Frank Zafiro - Heroes Often Fail

But his reputation persisted. One thing Kopriva had learned on the police department was that a reputation, once applied, stuck. Only an edict from the Pope could get it removed.

As he returned Stone’s stare with his own, Kopriva knew it might be something more, too. About a week before the shootout at the Circle K, he had been with Karl Winter when the veteran officer died in the street from the gunshot wounds Scarface gave him. He took three bullets from the robber’s thirty-eight caliber when he’d stopped the getaway car one August night. One had nicked the officer’s aorta. Kopriva had arrived in time to hold Winter’s hand as the man’s life bled out into the warm asphalt.

Once the sound and fury over his shooting had simmered down, Kopriva heard rumblings that some of the older officers blamed him for not doing more to save Winter that night. No one had ever said anything to him directly, but the idea had been grist for the rumor mill for some time and seemingly still was.

When it was clear Kopriva wasn’t going to answer, Stone grunted and moved away, having made his point.

The Co-op started to ask another question, but Kopriva raised his hand to stop him. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment. I have to go.”

He left the Co-op standing there as he gathered up his duty magazine and ammunition and left the range building.

Once in his truck, Kopriva drove toward the police station at a leisurely pace. On duty, he used to drive like Al Unser, but off-duty in his own rig, he was far more conservative. He knew that his chances of getting a ticket inside River City were almost nil, but he didn’t like to take advantage of that job perk. The rush-hour traffic had subsided and the drive was a pleasant one.

He felt momentarily guilty for having left the range without cleaning his duty weapon, but remaining there would have meant withstanding more questions and hero worship from the Co-op student. Kopriva appreciated all of the volunteers who worked with River City PD, including the college students who went out and took some of the crap calls, freeing officers up for the more pressing calls. However, most of the Co-ops were looking for a career in law enforcement and had some unrealistic ideas about what it was like. Kopriva didn’t want to be their hero.

His shooting was over six months ago and the department still had not returned his original duty gun to him. Technically, the gun he carried now was a loaner, but he wondered if he would ever see his old gun again. In truth, it didn’t matter much. The only difference between them was the serial number. Still, Kopriva found himself wishing they would take the gun off of property, close his case and give BAN346 back to him.

It was good luck.

At least the Internal Affairs portion of the investigation was complete. IA had been unable to find any evidence of wrongdoing on his part during the shooting. They did manage to say something in their report about Kopriva’s attitude towards gang members and how it might have precipitated certain events that might not have otherwise happened.

He smiled ruefully and wished he could write his arrest reports in the same fashion. He’d be able to make five times as many arrests if he didn’t have to worry about things like probable cause and being accurate.

Kopriva forced himself to stop thinking about IA. They made career points out of busting cops, so they tried hard to do exactly that. They found fault in every action an officer took, as all Monday-morning quarterbacks will do. He knew that he had been subjected to more scrutiny because he’d killed a black man. He knew that IA was still upset at the time because Karl Winter had the poor manners to die in the line of duty and could not be subjected to an IA investigation.

Turning left onto Division, Kopriva felt a twinge of pain in his shoulder. According to the doctors, his left arm had only sixty-percent of the strength and flexibility it once had. The broken collarbone and the wound that caused it had healed well, but the one he took in his upper arm caused too much damage to recover completely. In addition to that, his knee ached constantly and sometimes forced him to limp. The half-inch hole in his kneecap was covered by only a thin piece of skin.

Kopriva turned on the radio and turned the dial to the classic rock station. Eric Clapton’s guitar licks blasted from the speakers and Kopriva recognized the riff from Layla immediately. He hummed along and wondered why there were so many people like Stone who were still angry at him. He hadn’t asked to roll up on a robbery. He hadn’t asked to have to shoot the robber. He certainly hadn’t asked to be hunted down by a Crip and his associate and shot three times.

He’d hoped that the time he’d spend on light duty and out of the patrol spotlight would help reduce his fame or infamy or whatever it was. But the shooting seemed to generate either respect and admiration, as in the case of the Co-op, or thinly veiled hostility, as in Stone’s. Nonetheless, Kopriva hoped that if no one in patrol saw his face for a while, the whole incident would fade into memory and people would treat him more like they used to.

Kopriva pulled into the employee parking at the station and found a space. He cut Clapton’s guitar off in mid-note and sat in his seat for a long moment. He rolled his left shoulder and flexed the arm back and forth at the elbow. He was rewarded with dull pain.

In the glove box, he found a brown prescription bottle. It was nearly empty. He popped it open and fished out two pills. One of them he slipped into his pocket for later. He popped the other one into his mouth and dry-swallowed it.

No one would forget anything, he knew.

Nor would he forget. He was remembering it every day when he worked light duty and every night when he slept. It didn’t matter if he lay alone in the night or if Katie were next to him on her days off. He stared at the ceiling until he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. Then he’d get up and take a pill and return to staring at the ceiling until he faded off to sleep. And then he saw the faces of the dead.

Kopriva got out of his truck. He walked slowly toward the investigative division and into a hurricane.

0845 hours

Anthony Giovanni sat at the traffic light in his patrol car. His eyes automatically scanned forward, left, right and behind. In the car next to him, he noticed the blonde woman in the passenger seat. She was about twenty and flashed him a smile. Gio smiled back without a second thought. He rolled down his window and she did the same.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“Good,” she said, her eyes dancing.

“You behaving yourself?” Gio asked.

“Would you arrest me if I wasn’t?”

Gio’s smile widened. “Oh, yeah. I’d be forced to cuff you and take you downtown.”

The light turned green. Neither car moved.

“Downtown?” the blonde asked. “That sounds promising.”

The driver was also blonde, but she was a bit heavier and her hair had platinum streaks. Gio figured that she was the passenger’s token fat friend.

Gio started to respond, but the car behind her car honked its horn. The blonde gave him a playful shrug and the car drove away and headed north. Gio didn’t move, but watched her go.

The car that had honked pulled forward. The old man in the driver’s seat gave Gio a baleful look as he drove past.

Gio ignored him and turned right, continuing his random patrol.

“ Adam-257, ” his radio squawked.

He picked up the mike and keyed it. “Go ahead.”

“ Family Dispute at 4318 North Waterbury,” came Irina’s voice. “The complainant states that her six-year-old daughter just returned home from playing with her friend and is claiming something bad happened. The six-year-old is upset and not making any sense. 4318 N. Waterbury, and advise on back-up units.”