trip wire in the jungle. A young mother and her baby, on the run from an insane husband. That husband eventually hurt that little baby, didn’t he?

Sylvia’s knowing eyes came next. The image hovered before him, growing even more vivid when he closed his eyes against it.

All my ghosts are here today.

Thomas Chisolm clutched at his coffee cup, squeezing the porcelain in an effort to avoid going to the fridge for a drink.

1222 hours

Crawford turned onto Reott’s street. He drove to the front of the captain’s house, easing the car to a stop.

“Thanks for lunch,” Reott said.

“My turn to buy,” Crawford replied easily.

“So it was. But thanks, anyway.”

“You’re welcome.”

Reott reached for the door.

“They’re releasing MacLeod today,” Crawford told him.

Reott paused. “Good. She’s all right?”

Crawford shrugged. “A few good cuts. Some hard knocks. But I think she’ll be fine.”

“Good.”

“Our rapist won’t be out for another month. Maybe two,” Crawford continued. “Tower already has his affidavit to the prosecutor. Hinote said he is going to charge him with all four rapes, plus the attacks on MacLeod. He doesn’t believe he can win them all, but he figures he’ll win enough of them to send the guy up for life, or close to it. And if he decides to plea instead, then he has plenty of charges to bargain away.”

“Good,” Reott repeated.

Crawford’s eyes narrowed with concern. “You okay, Mike?”

Reott nodded. “I’m fine. Where are you headed from here?”

Crawford scowled. “Oh, the wife has us going out searching for antiques or some such shit.” He eyed Reott more closely. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Reott answered. He slapped Crawford on the knee. “Thanks for lunch. And good work on this case.”

Crawford snorted. “Good work? Hell, we got luckier than a falling drunk on this one.”

Reott clenched his jaw, his penetrating gaze burning into Crawford’s eyes. “You think that’s luck? Him attacking one of our officers like that?”

Crawford returned his stare without faltering. “I don’t think what happened to MacLeod was lucky at all,” he said quietly. “All I’m saying is that we didn’t do anything to catch him. We got lucky.”

Reott took a deep breath and sighed. “Maybe so,” he said. Then he opened the door and got out of the car. “See you Monday,” he told Crawford as he closed the passenger door.

Crawford gave him a wave as he pulled away from the curb.

Reott made his way up his sidewalk, unlocked the door and went into the house. The slam of the door echoed throughout the emptiness of the home. Tossing his keys on the table, he walked directly into the kitchen and swung open a cupboard. Inside, two fancy bottles of seventeen year old Glengoyne single malt Scotch whisky stood waiting for him. He wrapped his fingers around the neck of one bottle and pulled it from the cupboard.

At the table, he poured himself a glass, neat. He stared down at the amber liquid for a while, then raised it to his lips and sipped. The burning smoothness coated his mouth and his throat, before emanating outward from his belly.

Lucky.