Frank Zafiro - Under a Raging Moon

Damn, Reott thought. This guy is making us all look like fools. “Okay, Gentleman,” he said. “We have a plan. Do whatever it takes to catch this guy. You have my full support.”

Interlude

Fall 1994

“I don’t really believe in counseling, doc. That’s all.”

“Why is that?” The doctor kept any hint of disapproval out of his voice.

The man shrugged. “I think that it is the refuge of the weak. A man should be able to deal with his own demons.”

“And a woman?”

“Same thing.”

The doctor paused, considering. Thirty minutes had passed in the session and although the officer had begun to open up, little had been accomplished. He always had the option of requiring further sessions, but he knew full well how the administrators at the Police Department would interpret that. Still, the officer’s mental health rated as his primary concern, not his law enforcement career.

“Every man is an island, then?” he asked the officer.

The officer nodded. “Who can you truly count on? I’ve been hung out to dry before.”

“Beginning when?” The doctor asked, think that perhaps a look at the officer’s childhood would reveal something noteworthy.

The officer didn’t bite. “Let’s just say I learned to fend for myself a long time ago and leave it at that, all right?”

The doctor didn’t push the matter, though clearly something existed there. He returned to the previous point. “In your profession, you are required to help a variety of different people, correct? Many of whom are undeserving or whose irresponsibility has caused the situation which you now must deal with. Am I right?”

The officer nodded. “Very accurate.”

“Okay,” the doctor continued. “So let’s say there is a woman. She is very young, gets married. Her husband is abusive, but she won’t or can’t leave him. Maybe she has caused the situation or maybe she hasn’t, but now she is stuck. He hits her. You come to the scene and arrest the husband for assault. She is now free to take action. She is no longer a prisoner of her own fear. There is a window of opportunity for her, and it is your action that empowered her. Is this accurate as well, officer?”

“Yes. Sometimes.”

“Was it wrong of you to help her?”

“No.”

“Wrong of her to accept your assistance?”

“Absolutely not.”

“So now she can face her own demons.” The doctor leaned back and watched the officer’s face.

The officer remained impassive. Finally, he sighed. “I see your point.”

“Good.”

There was a pause, then the officer asked, “You want to hear something?”

“Of course.”

“I’m a little angry at the administration. They haven’t stood by me very well. And I did nothing wrong.”

The doctor detected bitterness in the officer’s voice. He could also sense a great deal more under the surface, but he expected that and didn’t see a problem with it.

“Go on.”

“Nothing more to say on that, doc. They should have been calling a press conference and damning the newspaper for the accusations it made. Instead, they open an IA investigation? And do you know the questions they asked me in IA? They all but called me a racist. It’s one thing coming from the jackals at the newspaper. It’s something else entirely when it comes from your own agency.” The officer shook his head. “I did my job and this is my thanks.”

“But you are here.”

“So?”

“So you do not intend to resign over it.”

The officer paused. “Probably not. Maybe.” He sighed heavily. “I don’t know.”

The doctor watched him for several long moments as the officer stared at his own shoes. He cast a surreptitious glance at his watch and decided to get to the heart of the matter.

“Tell me about the man you killed, officer.”

The officer looked up then, steel and fury in his eyes. “He tried to kill me. He’s dead. What else do you want to know?”

Tuesday, August 23rd

Day Shift

1614 hours

Karl Winter tucked his shirt into his pants and buckled his belt. The jangling sound carried in the quiet locker room. Winter had caught a late DV call that turned into a huge mess. He’d only just finished the paperwork. As he changed, he’d been watching Sgt. David Poole, who sat on the long bench that ran down the center of the aisle between the lockers. He’d been there when Winter walked in at the end of the shift. He continued to sit and stare at his open locker, completely lost in thought, the entire time Winter changed his clothes only five lockers away.

“Sarge?” Winter finally said. “You okay?”

Poole turned slowly to face him but didn’t answer.

Winter’s eyes narrowed with concern.

“Dave?”

“I’m fine, Karl.” Poole answered in a dry, croaking voice. “Just tired. Lots of reports to read at the end of shift.”

Winter knew that was a lie but decided not to push too hard. “Sorry. Mine was one of them. Listen, the guys went over to Duke’s for choir practice right after shift. Throw back a few beers, you know?”

“Good,” Poole said in an empty tone.

Winter cleared his throat. “Uh, they’re probably still there. I’m headed over as soon as I get changed. You want to come along?”

Poole shook his head wordlessly and returned to staring at his locker.

Winter stood uncomfortably for a long moment. He debated asking Poole a second time but knew the next response he got would be less than kind.

He left wordlessly, with Poole still staring darkly into his locker.

2108 hours

Katie MacLeod walked along the row of cars parked in the basement and tossed her black equipment bag onto the front seat of the police patrol car assigned to her. She withdrew her flashlight and placed it in the charger/holder right below the radio. Her side-handle baton went into the small holder in the driver’s door. She then seat-belted the equipment bag into the passenger’s seat, leaving the pockets with her logbook, ticket books and report notebook accessible without having to un-belt the bag.

She took a quick walk around the exterior to check for any damage, finding nothing but dirt. Using the button located in the driver’s door, she popped open the trunk and checked the contents, which she knew by rote. Fire extinguisher, blanket, first aid kit, teddy bear, flex cuffs, rubber gloves and a box of double-ott buck shotgun shells. She removed the shells and closed the trunk. She preferred to have the extra ammo up front where she could get to it quicker.

Once in the driver’s seat, she opened the glove compartment and put the shotgun shells inside. She saw a small city map inside, some hand disinfectant gel and someone’s candy wrapper. She grabbed the wrapper and tossed it in the small litter bag next to the transmission hump.

Katie turned the key to the on position. The radio booted up, signaled ready and displayed the word ‘North’ for channel one. She hit the shotgun release button and pulled the 12-gauge from the upright holder between the two seats. Stepping out of the car, she unloaded the four shells inside, cleared the weapon by checking the chamber visually, then racking it four times in quick succession. The small bandoleer on the stock held five shells. Pointing the shotgun at the empty concrete wall of the basement sally port, Katie did a tactical reload. If she were to use the gun, she would chamber one round, then immediately replace with one from the bandoleer. This gave the “street howitzer” five rounds loaded and four on the bandoleer.