Frank Zafiro - Under a Raging Moon

Once Saylor finished reading, he raised his head to look at Kopriva. “Now, Officer Kopriva, I have to advise you that you have the right to have a Guild representative here with you during this proceeding.”

Damn. That meant he was going to get hammered. Well, if it stayed at shift level, that was better than seeing it go to Internal Affairs.

“I waive that right, sir,” he told Saylor.

“Sign here, then.”

He handed Kopriva the pen and the officer scrawled his name.

“Now, tell me. Does Ms. Wilson have a valid complaint?”

Kopriva considered. Saylor was a straight shooter. He would give him a fair shake, he decided.

“Was this woman driving a mini-van, sir?”

Saylor glanced down at the copy of Kopriva’s ticket in front of him. “Yes,” he answered.

Kopriva sighed. “Well, I don’t know, sir. She definitely blew the stoplight. I wasn’t too concerned in listening to how she thought the light was yellow. I suppose I was a little short with her. But I never said anything unprofessional.”

“Do you know where she was headed when you stopped her?”

Kopriva shook his head.

“Her twenty-five year old son’s birthday dinner,” Saylor said quietly. “Probably his last. He has terminal cancer.”

“Oh.” Kopriva suddenly felt like a heel.

Saylor didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he wrote something at the bottom of the complaint sheet. Without looking up, he said, “This will be considered a verbal counseling, as noted on the complaint form. Your actions were not improper.” His gaze locked on Kopriva. “You couldn’t have known, Stef, but maybe next time, listen a little?”

“Yes, sir.”

Saylor slid the paper across the desk to him. “Just sign that I counseled you, okay?”

Kopriva signed and returned the pen.

“We all get a little frustrated sometimes, right?” Saylor said. “Just take it out on the right people.”

Kopriva smiled in spite of himself.

Saylor gave him a wink. “And you did not hear that last part from me.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.”

Saylor nodded and glanced at the wall clock. About thirty minutes of the shift remained. “Why don’t you call it a night?”

Kopriva thanked him again and left the office. He changed quickly and hurried to his car. As he pulled out of the lot, he saw Katie parking her patrol car and securing it. He kept driving and did not meet her eye.

Wednesday, August 24th

Graveyard Shift

2120 hours

Katie MacLeod drove slowly down the side street, gazing at the houses she passed. She imagined the people who might live inside. Their stories. Their problems.

She smiled bitterly about that last thought. What did most of them know about problems? Oh sure, they had romantic problems, some of them. Things like her current situation. Getting dumped. Sleeping with someone you shouldn’t. Nothing unique about that.

But she was willing to bet no one in the houses she cruised past ever had to decide whether to shoot someone or not. They just trundled along in their little lives, working, watching TV and going to the mall and left those questions for the police to answer.

Katie sighed. She was starting to sound cynical, and after just three years on the job. Maybe she needed a vacation.

Yeah, a vacation from my life.

The radio squawked. “Adam-116, Adam-114.”

Katie keyed her mike and listened as Matt Westboard did the same.

“A domestic at 5117 N. Celtic Avenue. Caller can hear yelling and banging. Nothing further. No listing on occupants of the house.”

Katie copied and gave her location, about two minutes away from the address. Westboard copied from nearly downtown. Radio repeated their locations. Katie cursed at the dispatcher. Wasn’t there someone closer than Westboard to back her? No one answered up, though.

Light traffic allowed her to make good time, and she arrived on scene in less than a minute and a half. She checked out, parked a half a block away and walked in. The yards in this neighborhood seemed well tended and all the houses looked nice. Of course, that didn’t mean anything. DV’s happened in mansions and shacks alike.

She approached the house carefully. Except for the muffled sound of a television, no sound came from inside. The shades were drawn. Katie kept her radio covered with her hand as she crept along the side of the house. Still nothing.

The open porch had steps on both sides. She stepped up slowly, listening.

Then came the screaming, muffled through the closed windows and door. At least one male and one female. She could hear slaps and the sound of furniture being struck. It went on for about five seconds, then subsided for a moment.

Katie eased the screen door open and locked it out, her heart pounding. Clear as day, she heard another roar of human voices and sounds of struggle. Then a female voice cried, “Oh, no!” followed by a booming male voice, “Get up you, worthless piece of shit!” More sounds of strikes and furniture.

Katie keyed her mike and spoke in a subdued voice. “-16, how far off is -14?”

“Division and Buckeye.”

Damn. Katie’s breathing was shallow and rapid. She forced herself to inhale and then exhale more deeply.

More screaming. Loud pounding.

Another deep breath. Sweat collected on her upper lip and trickled from her armpits. Her vest seemed extra heavy.

She had to go in.

Damn!

She depressed the transmit button. “Adam-116, it sounds violent. Have -14 step it up.” She swallowed thickly and licked her lips. “I’m going in.”

Radio copied. The dispatcher relayed her message and restricted the channel, her voice tense. Katie didn’t notice. She wiped her damp palms on her uniform pants and drew her pistol. Just in case, she checked the doorknob.

Locked.

Another female screamed, “Oh, no, not again!”

Immediately after, a male yelled, “Get out of there!”

Katie stepped back and booted the door, putting her weight forward and striking just to the side of the knob, as she had been taught. The result was a loud crack and the door swung partially open. A small jagged piece of wood held it weakly to the doorjamb. Katie put her shoulder into the door and came crashing into the house.

As soon as she made entry, she swept her gun across all open spaces. She saw the threat immediately. A white male stood in the center of the living room off to her right with a fireplace poker in his right hand. He held it raised as if to strike. On the couch in front of him cringed a white female. Both stared at her in surprise.

She pointed the gun at him. “Police! Drop that poker now!”

The man just stood there, staring.

“Do it!” Katie’s finger slipped into the trigger guard. She began to squeeze.

The man did not move.

“If you don’t drop that poker right now, I will shoot you,” she told him in a low, intense voice.

The man shook his head as if just waking up. He let go of the poker. It clattered to the floor while he raised his hands.

“Now turn away from me,” Katie directed.

The man complied.

“Down on your knees.”

The man dropped to his knees. “What’s going on?”

Katie ignored his question and kept her gun trained on the center of his back. “Clasp you hands behind your head. Cross your ankles.”

The man did both without hesitation. She saw him trembling even from across the room.

Katie eased around the couch, not taking her eyes off the suspect. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

“W-what?”

“Do you need medical treatment?”