Frank Zafiro: Under a Raging Moon

Fall 1994

“So what do you want from me, doc?”

“I want you to tell me how you feel about what happened.”

The police officer snorted. “It doesn’t really matter what I say.”

The doctor leaned back in his chair before answering. He studied the man across from him. The officer sat in a relaxed position, his feet crossed at the ankles. Both hands lay across his lap. The doctor saw the bandaged arm and shoulder and a leg brace, as well as the cane leaning next to the officer, all evidence of the injuries he had sustained. He noticed none of the defensive body language he usually encountered in interviews such as this one. The officer appeared physically fit, his muscles well-formed even in a relaxed state. He met the doctor’s gaze with a frank, even stare. No challenge resided in his eyes, but none of his inner thoughts were betrayed, either.

“Officer, please understand.” The doctor spoke in a calm, open tone. “I do not work directly for the Department. I am contracted to do an evaluation after a critical incident and render a professional opinion.”

“And I am required to cooperate fully as a condition of employment.” The officer smiled without humor. “Failure to do so may result in suspension or termination.”

“That’s true,” the doctor conceded. He tried a different tactic. “But it may help you to talk about it.”

The officer shrugged but said nothing.

The doctor suppressed a sigh and leaned back in his chair. By force of habit, he opened the officer’s personnel file. He had already reviewed it, of course. He always made a point to know as much as possible about his patients before he sat down with them.

Nothing in the file indicated the man was much different from any other cop he’d interviewed. Still, he found police officers to be a pleasant distraction from his regular practice of rich, whiny men and women. Some cops were uncultured ex-jocks, but many had a combination of intelligence and culture blended with a blue-collar worker’s outlook that fascinated him. Another aspect that made these interviews well worth his time was his examination of the effect of power on the individual. He only charged the City forty percent of what he charged his civilian clientele. It only seemed fair, since these interviews were fueling a paper he was writing for a psychiatric journal.

“What do they say about me in there?” The officer asked, nodding toward the file.

“Lots of things,” the doctor replied, unsure if he had detected sarcasm in the officer’s voice or not. He glanced down at the file in front of him. “It says you graduated third in your class at the academy. You’ve been a police officer for just three years and during that time you’ve had no sustained internal affairs investigations. There have been seven unsustained complaints, however. Other than that, your last performance review was very complimentary.”

“Company man,” the officer said. This time the sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable.

The doctor looked up again and caught the officer’s eye. He saw a flicker of emotion. It disappeared quickly and he wondered if he had seen it at all.

He closed the file and set it aside. “Officer, I am required to fill out a general report regarding your mental and emotional fitness for duty. Obviously, a satisfactory response is as important as your physical recovery with regards to your return to full duty.”

At the words ‘full duty,’ the officer winced slightly.

The doctor pressed on. “However, everything you say within the confines of this office is entirely confidential. By law, I cannot reveal it to anyone, nor can I be compelled to by any court.”

The officer narrowed his eyes slightly. “Totally confidential?”

“Yes.” The doctor watched as the officer processed the information.

The officer remained silent for several moments. Finally, he said in a heavy whisper, “Doc…you wanna know the truth?”

“I do.”

“The truth is…it felt good.”

The doctor nodded. “Go on.”

The officer didn’t meet his eyes, but continued to speak. “I did what I had to do and I don’t feel bad for that.” He chewed his lip a moment, then continued. “See, that’s the problem. I feel bad because I don’t feel bad about it. I feel good about it. I’d do it again.”

The doctor raised his hand to his glasses, adjusting them on the bridge of his nose. He gave the officer a reassuring nod.

Now the session had truly begun.

Friday, August 12th, 1994

Graveyard Shift

2116 hours

Crack!

The flashlight clattered to the pavement. Thomas Chisolm looked up from his note pad to see his rookie, Maurice Payne, looking sheepish. Payne grabbed the light and checked it. Relief flooded his face when it still worked.

Chisolm struggled not to shake his head in disgust. Payne had already spent three times longer than he should have putting the police cruiser through its pre-flight check. To make matters worse, he’d managed to forget half the procedures.

How in the hell did this kid make it through his first two Field Training Officers? Chisolm wondered. Christ, how did he make it through the Police Academy?

Payne finally settled into the seat and started the engine. He carefully turned on and off every emergency light, including the yelp and wail sirens. Satisfied, he started to put the car into gear.

“Forget something?” Chisolm asked in as neutral a voice as he could muster.

Payne looked worried and confused.

Jesus, this kid flusters easy , Chisolm thought. He’d acted the same way earlier when Chisolm pointed out that he forgot to check the back seat.

Payne’s worried look grew almost frantic. He looked to Chisolm for the answer. The veteran put his hand on the shotgun, which sat right beside the radio, its barrel pointing upward.

“Oh.” Payne put the car in park and released the shotgun. He started to clear the weapon in the driver’s seat.

“Do it outside,” Chisolm instructed in an even voice. For the fifteenth time , he groused inwardly.

Payne stepped out of the car, banging the butt of the shotgun against the steering wheel along the way. Chisolm watched him unload the shotgun, clear it and then reload. His movements were clumsy and unsure. His attempt to complete the task faster than his abilities allowed only made it worse.

“Easy, son,” Chisolm told him. “Take your time and do it right.”

Payne finished awkwardly and replaced the shotgun in its rack. He picked up the radio to check them into service. “Adam-112, log on.”

“Go ahead,” responded the dispatcher.

As Payne recited their badge numbers and vehicle assignment, Chisolm winced at the rookie’s voice. It sounded weak and mush-mouth, carrying no authority at all.

Reflecting briefly, Chisolm knew why Payne had made it through two Field Training Officers. They’d gone on a few calls where compassion had been the order of the day. Chisolm had to admit the kid did a superb job. A rape victim is not an easy person to communicate with, especially for a male officer. Some victims demanded a female officer for that very reason, but Payne had been able to establish an excellent rapport with the victim, kept her emotions in check and took a good report.