Frank Zafiro - Under a Raging Moon

As Katie stepped lightly back to the car to replace the shotgun, she saw Matt Westboard removing his from the patrol car in front of her.

“Three-ninety-seven,” he said to her with a grin, pointing to his car with his free hand. He was referring to the patrol car’s fleet number, Katie knew.

“So?” She replied, trying to appear disinterested, but she knew exactly what he was driving at.

“So? So, I’ve got the queen of the fleet here. Only eighteen hundred miles.” He motioned toward Katie’s car. “That one’s got about a hundred and eighteen thousand on it.”

Katie shrugged, trying not to smile. “Four wheels and a siren are all I need.”

“How about a horse and buggy, then? Probably faster than that toilet.”

“You just cost yourself a free cup of coffee.” Katie leaned into her car and snapped the shotgun into place, closing the large metal clip that held it securely. Westboard was saying something that she couldn’t make out, but she ignored him, testing her overhead rotator blue-and-reds, her alley lights and her overhead takedown lights. Then she turned on her spotlight and shined it right in Westboard’s face. He smiled, closing his eyes and turning away. Even in the room-level light of the basement, the power of the spotlight was impressive.

Katie snapped the spotlight off after a few torturous moments, then exited her vehicle.

“Anything else you want to say about my car, Westboard?”

Westboard laid the shotgun across his front seat and pretended to be grabbing at floating balls in the air. “I’m blinded by the light,” he sang.

“Doofus,” Katie muttered with a grin. She opened her back door and searched her back seat thoroughly to ensure that nothing had been left in there from the previous shift. She did this, as did everyone, before and after anyone was in the seat. If someone had dumped something in the car, it could be attributed to the proper owner. Especially if the item were contraband, which was usually the case.

Her pre-flight checks complete, Katie returned to the driver’s seat and adjusted the seat position and mirrors. Westboard resumed checking his own car into service. In her rear-view mirror, she could see the newest rookie, Jack Willow, checking and double-checking everything. Well, she had done the same thing while she was in training, hadn’t she? You couldn’t afford to make a lot of mistakes during that phase. Truth be told, you couldn’t ever afford to make a lot of mistakes on this job. Sometimes not even one.

When she looked forward again, Westboard was pulling out of the sally port and up the ramp. She shook her head in amazement. She’d ridden with him a few times and he could check a car into service faster than anyone she knew.

Katie started the car and drove carefully out the sally port and up the ramp. When she turned onto the street, she hit her yelp siren, then the wail siren and air horn; three short bursts to verify each worked. The poor troops on Days and Swings weren’t allowed to blast their siren and air horn because court was in session, but on Graveyard they were able to blast away.

Last, she checked the intercom, which she tested just by turning it on and clicking the mike. It was functional. She turned it off.

Her eyes swept the gauges on the dashboard. Everything was fine except her fuel gauge, which showed at three-eighths of a tank. She frowned. You can’t tell me the swing-shift officers are too busy to turn in the cars gassed up and ready to go.

She keyed the mike. “Adam-116, in service.”

“Adam-116, go ahead.”

“Officer 407, driving vehicle 341, also.”

“Copy. Go ahead your also.”

“If I’m clear, I need to go signal-five for fuel.” Signal-five meant the city garage where the gas pumps were.

“Copy. You are clear, but I have a neighborhood dispute holding.”

Katie sighed. “Neighborhood disputes” were the bane of swing shift. There weren’t as many on graveyard, but they sometimes popped up early in the shift. A Neighborhood Dispute usually meant some old woman saying “So-and-so pulled my flowers” or two sets of feuding parents called because little Johnny hit little Billy and now they want the little criminal arrested. Seldom was there any law enforcement action that could be taken, and it resulted in an incredible drain on an officer’s time, but it had to be endured. Most of these people were the ones who actually paid taxes and they wanted police service. Since it might be the only time they saw their police department in action unless they were on the receiving end of a traffic citation, all officers were explicitly commanded to go and investigate thoroughly and to make everyone as happy as possible. Often, the same call wouldn’t even be dispatched later on in the graveyard shift, or might be dealt with in five minutes if it were. This call was probably a swing shift holdover.

“Go ahead your dispute,” Katie told radio.

“1119 W. Prudence. Caller states neighbor children are harassing her son. Also states the parent of the harassing children encourages it. 1119 W. Prudence.”

“Copy. I’ll be en route when I clear signal-five.”

2125 hours

Just a few minutes into his shift, Thomas Chisolm was already bored. He heard MacLeod get dispatched to a neighborhood dispute, which told him it was going to be a slow night. Worse yet, a slow night allowed his mind to wander. And it never wandered down bright, sunny paths littered with rose petals and butterflies, either.

The Scarface situation had him frustrated. He’d been on his night off or tied up on other calls during the last few robberies. As many times as the guy was getting away, Chisolm was beginning to think that the robber would never be caught. He remembered that Hart’s task force started tomorrow. Despite his dislike for the man and his suspicions of his ulterior motives, Chisolm was glad to see that something was going to be done which was a little more proactive rather than reactive.

Despite his dark thoughts, his mood had remained steady as the shift progressed. He never stayed depressed too deeply for too long, not even in ‘Nam. He had a serious, dark nature from his father but he also believed that his mother’s indomitable good cheer kept him on an even keel when it came to brooding.

Except for those ghosts, a voice inside his mind reminded him.

Shut up, whispered another.

Before an argument could begin, Chisolm swung into an alley. Two transients were seated with their backs to the wall, both holding brown paper bags. One made a clumsy attempt to hide his bottle beneath his coat. A third transient stood a few feet away, his back partially turned to Chisolm. In the flood of light now bathing the alley, Chisolm could see a stream of urine splattering against the wall.

He hit his overhead lights and grabbed the microphone, glad for the diversion. “Adam-112, I’ll be in the alley behind the Army Surplus store on Indiana with three transients. Code four.”

“Copy, Adam-112.”

Chisolm got out of the car and walked slowly up to the group. The urinating transient had finished and was struggling to zip up his pants.

“Evening, gentlemen.” Chisolm drawled, keeping all of their hands in sight.

“Evening, sir,” slurred the standing transient, who Chisolm now thought of as Pissing Man.

“Evening,” the other two muttered, both nodding.

“Seems we have a crime wave here,” Chisolm observed.

“What, sir?” Pissing Man asked.

Chisolm pointed at him. “That’s Lewd Conduct. Specifically, urinating in public.” He pointed at the seated two. “And that is Open and Consume Alcohol in Public.”