Frank Zafiro - Under a Raging Moon

Mary. He could hear her sweet laugh as he struggled to play the guitar. The music rang in his ears.

“The screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves.”

Winter’s bloody hand twitched as his fingers struggled to form the chords. He tried to sing, but only a wheeze escaped his mouth.

Mary. Her soft touch on his shoulder.

Had he kissed her goodbye?

His feet were so cold.

A siren broke through his thoughts, followed by the screech of tires.

Kopriva leapt from the car and ran to the fallen officer. He recognized Winter more by his belly than his bloody face.

“Baker-123, officer down! Start medics, now!”

“Copy. Injuries?”

“Multiple gunshot wounds,” Kopriva said, guessing.

He knelt beside Winter. Blood, coming from his left eye, covered the left side of the officer’s face. That wound appeared to be only a trickle, perhaps from a grazing shot. Kopriva saw the bullet holes in his chest and heard the raspy rattle of a sucking chest wound. He applied pressure, noticing that Winter didn’t have on a vest. Frantically, he struggled to recall the proper first aid.

Winter tried to mouth something to him. He leaned forward but no sound came from the veteran’s lips. Winter spoke the same silent few words over and over, but Kopriva couldn’t make them out. He lifted his head again. Winter continued to mouth the phrase, looking like a fish gasping for water in the bottom of a fishing boat.

Then Kopriva noticed the puddle of blood that emerged from both sides of Winter, spreading slowly outward like a pair of black wings.

He took Winter’s hand and held it tightly in his own.

Karl Winter saw the shadowy shape of a man above him but not well enough to recognize who it was. He saw the silver badge on the man’s chest, though. That was what mattered. He’d been able to give his message to the man, who would give it to Mary. He didn’t want her to worry at his bedside while he recovered.

The light shining from the streetlight had dimmed. He was cold, so cold.

He could barely feel the officer’s grip on his hand and wished he could hold it tighter.

Had he kissed Mary goodbye?

“You’re going to be okay, man. Just hold on.” Kopriva squeezed Winter’s hand tightly. He didn’t know if the wounded officer could hear him or not. “Just hold on.”

Hurry up with the goddamn medics!

He looked around frantically, willing them to appear. He saw fresh rubber marks beside Winter in the flashing red and blue lights. They led westbound. He realized that he’d probably passed the suspect car on his way and cursed silently.

When he looked down again, Karl Winter’s eyes had frozen into a fixed stare.

Saturday, August 27th

Day Shift

1315 hours

A warm August rain fell on the mourners. It began as large, fat drops, splattering noisily when they struck. After a short while, a brisk wind swept in and broke up the drops, thinning them out. Within minutes, it had transformed the rainfall into a misty sheet, lightly soaking the attending mourners.

Police Chaplain Timothy Marshall stood in the downpour, oblivious to its assault. His usually jovial face turned somber for the occasion. His only reaction to the weather was to close his eyes as he spoke the words he knew by rote.

“Ashes to ashes,” he intoned, his words torn and fragmented in the wetness. “Dust to dust.”

Three hundred officers stood in the large cemetery, all in dress uniform or dark suits. Those closest to the chaplain heard his words and found in them no solace. Those too far away to hear shifted uncomfortably in the rain, remaining respectfully silent. A very few openly wept.

Lieutenant Alan Hart stood rigidly, unsure of his proper role. Winter had not cared for him. Neither did his friends. As such, his sympathies would likely be rebuffed, so he only offered them in a perfunctory manner to the widow. He knew, though, that his distance would only serve to reinforce their negative image of him. It was, he realized, the price of command.

At his side, Sergeant David Poole watched Mary Winter. He knew how much Karl and she loved each other. He had often compared Sherrie to Mary until he realized he did not love his wife. When had he stopped? He couldn’t pinpoint even an approximate time. That should make him sad, but for some reason it didn’t. Standing at Karl’s graveside, he found himself envying the man his heroic death. He feared his own would not be so glorious. A deep sadness finally came upon him with the belief ( or was it knowledge, he thought morbidly) that he would die alone and unloved.

Anthony Giovanni and Mark Ridgeway stood on either side of Mary. Neither man could have known that they shared the same thoughts. Both were deeply hurt over the loss of a woman and both cursed themselves for not being with Winter when he’d needed them. After all, he had always been there for each of them.

A furious, guilt-racked Kopriva stood in the second row of the mourning group. He felt as if he, too, had failed Winter. All the way to the hospital, he watched the paramedics work feverishly on an already dead Winter. He recognized the first few procedures as field techniques he could have performed. That knowledge slammed into his chest with a vengeance. He could have saved Winter if he had acted more quickly. All the doctor’s assurances to the contrary didn’t change that. The surgeons might have been able to repair a nicked aorta if he’d only given them the chance. Instead, he’d stood by uselessly while Karl Winter’s life bled out onto the warm, summer asphalt.

Kopriva spotted Katie MacLeod standing on the fringes of the crowd. She wore a black, calf-length dress. Simple and elegant. She looked beautiful, like a sculpture. Beautiful and untouchable, he reminded himself.

Standing with the pallbearers, Thomas Chisolm kept his face calm and impassive. He barely noticed the rain as it washed over him. He had attended dozens of funerals in his life, most of them after returning from Vietnam. His trip to Arlington cemetery and then, years later, to the Vietnam Memorial had been emotional ones. He’d wept openly, shamelessly, mourning for dozens, even scores, of men. Karl Winter was one man, however, and Thomas Chisolm would do him the honor of a stoic burial.

The honor guard from the local National Guard unit folded the flag in crisp motions. Their presence, along with the police motorcycle escort to the cemetery, was an honor accorded to Winter out of respect for his status as both a veteran and a policeman. The bugler stood ready at a distance.

Chisolm watched the honor guard sergeant present the flag to Mary Winter. The uniformed man spoke softly to her. Mary nodded and thanked him. The sergeant patted her twice on the hand. Even that act was done with military precision. He paused several moments before returning to his squad.

Chaplain Marshall gave a nod and the groundskeeper began to turn the lever. The brown casket slowly sank into the wet ground.

Mary Winter sat at the grave-side, watching them lower her husband into the earth. The solemn notes of Taps pierced the stillness. Her brother Aaron’s strong hands rested on both her shoulders. The casket lowered out of sight as the final notes of Taps welled up like a tear and trailed off.

The crowd began to break up. Mary heard the murmuring of sympathies and nodded automatically, without understanding the words or seeing the faces. She knew Mark and Gio would stand with her until she was ready to leave, and that Aaron would be there to lean on throughout the day and for the weeks to come.

But it didn’t matter.

Nothing could change the pain. Not the honor or respect they paid to her husband, not the insurance policy, not the hat-passing that would take place at the reception following this and not the flag she clutched to her breast.