“No.”
“Wrong of her to accept your assistance?”
“Absolutely not.”
“So now she can face her own demons.” The doctor leaned back and watched the officer’s face.
The officer remained impassive. Finally, he sighed. “I see your point.”
“Good.”
There was a pause, then the officer asked, “You want to hear something?”
“Of course.”
“I’m a little angry at the administration. They haven’t stood by me very well. And I did nothing wrong.”
The doctor detected bitterness in the officer’s voice. He could also sense a great deal more under the surface, but he expected that and didn’t see a problem with it.
“Go on.”
“Nothing more to say on that, doc. They should have been calling a press conference and damning the newspaper for the accusations it made. Instead, they open an IA investigation? And do you know the questions they asked me in IA? They all but called me a racist. It’s one thing coming from the jackals at the newspaper. It’s something else entirely when it comes from your own agency.” The officer shook his head. “I did my job and this is my thanks.”
“But you are here.”
“So?”
“So you do not intend to resign over it.”
The officer paused. “Probably not. Maybe.” He sighed heavily. “I don’t know.”
The doctor watched him for several long moments as the officer stared at his own shoes. He cast a surreptitious glance at his watch and decided to get to the heart of the matter.
“Tell me about the man you killed, officer.”
The officer looked up then, steel and fury in his eyes. “He tried to kill me. He’s dead. What else do you want to know?”
EIGHT
Tuesday, August 23rd
Day Shift
1614 hours
Karl Winter tucked his shirt into his pants and buckled his belt. The jangling sound carried in the quiet locker room. Winter had caught a late DV call that turned into a huge mess. He’d only just finished the paperwork. As he changed, he’d been watching Sgt. David Poole, who sat on the long bench that ran down the center of the aisle between the lockers. He’d been there when Winter walked in at the end of the shift. He continued to sit and stare at his open locker, completely lost in thought, the entire time Winter changed his clothes only five lockers away.
“Sarge?” Winter finally said. “You okay?”
Poole turned slowly to face him but didn’t answer.
Winter’s eyes narrowed with concern.
“Dave?”
“I’m fine, Karl.” Poole answered in a dry, croaking voice. “Just tired. Lots of reports to read at the end of shift.”
Winter knew that was a lie but decided not to push too hard. “Sorry. Mine was one of them. Listen, the guys went over to Duke’s for choir practice right after shift. Throw back a few beers, you know?”
“Good,” Poole said in an empty tone.
Winter cleared his throat. “Uh, they’re probably still there. I’m headed over as soon as I get changed. You want to come along?”
Poole shook his head wordlessly and returned to staring at his locker.
Winter stood uncomfortably for a long moment. He debated asking Poole a second time but knew the next response he got would be less than kind.
He left wordlessly, with Poole still staring darkly into his locker.
2108 hours
Katie MacLeod walked along the row of cars parked in the basement and tossed her black equipment bag onto the front seat of the police patrol car assigned to her. She withdrew her flashlight and placed it in the charger/holder right below the radio. Her side-handle baton went into the small holder in the driver’s door. She then seat-belted the equipment bag into the passenger’s seat, leaving the pockets with her logbook, ticket books and report notebook accessible without having to un-belt the bag.
She took a quick walk around the exterior to check for any damage, finding nothing but dirt. Using the button located in the driver’s door, she popped open the trunk and checked the contents, which she knew by rote. Fire extinguisher, blanket, first aid kit, teddy bear, flex cuffs, rubber gloves and a box of double-ott buck shotgun shells. She removed the shells and closed the trunk. She preferred to have the extra ammo up front where she could get to it quicker.
Once in the driver’s seat, she opened the glove compartment and put the shotgun shells inside. She saw a small city map inside, some hand disinfectant gel and someone’s candy wrapper. She grabbed the wrapper and tossed it in the small litter bag next to the transmission hump.
Katie turned the key to the on position. The radio booted up, signaled ready and displayed the word ‘North’ for channel one. She hit the shotgun release button and pulled the 12-gauge from the upright holder between the two seats. Stepping out of the car, she unloaded the four shells inside, cleared the weapon by checking the chamber visually, then racking it four times in quick succession. The small bandoleer on the stock held five shells. Pointing the shotgun at the empty concrete wall of the basement sally port, Katie did a tactical reload. If she were to use the gun, she would chamber one round, then immediately replace with one from the bandoleer. This gave the “street howitzer” five rounds loaded and four on the bandoleer.
As Katie stepped lightly back to the car to replace the shotgun, she saw Matt Westboard removing his from the patrol car in front of her.
“Three-ninety-seven,” he said to her with a grin, pointing to his car with his free hand. He was referring to the patrol car’s fleet number, Katie knew.
“So?” She replied, trying to appear disinterested, but she knew exactly what he was driving at.
“So? So, I’ve got the queen of the fleet here. Only eighteen hundred miles.” He motioned toward Katie’s car. “That one’s got about a hundred and eighteen thousand on it.”
Katie shrugged, trying not to smile. “Four wheels and a siren are all I need.”
“How about a horse and buggy, then? Probably faster than that toilet.”
“You just cost yourself a free cup of coffee.” Katie leaned into her car and snapped the shotgun into place, closing the large metal clip that held it securely. Westboard was saying something that she couldn’t make out, but she ignored him, testing her overhead rotator blue-and-reds, her alley lights and her overhead takedown lights. Then she turned on her spotlight and shined it right in Westboard’s face. He smiled, closing his eyes and turning away. Even in the room-level light of the basement, the power of the spotlight was impressive.
Katie snapped the spotlight off after a few torturous moments, then exited her vehicle.
“Anything else you want to say about my car, Westboard?”
Westboard laid the shotgun across his front seat and pretended to be grabbing at floating balls in the air. “I’m blinded by the light,” he sang.
“Doofus,” Katie muttered with a grin. She opened her back door and searched her back seat thoroughly to ensure that nothing had been left in there from the previous shift. She did this, as did everyone, before and after anyone was in the seat. If someone had dumped something in the car, it could be attributed to the proper owner. Especially if the item were contraband, which was usually the case.
Her pre-flight checks complete, Katie returned to the driver’s seat and adjusted the seat position and mirrors. Westboard resumed checking his own car into service. In her rear-view mirror, she could see the newest rookie, Jack Willow, checking and double-checking everything. Well, she had done the same thing while she was in training, hadn’t she? You couldn’t afford to make a lot of mistakes during that phase. Truth be told, you couldn’t ever afford to make a lot of mistakes on this job. Sometimes not even one.
When she looked forward again, Westboard was pulling out of the sally port and up the ramp. She shook her head in amazement. She’d ridden with him a few times and he could check a car into service faster than anyone she knew.