Frank Zafiro - Under a Raging Moon

At the Adam Sector table, Sergeant Shen repeated Saylor’s warning. “I would rather this guy get away than one of you get killed,” he said. “Do what you have to do, but be careful.”

The Adam Sector troops nodded in response.

Shen pointed to his right. “For everyone who doesn’t know him, this is Officer Jack Willow, who just graduated from the Academy. He went to the Seattle Academy on the west side of the state and not ours, so be patient with him.” Shen grinned as the group chuckled. “Welcome aboard, Officer Willow.”

Jack Willow cleared his throat. “Uh, thanks, Sergeant.”

Willow’s FTO, Officer Aaron Norris, sat to the recruit’s left. “Don’t get too used to his face.” He offered a sly smile. “They sent him to the axe-man first, so I could save the department some money in the long run.”

“Hey, what’s your shirt size, kid?” James Kahn asked. “I’ll buy it off you cheap when they send you packing.”

Everyone chuckled, except for Willow. His face bore the plastered on smile that rookies being hazed have shown the world since cops became cops.

“All right, enough,” Shen said with a grin. “You’ll give the boy a complex.” He dismissed the platoon.

In the sergeant’s office, Saylor waited for Shen. “I’ll be at a meeting for the early part of the shift. Hart is forming some sort of task force, and I’m supposed to give my input.”

Shen remained politically silent.

“I’d say I wouldn’t be long,” Saylor added, “but the Captain will be there. You know how Hart likes the sound of his own voice when he’s trying to impress a boss.”

Shen struggled not to smile. “Call me for coffee when you’re clear?”

“You got it.”

2140 hours

Katie MacLeod drove slowly along the residential street, glancing around, her eyes never still. Everything she saw registered in her mind, but being pre-occupied, it had little impact on her. She felt out of sorts. Embarrassed, actually. It hadn’t really been fair of her to slip out of Kopriva’s bed like that and slink home without a word. It made her feel like a slut.

But what was she supposed to do? She’d been upset and he had comforted her. It’s not like he took advantage, but things might not have happened if she hadn’t been so upset about breaking up with Kevin.

“Oh, who are you kidding?” she said aloud. She and Kopriva had always had some sexual tension. She’d just never acted on it because the situation was never right.

So what to do now? Katie sighed. She liked him. She would like to see him, but things had moved so fast. Then she ran out on him. Who knows what he thought about her now?

Besides, cop-on-cop relationships were difficult at best. Most of time, the stress from the job made the relationship twice as stressful. Of course, the flip side was that you had someone to talk to who actually understood.

Maybe she should buy him a cup of coffee and explain that they should just stay friends. That’d be the smartest thing. And the safest. After all, they had a good friendship and romance always seems to mess that up.

But she couldn’t do that, could she? Not with the feeling in her stomach right now. All that pent up emotion ever since the Academy had burst free and she couldn’t just put the genie back in the bottle.

More doubt crept in to Katie’s mind. Pent up emotion? Or rebound? Some of her affection for Kopriva was real, she knew that, but maybe the intensity came from being dumped. Possibly. Probably. Hell, she knew it did.

Katie sighed and tapped the steering wheel. She was on the rebound and acted like a slut with a decent looking guy who happened to be nice. The guy had a chance to get laid and took it. No harm done, but no great love affair, either, she realized.

Cut it off, Katie. Just cut it off before it ruins-

“Adam-116, Adam-112,” the dispatcher’s voice broke into her thoughts.

Katie reached for the microphone. “Adam-116, go ahead.”

“Adam-112, go,” came Chisolm’s calm voice.

“Adam-116, Adam-112, a domestic at 2114 W. Swanson. Complainant is a neighbor who wishes to remain anonymous. Complainant states that the man and woman who live at the address have been yelling loudly for the last fifteen minutes. We have no listing for the occupants of that address. 2114 W. Swanson, a domestic.”

“Copy.”

“Copy.”

Katie drove quickly but carefully to the call, using Belt Street, a residential arterial. Every time she went to a domestic, she felt a brief pang in her stomach, even after three years of police work. She remembered her mother screaming at father and how the police never came no matter how loud the screaming became. Things were different in today’s world, thank God.

She arrived at the house before Chisolm, parked a ways off and approached. The house, a small blue cracker-box, sat on a tiny lot. The scraggly upkeep of the lawn and the 1976 Monza parked out front screamed rental to her. She slipped through the fence gate, hoping there were no dogs or dog piles in the small yard. Once on the porch, she moved quietly to the side of the front door and stood next to it, listening. She couldn’t hear any yelling inside, though there seemed to be some movement. She waited for Chisolm to arrive.

Katie stared at the crack in the porch, following it as it spider-webbed across the entire porch. This house had seen some hard years. She wondered what the people inside would look like.

She heard a creak of leather and looked up to see Chisolm standing behind her at the foot of the steps. She forced herself not to jump in surprise. Chisolm grinned, his portable radio in his hand. “Adam-112, on scene,” he said in a muted tone, then slid the radio back into its holder on his belt.

“Pretty sneaky,” Katie whispered.

“Silent and Invisible Deployment,” Chisolm quoted from the Patrol Procedures Manual, still grinning.

Katie motioned toward the house with her head. “No talking inside. Just a little movement.”

Chisolm nodded. “A house this size, rolling over in bed would shake the whole thing.”

He stepped onto the porch and knocked on the door. There was a long pause, then a male voice asked, “Who is it?”

“Police,” Chisolm said in an authoritative voice. He gave Katie a wink. “Open the door, sir.”

Another pause and a muffled, “shit.” Then the door opened and a white male stood inside the entryway. The first thing Katie noticed was his size. The man towered over Katie by almost a foot and had several inches on Chisolm. She guessed him to be six-foot-three, at least. It wasn’t his height that struck her, though. The man was obviously a body-builder. His shoulders were thick and broad. A white T-shirt hugged his muscular chest. Cut off sleeves revealed bulging biceps and massive, veined forearms. One arm bore the faded blue color of a jailhouse tattoo.

Great, Katie thought. A ripped, wife-beating ex-con.

“Come on in,” he said, his voice neutral.

Katie and Chisolm entered the small house. “Who else is here, sir?” Katie asked.

“Just my girlfriend.”

“She lives here with you?”

“Yeah.” The man’s voice remained neutral.

“What exactly is going on tonight, sir?” Katie asked him.

A shrill female voice broke into the room. “I’ll tell you what’s going on here. He beat the shit out of me, that’s what!”

Katie turned to see a blonde-haired woman about five feet tall standing in the doorway to the bedroom. She couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds.

“I’ll talk with her,” Katie told Chisolm, and moved toward the woman. As she drew closer, she immediately noticed a red handprint on her right cheek. “Let’s talk in here, ma’am,” Katie said, motioning to the bedroom.