“I know.”
“Let’s go.”
Battaglia nodded. “Now you’re talking. And you know what?”
“What?”
“Screw Hart,” Battaglia said.
Sully smiled. “Yeah. You’re right. Screw him.”
Battaglia nodded again and dropped into the passenger seat. While Sully checked the exterior of the vehicle, Battaglia loaded the shotgun and racked a round into the chamber. Between the two of them, the car was ready for service in less than two minutes.
Without a word, Sully fired up the engine. As they zipped out of the basement and up the ramp, Battaglia cycled the lights, sirens and the air horn.
They headed out into the night.
Thursday, April 18th
0129 hours
Katie MacLeod cruised slowly toward the call without any urgency. According to Radio, some mental guy was breaking up his house, talking with Mental Health, and then the line went dead. Katie was cautious when dealing with mentals, or Forty-eights, as they were called in police jargon. It seemed like they were always doing some whacked-out thing or another. In most cases, it was impossible to reason with them. But the majority of them were too smart to be manipulated, too. She just hoped that this one hadn’t cut himself or done something foolish like that.
The worst of it was, it was her call. That meant that she would likely be the one taking a trip up to Sacred Heart Hospital where the Mental Health wing was located. It also meant a marginally long report justifying why she committed the guy for mental evaluation.
Maybe she was getting ahead of herself. Maybe this guy wasn’t too bad. It was always possible they could check on him, work things out and then clear the call without a report.
Katie arrived on scene and parked one house away. As she exited the car, she saw Matt Westboard whip around the corner and cruise to a stop one house away in the other direction. As he approached, he said, “Good. Now we have him surrounded.”
Katie nodded, smiling. “The question is, is this one going to be a run-of-the-mill forty-eight, or is this one going to excel and be a ninety-six?”
“Let’s hope for low numbers,” Westboard said as they walked up to the porch.
At the door, Westboard knocked, but there was no answer. Both officers waited for almost a minute, listening intently. Katie looked at Westboard, who shrugged. Katie reached for the doorknob and turned it. It was unlocked.
Katie hesitated. She always did in a situation like this. For one, it was a big issue for an officer to make a warrant-less entry into someone’s house. Were the circumstances exigent? Did an emergency exist? Would the officer do more harm from walking away than from making an entry? Such issues were always gray to the street officer who had the responsibility of solving the problems in the field. To an administrator, they were easily defined from the comfort of his office at the police station the following day. They were even clearer yet to the lawyer in a courtroom. And, she thought, the issue was crystal clear to the journalist slamming the cops for making the ‘wrong’ choice…which was whatever choice the officer made, regardless.
Westboard watched her, waiting. Katie knew what he was thinking. Since it was unlocked and entry did not have to be forced, they should go in. If the door had been locked and no noise came from inside the house indicating an emergency, they would probably search for an alternate way in without breaking anything. They did have an obligation to make sure the forty-eight inside hadn’t cut his wrists open or something.
Of course, forty-eight or not, the man had a constitutional right against unreasonable entry into his home.
Hell.
“What do you think?” Westboard asked.
Katie sighed. “I can’t walk away. This guy called for help. If he’s hurt…”
Westboard nodded. “I’m with you.”
“Okay, then.” Katie pushed the door open slowly. “River City Police!” she announced loudly, hoping the neighbors could hear and would make good witnesses. “We received a 911 call. Is everyone all right?”
There was no answer.
Katie caught Westboard’s eyes. The veteran gave her a nod. They made entry to the house quickly. Katie’s hand rested on her pistol, just in case.
“Anybody home?” She called out.
No answer.
The house had been torn apart. She saw broken glass all over the small living room. A typewriter sat on the coffee table. Plates and glasses, some broken, were scattered throughout the house. Katie could detect the unmistakable pungent smell of body odor.
“Bathroom and bedroom are clear,” called Westboard from the others side of the tiny house. He was back at her side in a few moments. “Bathroom mirror is smashed. A little blood in the sink, nothing major.”
Katie nodded and moved into the kitchen. A phone with no receiver hung on the wall. In the far corner of the kitchen sat a man, his legs splayed straight out in front of him. He had thinning gray hair and a full beard. Katie couldn’t tell his height for sure, but given his huge belly, she guessed that he weighed over two hundred pounds. He sat staring, expressionless, the phone receiver pressed to his ear. A torn cord dangled from the useless receiver.
“Hello, sir,” Katie said softly, not wanting to startle him.
The man gave no response.
Katie continued to watch him. She noticed drying blood smeared on his hands. She guessed that he had probably punched the mirror and nicked his fingers and knuckles.
She heard Westboard rustling through some mail on the counter.
“You find a name, Matt?”
“Still looking.” He held up a piece of junk mail. “Unless his name is Current Resident.”
Katie smiled slightly, watching the man stare off into space. Then his head rotated slightly. His eyes fixed on her.
“Dan,” was all he said.
“Sir? Your name is Dan?”
“Yeah. Dan.”
“Dan, are you okay?”
“Yeah. Dan.”
“Okay, Dan. What’s your last name?” Katie spoke slowly and in an even voice. Though he appeared harmless, she knew that forty-eights could radically change moods at any moment.
“Danny. Danny Boy.”
Katie paused. “Are you hurt, Dan?”
Dan gave her a quizzical look. He stuck his index finger deep into his mouth and pulled it out, making a popping sound. He kept the phone to his ear with the other hand.
“It’s Dan Steiner,” Matt told her. He showed her an envelope. “It’s from Mental Health.”
“Nancy is my counselor,” Dan said.
“Nancy?”
“Yeah.”
“Nancy what? What’s her last name?”
“Sinatra. Nancy Sinatra.”
Katie took a deep breath. She heard Matt checking the refrigerator and cupboards. She knew he was checking to see how much food Dan had, if any. A person could only be committed to the Mental Health Ward at Sacred Heart if they met certain criteria. Being suicidal, homicidal or unable to care for themselves were the most common reasons police officers encountered.
“What’s going on tonight, Dan?” she asked. “Are you upset?”
Dan shook his head slowly.
“Why did you break up the house?”
“They called me.”
“Who?”
“Nancy Sinatra at Mental Health.”
“Did that make you mad?”
“I was reading.”
“All right,” Katie said. “I can understand that. No one likes to get interrupted when they’re reading. Are you hurt?”
But Dan was staring at the wall again and did not answer.
“Plenty of canned food and goodies in here,” Matt told her. “Even so, with this behavior…”
“I agree. He needs to go up to the hospital.” Katie wasn’t dreading the report now nearly so much as she was dreading the possibility of Dan refusing to go. If he fought, he would be a handful. Forty-eights sometimes seem almost supernaturally strong and didn’t always respond to pain compliance techniques.
“I have to go now,” Dan said suddenly into the phone receiver. “My friends are here.”