Saturday, August 27th
Day Shift
1315 hours
A warm August rain fell on the mourners. It began as large, fat drops, splattering noisily when they struck. After a short while, a brisk wind swept in and broke up the drops, thinning them out. Within minutes, it had transformed the rainfall into a misty sheet, lightly soaking the attending mourners.
Police Chaplain Timothy Marshall stood in the downpour, oblivious to its assault. His usually jovial face turned somber for the occasion. His only reaction to the weather was to close his eyes as he spoke the words he knew by rote.
“Ashes to ashes,” he intoned, his words torn and fragmented in the wetness. “Dust to dust.”
Three hundred officers stood in the large cemetery, all in dress uniform or dark suits. Those closest to the chaplain heard his words and found in them no solace. Those too far away to hear shifted uncomfortably in the rain, remaining respectfully silent. A very few openly wept.
Lieutenant Alan Hart stood rigidly, unsure of his proper role. Winter had not cared for him. Neither did his friends. As such, his sympathies would likely be rebuffed, so he only offered them in a perfunctory manner to the widow. He knew, though, that his distance would only serve to reinforce their negative image of him. It was, he realized, the price of command.
At his side, Sergeant David Poole watched Mary Winter. He knew how much Karl and she loved each other. He had often compared Sherrie to Mary until he realized he did not love his wife. When had he stopped? He couldn’t pinpoint even an approximate time. That should make him sad, but for some reason it didn’t. Standing at Karl’s graveside, he found himself envying the man his heroic death. He feared his own would not be so glorious. A deep sadness finally came upon him with the belief (or was it knowledge, he thought morbidly) that he would die alone and unloved.
Anthony Giovanni and Mark Ridgeway stood on either side of Mary. Neither man could have known that they shared the same thoughts. Both were deeply hurt over the loss of a woman and both cursed themselves for not being with Winter when he’d needed them. After all, he had always been there for each of them.
A furious, guilt-racked Kopriva stood in the second row of the mourning group. He felt as if he, too, had failed Winter. All the way to the hospital, he watched the paramedics work feverishly on an already dead Winter. He recognized the first few procedures as field techniques he could have performed. That knowledge slammed into his chest with a vengeance. He could have saved Winter if he had acted more quickly. All the doctor’s assurances to the contrary didn’t change that. The surgeons might have been able to repair a nicked aorta if he’d only given them the chance. Instead, he’d stood by uselessly while Karl Winter’s life bled out onto the warm, summer asphalt.
Kopriva spotted Katie MacLeod standing on the fringes of the crowd. She wore a black, calf-length dress. Simple and elegant. She looked beautiful, like a sculpture. Beautiful and untouchable, he reminded himself.
Standing with the pallbearers, Thomas Chisolm kept his face calm and impassive. He barely noticed the rain as it washed over him. He had attended dozens of funerals in his life, most of them after returning from Vietnam. His trip to Arlington cemetery and then, years later, to the Vietnam Memorial had been emotional ones. He’d wept openly, shamelessly, mourning for dozens, even scores, of men. Karl Winter was one man, however, and Thomas Chisolm would do him the honor of a stoic burial.
The honor guard from the local National Guard unit folded the flag in crisp motions. Their presence, along with the police motorcycle escort to the cemetery, was an honor accorded to Winter out of respect for his status as both a veteran and a policeman. The bugler stood ready at a distance.
Chisolm watched the honor guard sergeant present the flag to Mary Winter. The uniformed man spoke softly to her. Mary nodded and thanked him. The sergeant patted her twice on the hand. Even that act was done with military precision. He paused several moments before returning to his squad.
Chaplain Marshall gave a nod and the groundskeeper began to turn the lever. The brown casket slowly sank into the wet ground.
Mary Winter sat at the grave-side, watching them lower her husband into the earth. The solemn notes of Taps pierced the stillness. Her brother Aaron’s strong hands rested on both her shoulders. The casket lowered out of sight as the final notes of Taps welled up like a tear and trailed off.
The crowd began to break up. Mary heard the murmuring of sympathies and nodded automatically, without understanding the words or seeing the faces. She knew Mark and Gio would stand with her until she was ready to leave, and that Aaron would be there to lean on throughout the day and for the weeks to come.
But it didn’t matter.
Nothing could change the pain. Not the honor or respect they paid to her husband, not the insurance policy, not the hat-passing that would take place at the reception following this and not the flag she clutched to her breast.
Mary Winter began to weep and her huge, racking sobs pierced the downpour where the chaplain’s words had failed to.
ELEVEN
Thursday, September 1st
Graveyard Shift
2215 hours
T-Dog checked that both pistols were loaded with full magazines and a round in the chamber. Everything had to be perfect. Morris was getting very touchy lately, as their nightly searches for the cop came up empty. He assured Morris that it was only a matter of time before luck would take a hand and they’d find him. He’d been rewarded with a slap upside the head and a ten-minute tirade. Now, he remained silent while Morris groused.
“Gonna get that cracker bitch motherfucker,” Morris muttered as he sipped from his forty-ouncer. “To-night!”
T-Dog didn’t respond, but handed him the small black.380. Morris shook his head. “Gimmee the other one, dumb motherfucker.” He reached out as T-Dog handed him the one with the brown grips. “The poker gun, too.”
T-Dog handed him the small, two-shot derringer, which Morris liked to carry at card games.
Morris snatched it from his hand. “Stupid fuckin’ Wonder Bread,” he said. “Wannabe motherfucker.” He shook his head at T-Dog and slipped the guns into his pockets.
T-Dog swallowed the insult dutifully, raging at it inside. Man, he was a brother. He hung with the bangers. He kept their secrets, he did their dirty work. What did it take to be accepted?
Stroking the smooth metal of the pistol’s slide, T-Dog found his answer.
Friday, September 2nd
0049 hours
Woodenly, Stefan Kopriva patrolled his sector. Five days had passed since Karl Winter’s funeral, and the impact of the shooting on the department had not subsided. His death had not officially been pinned on Scarface, though every officer in town remained convinced it had been the elusive robber who shot Winter.
Kopriva reviewed the facts that Major Crimes finally gave to patrol at that evening’s roll call. The license plate of the car Winter stopped came back to a 1972 Ford Maverick, but the tire marks at the scene suggested a much wider mid-to-early seventies car, like a Caprice or something similar. So, either Winter put out the wrong plate when he made the stop or more likely the plates had been switched. No shell casings were found at the scene. One of the bullets that struck Winter had been recovered. Forensics stated it was a.38 caliber, the weapon formerly used by every cop in America.