Frank Zafiro - Under a Raging Moon

Mary Winter began to weep and her huge, racking sobs pierced the downpour where the chaplain’s words had failed to.

Thursday, September 1st

Graveyard Shift

2215 hours

T-Dog checked that both pistols were loaded with full magazines and a round in the chamber. Everything had to be perfect. Morris was getting very touchy lately, as their nightly searches for the cop came up empty. He assured Morris that it was only a matter of time before luck would take a hand and they’d find him. He’d been rewarded with a slap upside the head and a ten-minute tirade. Now, he remained silent while Morris groused.

“Gonna get that cracker bitch motherfucker,” Morris muttered as he sipped from his forty-ouncer. “To- night!”

T-Dog didn’t respond, but handed him the small black.380. Morris shook his head. “Gimmee the other one, dumb motherfucker.” He reached out as T-Dog handed him the one with the brown grips. “The poker gun, too.”

T-Dog handed him the small, two-shot derringer, which Morris liked to carry at card games.

Morris snatched it from his hand. “Stupid fuckin’ Wonder Bread,” he said. “Wannabe motherfucker.” He shook his head at T-Dog and slipped the guns into his pockets.

T-Dog swallowed the insult dutifully, raging at it inside. Man, he was a brother. He hung with the bangers. He kept their secrets, he did their dirty work. What did it take to be accepted?

Stroking the smooth metal of the pistol’s slide, T-Dog found his answer.

Friday, September 2nd

0049 hours

Woodenly, Stefan Kopriva patrolled his sector. Five days had passed since Karl Winter’s funeral, and the impact of the shooting on the department had not subsided. His death had not officially been pinned on Scarface, though every officer in town remained convinced it had been the elusive robber who shot Winter.

Kopriva reviewed the facts that Major Crimes finally gave to patrol at that evening’s roll call. The license plate of the car Winter stopped came back to a 1972 Ford Maverick, but the tire marks at the scene suggested a much wider mid-to-early seventies car, like a Caprice or something similar. So, either Winter put out the wrong plate when he made the stop or more likely the plates had been switched. No shell casings were found at the scene. One of the bullets that struck Winter had been recovered. Forensics stated it was a.38 caliber, the weapon formerly used by every cop in America.

The only other clue was a driver’s license at the scene belonging to Carla Dunham. River City PD showed no record of her locally, and her Department of Licensing address was in Seattle. Her picture circulated at the roll call tables. She was the best lead they had, but the detectives had been unable to locate her. Now they were asking for help from the patrol officers.

Business continued as usual. The calls just kept coming. Burglaries, DV’s, accidents, drunks. People constantly asking about the shooting. Did you know the cop who got shot?

Scarface had been busy, too. Three more robberies since the night of the shooting. Strangely, he had not hit on the night of the funeral; something Kopriva didn’t know what to make of, if anything.

He remembered Katie at the funeral and her sculpted beauty. She hadn’t cried, remaining strong in the presence of her brethren police officers. She’d caught his eye and held it for a long time while the bugler’s notes floated over them. He hadn’t been able to read her face.

He should have spoken with her. Hell, he wanted to. He’d wanted to be with someone very badly that night. To make love frantically with someone, and especially with her, to prove he was still alive. Maybe that was why he hadn’t spoken to her. They’d had enough bad timing already.

He stopped at an intersection just in time to see a car bust the light northbound. He watched it go. The driver, a single Hispanic female in a two-year-old compact, didn’t even notice him in the marked police vehicle. She looked like a worker bee to him. Kopriva saw no other cars in the area. He let the car go, turning southbound and continuing his patrol.

0234 hours

“Was that him?” Morris asked as they passed a police car.

“No,” T-Dog answered. “That was some bitch.”

“Are you sure?”

T-Dog nodded.

“Man, you are a no-finding motherfucker, you know that?” Morris took a slug from his forty-ouncer. “Couldn’t find your dick to piss with it,” he muttered.

T-Dog ignored him. Morris would treat him differently after they found the cop. They’d take care of business. And then it was down to Compton. He’d come back, beat in and proud.

0349 hours

It had been a slow Thursday night, now a slow Friday morning. Units made stops all night long and most cleared with no citation. That usually meant the car they’d stopped was a civilian car instead of a criminal car. Most patrol officers didn’t bother writing normal citizens for minor infractions. You could tell when pickings were poor, though, by the number of those stops and clears that came across the radio.

Calls for service were also very few and tapered off completely around two in the morning. At three-thirty, units began to request sevens. Radio had no reason to refuse and by three forty-five, the first unit had checked out at Mary’s Cafe for breakfast. Most of the Adam Sector cars quickly followed and after a short time, most of Baker, too.

That left three cars in each sector still on patrol. Down in the radio room, Janice Koslowski felt no alarm at the thinness of patrol. She could have run the whole north side with two cars tonight, much less the six that were still out there. As long as at least one car stayed in service on each side of Division, she didn’t see a problem.

0353 hours

Thomas Chisolm heard the sevens begin and decided to stay in the field and shag any calls that popped up. He’d stopped at some Mexican drive-through around midnight and eaten slowly while sitting up at Haven and Illinois, gazing out over the Looking Glass River and the southern half of the city. He loved that view, but now the burrito sat in his stomach like lead shot.

He’d heard yesterday that Payne was reviewed by the Probationary Officer Board at Bates’s recommendation and fired. He hadn’t been lucky enough to see Hart since the announcement, but he didn’t care. The arrogant prick had been wrong and now he had to know it. He wondered briefly if he could force Hart to reinstate him into the FTO program and knew he would probably not have to.

Simply asking nicely would be enough.

Chisolm smiled and turned up the stereo as the Rolling Stones came on singing something about satisfaction.

0404 hours

Kopriva considered going to Mary’s Cafe, but he didn’t like the fact it was in the extreme northwest of town and almost all the city’s units were already there. The only other option at this time of night was the Denny’s at Division and Wabash. He headed that direction until he heard Katie’s voice over the radio.

“Adam-116, I’ll be seven and paperwork at Division and Wabash.”

Kopriva frowned. He wasn’t ready to deal with Katie yet, if he ever would be. Not that hungry anyway, he decided to stay in service and drive around. He rolled down the window and turned up the stereo, trying to drive the foggy sleepiness out of his eyes.

Some coffee would be nice, though.

0406 hours

Chisolm stopped in a dry cleaning parking lot and backed his car right up to the windows. The lot was at the eastern edge of his sector here, but he could respond to any call quickly enough. Especially on a slow morning like this. He remembered the unofficial graveyard motto. “You know it’s a good night when you get to drive fast, point your gun at somebody and take them to jail.”