Frank Zafiro: Under a Raging Moon

He’d almost finished when the phone rang.

1428 hours

Anthony Giovanni and Mark Ridgeway stood at the door of Sergeant David Poole’s residence. Technically, because it was a crime scene, one of them should have been in the rear, guarding the back door, but Ridgeway locked the back door from the inside and came around front. Neither man wanted to be left alone while the County detectives investigated the death of a City officer.

Lieutenant Hart had left moments earlier and both men were appalled at his lack of emotion. He’d behaved the same way as on any dozen other suicide scenes. Officious and overbearing, he talked to Gio and Ridgeway as if they were rookies who didn’t know how to secure a crime scene. If he’d known that no one was guarding the back door now, it would’ve tipped him right over the edge.

They were glad for his presence, however, when the media arrived in force. He quickly extended the crime scene out to the middle of the residential street. This allowed only one lane of traffic, which the media vehicles could not block. With all the County cars parked on Poole’s side of the road, the closest media vehicle set up shop almost a block away.

They were even happier for Hart’s presence when Sherrie, Poole’s ex-wife, arrived and tried to enter the house. Hart escorted her away from the scene. She’d been distraught, which was understandable, but it had surprised both of them. Everyone knew she’d divorced Sergeant Poole for another man.

Neither Gio nor Ridgeway said anything, but both knew what the other was thinking. Suicide. The policeman’s disease. Both suspected the other had probably sat in his own living room and stared at the black metal sitting on the table in front of him. Sat and stared and thought. Thought of the woman he had lost. How much of himself he had lost. In her and in the job.

Both wondered if the other had tasted the cool metal that smelled of gunpowder and lubricant. Had his finger slipped into the trigger guard? Had it touched the trigger? Had he shut his eyes, silent tears streaming down his face and wondered what waited on the other side? Was it courage or cowardice that made him release the trigger and set the gun back down with a shaking hand?

Both men considered these questions in silence and waited.

County Sheriff’s detectives conducted their investigation. The meticulous process began with photos of the exterior of the house, and worked slowly inward to the scene.

Gio and Ridgeway stood by uncomfortably.

“I wonder if he left a note,” Gio pondered, but Ridgeway didn’t answer.

1445 hours

Hospital. Kopriva recognized the antiseptic smells and the subdued, bustling sounds. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Light streamed through his window, warm sunshine on his face.

It felt good.

He tilted his head slightly. Katie sat at his bedside. Tired worry lines creased her face, but they washed away when she smiled at him.

He smiled back, realizing then that she still held his hand.

“Hey,” he croaked and tried to smile.

“Hey,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “You gave me quite a scare, Stef.”

“Scared me, too.” His throat went dry. He thought about asking for some water, but wanted to look at her a moment longer.

She met his gaze and smiled with warm eyes.

1516 hours

“Blood pressure?” The doctor asked, knowing he was losing this one. The patient had already endured a surgery earlier in the day, which had been successful enough to keep him from dying immediately. This second surgery was supposed to keep him from dying at all.

The nurse’s answer confirmed what he knew. Too much damage. In the kidney and in the liver, shards of metal were everywhere.

He stepped away from the patient, listening to the long moments between beeps on the heart monitor turn into a steady tone. He sighed as he removed his gloves.

“Time?”

“1517,” responded a nurse.

“Note it. And turn that monitor off.”

The doctor silently cursed guns, bullets and those who manufactured them. He remained silent as he slipped off the bloody latex gloves and threw them away. He didn’t know what religion Isaiah Morris adhered to, if any, but he had no wish to profane the moment of the man’s exit from this world.

1637 hours

“Is that all, then?” Ridgeway asked the detective.

“Yeah, just lock the front door for us and we’re done.” The detective held several paper bags of evidence taken from inside the house. “Listen, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

The County detective left. Ridgeway locked the front door and turned to face Giovanni.

“I have to put the keys on property,” the older officer said.

“Okay.”

“You want to meet me at Duke’s afterwards?”

“Definitely,” Gio answered, nodding.

“See you there, then.”

1708 hours

Katie’s lips pressed lightly against Kopriva’s temple. He closed his eyes and soaked in the softness and warmth of her lips and the slight scent of sweat and vanilla on her skin. When he heard footsteps and the rustle of a curtain, his eyes snapped open.

Katie started in surprise and pulled her head away. Kopriva glanced at her and saw her cheeks flush.

The nurse only smiled.

“That is the best medicine I know of, girl,” she told them. “Love, love, love.”

Friday, September 2nd, 1994

1916 hours

End of Tour

Johnny poured three quick shots and lifted them onto Rachel’s tray. The atmosphere at Duke’s was familiar, but he noticed a strange buzz in the crowd. By now, Johnny had heard about Poole and he imagined the sergeant’s death had something to do with the way patrons were acting. Some of the regulars knew, too, and they sat and conversed quietly, leaving the cops alone as they entered.

Chisolm had come first, taking a spot at the end of the bar. Johnny knew his drink and brought it without being asked. He noticed that Chisolm seemed neither depressed nor jovial and wondered if the man ever reached the depths of either emotion.

Ridgeway and Giovanni came in next and forwent their usual table to join Chisolm at the bar. Johnny served them as well, again asking no questions. In contrast to Chisolm, both men seemed solemn.

When Katie MacLeod, Matt Westboard and Will Reiser arrived, the group moved to the large table in the corner. Johnny kept Rachel busy bringing them drinks and wished he hadn’t sent the new girl home for the day.

“Johnny!” Ridgeway’s barked from across the room, his voice slightly slurred. “I want you to meet the man who captured the notorious Scarface Robber.” He paused a moment, then continued. “Wait a minute. You didn’t catch him, did you, Tom? You killed him. Sorry.” The group laughed.

Ridgeway turned back to the bartender. “Never mind, Johnny.”

Johnny was used to the gallows humor. He smiled and waved from behind the bar.

Chisolm shook his head. “You’re just jealous,” he told Ridgeway, setting up his favorite joke.

“Why?” Ridgeway played into the old line, even though he’d heard it dozens of times. “Because I don’t have to get grilled by IA and then sued by that scumbag robber’s family?”

“No. You’re jealous because I get to eat your wife but not her cooking.”

The group broke up in laughter and ooohs. Other patrons listened now and laughed at Chisolm’s line.

“You ate my wife?” Ridgeway asked in mock anger.

Chisolm winked and took a sip of his beer.

“Really?” Ridgeway asked. “How’d I taste?”