Линда Ла Плант - Cold Shoulder

I sincerely thank Suzanne Baboneau, Gill Coleridge, Esther Newberg, Patty Detroit, the real Lorraine Page whose name I borrowed, Hazel Orme, Clare Ledingham and Liz Thorburn. To everyone at the Pasadena Police Station and Sheriff’s Office, thank you for your time and expertise. But above all my thanks to a very admirable lady who brought me the story of her life.

It was dark, the alley lit only by neon flashes from the main street; not a single bulb above the many exit doors leading into it remained intact. The boy was running. He wore a black bomber jacket, a bright yellow Superman stripe zigzagging down its back, shiny black elastic knee-length pants, and sneakers, flapping their tongues and trailing their laces.

‘Police officer — freeze.’

The boy continued to run.

‘Police officer — freeze.’

Half-way along the alley, the boy sidestepped a trash-can like a dancer. The flash of a pink neon light gave an eerie outline to his young body, and the Superman stripe appeared like a streak of lightning.

‘Police officer. Freeze!’

The boy turned, in his right hand the stiff, flat metal of a 9mm pistol, and Lieutenant Page unloaded six rounds from the long-barrelled .38. Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam. The boy keeled over to his right, in a half spin, his head jerked back, his arms spread, his midriff folded, and he fell face forward. His long dark floppy hair spread over his gun arm, his body shuddering and jerking before he was still.

Lieutenant Page approached him, automatically reloading the .38. The hoarse voice of Sergeant William Rooney barked out to back off, to put the gun in the holster. Pushing past, his wide ass hid the body as he squatted down on his haunches.

‘Get back in the patrol car, Lieutenant.’

Page did as requested, snapping the shoulder holster closed. The car doors were open. A crowd of people, hearing the gunshots, had started to press forwards. Two uniformed officers barred the entrance to the alley.

Sergeant Rooney was sweating as he carefully wrapped the weapon before easing it away from the boy’s bloody fingers. He stared at the young dead face, and then walked slowly to the patrol car. Leaning inside, he displayed the weapon, cushioned in his snot-stained handkerchief. ‘This the weapon, Lieutenant?’

The 9mm pistol was a square, flat silver Sony Walkman. Inside was an old Guns ’N Roses tape. Axl Rose had been blasting out ‘Knock on heaven’s dooowarrr...’

Page turned away. Rooney’s fat face was too close, sniffing like an animal, because he knew, and he could smell it. ‘Get back to base — and fucking sober up.’

The locker room was empty, stinking of feet and stale sweat; the vodka was stashed under a tote-bag. Just feeling the coldness of the bottle gave Lieutenant Page’s jangling nerves instant relief. Page leaned on the sink, not even attempting to hide the bottle, drinking it like a man in a desert until it was empty. Suddenly the sink was slippery and the floor uneven, moving, shifting, and the long bench against the nearest wall was a good, safe, secure place to hide beneath.

Fifteen minutes later, Sergeant Rooney kicked open the door. ‘Lieutenant? You in here?’ His fat feet plodded down towards the washbasins. ‘Captain wants you in his office. Now!’

She was hunched against the wall beneath the bench, her skirt drawn up, one shoe on, one off, knee poking through laddered tights. Her head rested on one arm, the fine blonde hair hiding her face. The other arm was spread wide across the floor. Rooney tapped her upturned hand with the toe of his black crêpe-soled shoes. ‘Lieutenant!’

He bent down slowly, and yanked her hair roughly away from her face. She was unconscious, her lips slightly parted, her breathing deep and laboured. A beautiful face, the fine blonde eyelashes like a child’s, the wide flattish cheekbones, and perfect straight nose almost enhanced by her flushed pink cheeks. Out cold, Lieutenant Lorraine Page was still a class act.

Rooney stood up, then with his foot pushed her arm closer to her body. She moaned and curled up tighter. He wandered over to the washbasin, picked up the empty bottle, then returned to Captain Mallory’s office.

‘You find her?’

‘Yep! She’s out cold on the floor, bottle must have been in her locker.’

Rooney stood it on the Captain’s desk and just shrugged his shoulders. ‘She’s a lush, been coming down for a while. I reckoned she was in control, I’ve talked to her... She always had an excuse — you know, marital problems, et cetera, et cetera...’

Captain Mallory stared out of the window, then sighed. ‘Get her out of here, will you? Get her badge, her gun, and tell her to stay out of my sight.’

Lorraine didn’t even empty her locker: it was done for her, everything stuffed into the regulation tote-bag. The key was taken, her weapon and badge signed out. She was helped from the station, too drunk to comprehend what was happening. Rooney had gripped her by the elbow, pushing her roughly through the corridors. The zipper on her skirt was half undone, her slip showing, and if Rooney hadn’t held her tightly she would have fallen more than twice. He even banged her head, as if she were a prisoner, warning her to dip low to get into the rear of the car. She had laughed, and he had slammed the patrol car door so hard the vehicle rocked.

‘You think it’s funny? I hope you can sleep tonight, Lieutenant. Sleep as deeply as that kid you took out. Now get her the hell out of here...’

As the car drove out of the station yard, the mother of the dead boy, weeping hysterically, was being brought in. All she had been told was her son had been shot while escaping from a drug bust.

Two weeks later, Lieutenant Lorraine Page was officially out of the precinct. No disciplinary action was taken. She lost her pension, her career, but her forced resignation was quietly glossed over and it never reached the press. Tommy Lee Judd’s family never knew the name of the officer who shot their fourteen-year-old son six times. At the inquest it was stated that the boy had ignored three police warnings to stop. He had been charged with crack dealing two years previously but the statements from his probation officer that he had been clean for the past six months were glossed over. His death was recorded, and the record filed away. No one mentioned that he had had no weapon, and had been mistaken for another suspect — or that the officer who opened fire had subsequently been released from all duties and was no longer attached to the force.

In fact, Lieutenant Page might never have existed, and, as word passed, no one who had worked alongside her spoke to her again. She was given the cold shoulder. She had betrayed their badge, her rank and position: she had been drunk on duty, and a fourteen-year-old boy had died. They closed ranks — not to protect Lorraine, but to protect themselves.

Twelve years’ service, two commendations, and a service record that any officer, male or female, would have been proud of, was over. No one cared to find out what would become of ex-Lieutenant Lorraine Page.

After the shooting, when she had been unceremoniously dumped outside her apartment, she had stumbled inside and collapsed onto her bed. Mike, her husband, knew she was on night duty and had already dressed, fed their two daughters, and driven them to the school. Their babysitter, Rita, collected them and took them home where she checked the details of Lorraine’s duty times. According to the rota, she was due for two days’ leave. Rita would have stayed to make the girls their lunch, but little Julia, only six years old, was calling, ‘Mommy, Mommy,’ as four-year-old Sally began collecting her toys to play with her mother.