Frank Zafiro - Heroes Often Fail

“River City Police are moving quickly in the case of murdered six-year-old Amy Dugger,” the tiny blonde reporter said into the camera. “Earlier today, two people were arrested in connection with this case. Now, police are declining to identify these individuals publicly, but News-5 has learned that the suspects may have been relatives of the murdered girl.”

The new anchor broke in. “Any word from the Chief of Police, Shawna?”

“No,” said the field reporter, “but requests for information on this case were referred to Lieutenant Crawford of the Major Crimes Unit. He was unavailable for comment, but informed us that there would be a formal press release in about one hour.”

“Thank you, Shaw-”

“One more thing on this case,” Shawna Matheson said forcefully. “I have learned from a source inside the police department that during this investigation, a police officer was sent to investigate at the home of the suspects now arrested in this case. According to this source, Amy Dugger was still alive at the time those officers went to the suspect’s house.”

The news anchor’s interest was piqued. “The police didn’t find her?”

“No, Jack,” Matheson said. “And according to my source, police turned down an offer by one of the suspects to search the residence.”

There was a moment of dead air as the words sank in. Then, dramatically, the field reporter said, “Reporting from the courthouse for News-5, I’m Shawna Matheson.”

The screen returned to the anchor, who had recovered from the shock of the information. “There you have it,” he said, barely containing his glee. “Apparently, the police failed to search the residence and find Amy Dugger while she was still alive. News-5 will follow this story closely. And now, in our nation’s capital-”

Jill Ferguson was already dialing the Dugger residence.

1704 hours

“Are you sure?” Peter Dugger said into the phone.

Crawford stood nearby, watching. He had come to update the couple on the arrest. They had taken it well, much better than the death notification he’d made earlier. Then the phone rang and Kathy Dugger answered it. He spoke with Peter until Kathy asked her husband to take the phone.

“Thank you,” Peter Dugger said and hung up the receiver. He turned to Crawford. His gaze was icy. “Lieutenant, did you send officers to my mother-in-law’s house during this investigation?”

Crawford cursed inwardly, but nodded. “I did.”

“My wife’s friend just told me that the news reported Amy was alive when your people were there. Is that true?”

Crawford nodded. “I believe so.”

“You believe so ? Or she was?”

“That is what Fred Henderson has said.”

Peter Dugger nodded coldly. “Is it true that Nancy told the officers they could search her house and they didn’t?”

“Yes.”

“Why not?”

Crawford took a breath. “The officer made a mistake,” he said.

“A mistake ?” Peter Dugger shook his head forcefully. “No. That officer murdered my daughter.”

1809 hours

Katie MacLeod sat on her couch, wrapped in an afghan. She had cried herself out and now her mind seemed to be whirring along at light speed. Once the initial sting of Kopriva’s words faded, anger began to seep in.

He was being selfish, she decided. He was acting as if he had cornered the market on pain and suffering and no one else could even begin to understand his plight.

He’d pushed her away. And after she’d opened up to him like she had, that was what hurt the most.

There was a solid knock on her door. She scowled momentarily, wanting to be alone.

It might be Stef , she thought.

Katie tossed the afghan aside and went to her front door. She glanced through the peephole. Chaplain Timothy Marshall stood outside.

Katie turned the deadbolt and opened up the door. “Hello, Chaplain.”

Chaplain Marshall smiled warmly at her. “How’re you doing?”

“Good,” she said, knowing she didn’t look like it. “You want to come in?”

“Thank you.”

Katie stepped aside and let him inside. She closed the door and locked it.

“Tea?” she asked him.

Chaplain Marshall nodded. “Thank you. That’d be super.”

“What kind?”

He grinned. “Earl Gray. Hot.”

Katie found herself grinning back in spite of everything. That was Captain Jean-Luc Picard’s trademark phrase. Chaplain Marshall was an avid Star Trek fan. A casual fan herself, Katie had grown up watching Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock. She’d watched only a few episodes of the second show, but enough to know that it didn’t stack up in her mind to the original series.

Chaplain Marshall, of course, disagreed. It was a frequent subject of debate whenever he rode along with Katie on patrol.

Katie moved to the kitchen to make the tea. “Kind of a sissy drink, but all right.”

Chaplain Marshall rose to the bait. “Just because Picard was an intellectual instead of a Neanderthal, that doesn’t make him a sissy.”

Katie retrieved her tea kettle from the stovetop and filled it with water. She made her argument from habit. “Oh, come on. I don’t think I ever saw an episode where he left the bridge of the Enterprise. At least Kirk had the guts to go down to the planet once in a while.”

“In direct violation of Starfleet regulations,” Chaplain Marshall huffed, standing at the entrance to the small kitchen. “You always say that, but I’m telling you that he probably went down to the planet more to get some alien space chicks than to accomplish the mission.”

“He was a man of action, that’s all.” She put the kettle back on the stove and turned on the burner.

Chaplain Marshall shrugged. “The proof is in the numbers.”

“Numbers?”

He nodded. “Seven and three.”

Katie gave him a confused look. “Lunch breaks and coffee breaks?”

“Huh?”

“Signal seven? Signal Three?”

Chaplain Marshall waved his hand. “No, not police codes. Seasons.”

The teakettle ticked and rumbled as it heated. Katie watched the ring on the stove turn red.

“The original Star Trek ran three seasons,” Chaplain Marshall continued. “The Next Generation ran seven. I think that settles the issue.”

Katie glanced up from the stove. “What? You’re saying that the value of a fictional world is determined by television ratings?”

The Chaplain shrugged. “It’s one measurement.”

“Not a very good one.”

“The world is a complicated place,” he replied.

Katie nodded. “That’s no kidding.”

A brief silence hung between them. The water in the tea kettle gurgled.

“You want to talk about what happened on the bridge?” Chaplain Marshall asked her.

Katie shrugged. “I don’t know what there is to say. I failed.”

“From what I hear, there was nothing you could do.”

“There wasn’t.” She felt a pang in her chest, but she had no tears left to fall. “Not a thing.”

“How do you feel about that?”

She glanced up at him. “Helpless. Worthless.”

The Chaplain nodded. “That’s normal. You faced an impossible situation, Katie.” He smiled. “It was a Kabayashi Maru .”

“But why?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. Why? If there’s a God, why does he let these kinds of things happen? That little boy didn’t do anything to deserve what happened to him.”

“No, he was innocent.”

“So was that little girl.”

He nodded. “Amy Dugger. She was innocent, too.”

“Then why?” Katie asked. “I just don’t understand why.”

“I don’t know.”

Katie paused. “But you’re a priest.”