“Are you all right?” Tower asked.
Katie let out a shuddering breath and wiped her tears away with her unbandaged hand. Confusing thoughts swirled through her head.
I don’t know if I’m crying because I shot him or because I didn’t kill him or because I wish I had.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Sorry,” Tower muttered. “That was a stupid question.”
Katie didn’t answer. Another long silence ensued, this one more awkward. Eventually, Tower said, “Well, I just wanted to check in on you. If you need anything, give me a call.”
“Okay.”
Tower removed a business card from his jacket pocket and scrawled something on the back. He placed the card on the nightstand next to her bed. “That’s my home phone on the back,” he said. “Call anytime.”
“Thanks,” Katie whispered, her voice husky with tears. She desperately wanted to stop crying, but the goddamn tears just kept welling up in her eyes. Instead of wiping them from her cheeks, she avoided his gaze.
“I’ll let Radio know about no visitors,” Tower said. He turned to go.
Avery slid a card from her jeans pocket and placed it next to Tower’s. “If you ever need to talk,” she said quietly.
Katie didn’t respond.
“I hope you feel better soon,” Avery added. Then she turned to leave with Tower.
Katie lay still, listening to their departing footsteps. When the pair reached the door, Katie turned her head.
“Wait.”
Tower looked over his shoulder at her, but it was Avery’s gaze that she met. Katie took a shallow, wavering breath.
“Can…can you stay a while?” she asked Avery.
Avery nodded. “Of course.” She returned to Katie’s bedside.
Tower watched for a moment, then said, “I’ll wait out here.”
“Thanks,” Avery said, without turning toward him.
Tower gave Katie a nod and left, closing the door behind him.
Avery stood next to Katie’s bed. To Katie, she seemed patient, as if she were willing to wait a year for Katie to speak.
Katie licked her lips, wondering where to begin. The two women remained silent for a long minute while the monitor next to her bed beeped.
“There’s something I want to tell you about,” she finally said.
“Okay,” Avery said.
“Not this,” she said, motioning toward her bandages. “Something else. From a long time ago.”
Avery reached out and touched Katie lightly on her hand. “We can talk about whatever you want,” she said with a light squeeze.
Katie swallowed. She looked up into Julie Avery’s warm eyes and nodded. “All right,” she said. “All right.”
2145 hours
Graveyard Shift
Connor O’Sullivan drove in silence while Battaglia looked out the window. The pair had been uncharacteristically quiet during the early part of the shift. Sully wondered if Battaglia was having issues at home or if, like himself, he was concerned about MacLeod.
“The El-Tee said she was going to be fine,” he finally ventured.
“Huh?”
“MacLeod. Saylor said she’d be all right.”
Battaglia nodded without turning from the window. “Good.”
“Yeah,” Sully echoed. “Good.”
They drove a few more blocks in silence. Then Sully said, “I guess she nailed the guy four or five times. Probably crippled him.”
“Good.”
“She’s a good shot.”
“Yeah.”
“Blasted the guy all around the groin area.”
“That fits.” Battaglia was silent for a moment, then added, “Sounds like she ten-ringed him like that rat under bridge.”
Sully smiled. “Exactly.”
Battaglia turned away from the window, a dark grin already fading from his face. “She’s the bomb,” he said. “MacLeod, I mean.”
Sully nodded in agreement.
“Guy attacks her in her own house. In her bathrobe, for Christ’s sake. But she still wins.” Battaglia shook his head. “I guess you just never know when it’s going to happen.”
“When what’s going to happen?” Sully asked, though he knew what his partner meant.
Battaglia stared out through the windshield, uncharacter-istically deep in thought. “You never know what moment on this job will turn into the moment.”
Sully raised his eyebrows, marveling at Battaglia’s serious side. It didn’t come out very often. Most of the time, he wondered if the man even had one.
“Adam-122?” the radio chirped.
Battaglia picked up the mike. “Go ahead.”
“Disorderly person at 2114 E. Wellesley,” the dispatcher recited. “Refusing to leave the Tacos Plus restaurant.”
“See?” Battaglia said. “This could be the big one right here. You never know.”
“Also,” the dispatcher continued, “the suspect is apparently wearing a clown suit.”
Sully and Battaglia looked at each other. A slow smile spread over each man’s face.
“Or maybe not,” Sully said.
Battaglia pushed the button on the mike. “Copy on the clown,” he said.
“This call is a joke,” Sully deadpanned.
Battaglia chuckled. He motioned toward the light controls. “We should run lights and siren.”
“Oh, Lieutenant Hart would love that.”
“Hell,” Battaglia said, “it probably is Lieutenant Hart. This is probably his off duty hobby. Getting drunk, dressing in a clown suit and raising hell.”
Sully let out a loud laugh.
“Oh, man,” Battaglia said, shaking his head, “We were born to take this call.”
Saturday, May 10th, 1996
0913 hours
Lieutenant Alan Hart sat at his desk. It being a Saturday, he was dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a neatly pressed collared shirt. The silence of his office was the same as it was every other day of the week, no change in his lonely existence.
He’d told his wife, Marianne, that he’d needed to run a couple of errands. That was true, he supposed, but he still ended up seated at his desk, whether by design or happenstance. He stared at the far wall, which was adorned with photographs of all River City police officers. Everyone was there, from the Chief of Police to the newest recruit in the Academy.
And I’m here to watch over them.
It’s not like anyone else would. He saw the summary judgment that the Patrol Captain filed on Officer MacLeod’s so-called accidental discharge. A cop lets a bullet fly in a public park, and all she gets is a written reprimand? All Hart saw there was a continuation of the century-old code of silence that has permeated and corrupted law enforcement for far too long. It was that same warped sense of loyalty that no doubt motivated the Chief to issue oral reprimands for O’Sullivan and Battaglia. Worse yet, he didn’t even give that light punishment to Chisolm for his violations.
Clearly, the cops in River City believed they were above the law.
“They aren’t,” Hart muttered, turning a heavy, gold pen over in his hands.
And it was his job to watch over them, to make sure that they paid for their mistakes. The public deserved it. Justice demanded it.
He knew the cost. Ridicule. Hatred. Ostracism. It was a small price to pay to do the right thing.
The River City Herald lay open on his desk. The front page headline blared RAINY DAY RAPIST CAUGHT! He’d read the article. Normally critical of the police department, the editors allowed this story to positively praise the stalwart bravery of Officer Katie MacLeod. The only negative element of the story was a subtle jab at Detective John Tower for failing to identify the suspect before the attack. The close resemblance between the police sketch and the suspect’s photograph made that failure seem like a particularly inept one.
Hart wasn’t concerned so much with that. There had been other mistakes. He was sure of it. Those mistakes needed to be answered for. Not just with an oral or written reprimand, either. With suspensions. Maybe badges.