Katie started the car and drove carefully out the sally port and up the ramp. When she turned onto the street, she hit her yelp siren, then the wail siren and air horn; three short bursts to verify each worked. The poor troops on Days and Swings weren’t allowed to blast their siren and air horn because court was in session, but on Graveyard they were able to blast away.
Last, she checked the intercom, which she tested just by turning it on and clicking the mike. It was functional. She turned it off.
Her eyes swept the gauges on the dashboard. Everything was fine except her fuel gauge, which showed at three-eighths of a tank. She frowned. You can’t tell me the swing-shift officers are too busy to turn in the cars gassed up and ready to go.
She keyed the mike. “Adam-116, in service.”
“Adam-116, go ahead.”
“Officer 407, driving vehicle 341, also.”
“Copy. Go ahead your also.”
“If I’m clear, I need to go signal-five for fuel.” Signal-five meant the city garage where the gas pumps were.
“Copy. You are clear, but I have a neighborhood dispute holding.”
Katie sighed. “Neighborhood disputes” were the bane of swing shift. There weren’t as many on graveyard, but they sometimes popped up early in the shift. A Neighborhood Dispute usually meant some old woman saying “So-and-so pulled my flowers” or two sets of feuding parents called because little Johnny hit little Billy and now they want the little criminal arrested. Seldom was there any law enforcement action that could be taken, and it resulted in an incredible drain on an officer’s time, but it had to be endured. Most of these people were the ones who actually paid taxes and they wanted police service. Since it might be the only time they saw their police department in action unless they were on the receiving end of a traffic citation, all officers were explicitly commanded to go and investigate thoroughly and to make everyone as happy as possible. Often, the same call wouldn’t even be dispatched later on in the graveyard shift, or might be dealt with in five minutes if it were. This call was probably a swing shift holdover.
“Go ahead your dispute,” Katie told radio.
“1119 W. Prudence. Caller states neighbor children are harassing her son. Also states the parent of the harassing children encourages it. 1119 W. Prudence.”
“Copy. I’ll be en route when I clear signal-five.”
2125 hours
Just a few minutes into his shift, Thomas Chisolm was already bored. He heard MacLeod get dispatched to a neighborhood dispute, which told him it was going to be a slow night. Worse yet, a slow night allowed his mind to wander. And it never wandered down bright, sunny paths littered with rose petals and butterflies, either.
The Scarface situation had him frustrated. He’d been on his night off or tied up on other calls during the last few robberies. As many times as the guy was getting away, Chisolm was beginning to think that the robber would never be caught. He remembered that Hart’s task force started tomorrow. Despite his dislike for the man and his suspicions of his ulterior motives, Chisolm was glad to see that something was going to be done which was a little more proactive rather than reactive.
Despite his dark thoughts, his mood had remained steady as the shift progressed. He never stayed depressed too deeply for too long, not even in ‘Nam. He had a serious, dark nature from his father but he also believed that his mother’s indomitable good cheer kept him on an even keel when it came to brooding.
Except for those ghosts, a voice inside his mind reminded him.
Shut up, whispered another.
Before an argument could begin, Chisolm swung into an alley. Two transients were seated with their backs to the wall, both holding brown paper bags. One made a clumsy attempt to hide his bottle beneath his coat. A third transient stood a few feet away, his back partially turned to Chisolm. In the flood of light now bathing the alley, Chisolm could see a stream of urine splattering against the wall.
He hit his overhead lights and grabbed the microphone, glad for the diversion. “Adam-112, I’ll be in the alley behind the Army Surplus store on Indiana with three transients. Code four.”
“Copy, Adam-112.”
Chisolm got out of the car and walked slowly up to the group. The urinating transient had finished and was struggling to zip up his pants.
“Evening, gentlemen.” Chisolm drawled, keeping all of their hands in sight.
“Evening, sir,” slurred the standing transient, who Chisolm now thought of as Pissing Man.
“Evening,” the other two muttered, both nodding.
“Seems we have a crime wave here,” Chisolm observed.
“What, sir?” Pissing Man asked.
Chisolm pointed at him. “That’s Lewd Conduct. Specifically, urinating in public.” He pointed at the seated two. “And that is Open and Consume Alcohol in Public.”
None of the men made any denials. The two-seated men remained still, eyeing Chisolm carefully. Pissing Man stood in place, swaying noticeably.
“Sorry, sir,” he finally said.
“Anyone have ID?” Chisolm asked.
The three looked around at one another, then each shook his head.
“No worries,” Chisolm said. He took out his note pad and asked each man for his name and birth date. They gave the information without hesitation or grumbling. As Chisolm checked the names on the data channel, he realized one of the seated men looked familiar. He stared at him for a few moments before he realized why. The transient looked almost exactly like, his old Army buddy, Bobby Ramirez.
The man shifted uncomfortably under Chisolm’s gaze. “What’re you looking at, man?”
Chisom grinned. “Sorry. You remind of an old friend.”
“I ain’t never met you before, sir,” the man replied softly.
Just like Bobby, Chisolm thought. Or at least how Bobby would look today. “So where are you guys from?” he asked while waiting for the names to come back.
“Houston,” the other seated men said.
“I,” pronounced Pissing Man, “am from… Sheer… Seeer… fucking Syracuse.”
“New York?”
Pissing Man nodded. “Fucking New York. Syracuse. Yes, sir.” He paused. “You got a problem with that?”
“None at all.” Chisolm motioned to Bobby Ramirez’s twin. “You?”
“Pittsburgh,” the man answered.
“Pennsylvania?” Chisolm asked.
“No. Pittsburgh, California.”
“Where’s that?”
“Where’s California?” Pissing Man interrupted, incredulous. He pointed. “It’s that way.”
Chisolm allowed himself a slight chuckle.
Encouraged, Pissing Man pointed the other direction, crossing his hands in front of him. “And Syracuse is that way, brother!”
“Well, thanks for the geography lesson,” Chisolm said. He returned his gaze to Bobby’s twin. “Where in California?”
He cleared his throat. “East Bay area. Sorta near San Francisco.”
Chisolm nodded. “I see.”
“Adam-112?”
He reached for his radio. “Go ahead.”
“All subjects in locally, no wants.”
“Copy.” Chisolm turned to the three disheveled men. “Well, gentlemen, the good news is that none of you have any warrants.”
“Yay.” Pissing Man clapped with exaggerated slowness.
“The bad news,” Chisolm continued, “is that I have each of you in violation of a misdemeanor. So I am facing what we call in police circles as a decision point. I could arrest you all. Or I could issue you a citation. Or I could just let it go.”
Houston and Bobby’s twin remained quiet, waiting. Pissing Man looked at each of them, then said, “Well, I vote for the letting it go part.”