Chisolm sniffed a short breath, and then began. “Quite simply, Lieutenant, he is not cut out to be a police officer. His officer safety is almost non-existent, his knowledge of the city streets is poor and his judgment under stress is almost always wrong.”
“His previous two FTOs rated him better than that,” Hart pointed out.
“They were too easy on him. Besides, one of his tours was swing shift and he frequently got tied up on early calls. He can establish rapport with people and his high marks are generally in those areas.” Chisolm paused. “He has weakness in every area except that one.”
“Not tough enough, huh?” Hart’s voice was sarcastic.
“The kid is afraid of his own shadow.”
“That kid,” Hart reminded him, “is going to get several stitches in his face.”
Chisolm shrugged. He knew a lot of officers with scars.
Hart stood and walked around to the side of the desk. He sat on the edge and affected a pleasant expression. “Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh, Tom? I mean, I had my share of difficulties early on.” He smiled a plastic smile. “Hell, we all did as we came up, right? Why are you being so hard on this kid?”
Hart’s transparent chummy mode made Chisolm’s stomach churn. What an arrogant, condescending prick, he thought. “Lieutenant, if you had these kinds of problems as a trainee, maybe you should have been dismissed, too.”
There was a long moment of silence as Hart stared at Chisolm, disbelieving. His face turned white, then red.
“You can’t talk to me like that!” he yelled, spittle flying from his lips.
Chisolm stood stock-still, his countenance unchanging.
Hart’s face and hands trembled with fury. “You…you’re hereby suspended from the FTO program. I want your daily log, your weekly file and your key to the file cabinet.”
Chisolm showed no surprise. He opened his briefcase and withdrew all three items and dropped them with a thunk on Hart’s desk.
“Payne will be re-assigned to someone who is not such a burn-out,” Hart said through gritted teeth.
“He may need this, then.” Chisolm reached inside his briefcase and withdrew Payne’s pistol. He slammed the weapon down on Hart’s desk. The slide was locked to the rear and the magazine had been removed. Chisolm tossed the magazine to Hart, catching him by surprise. Hart juggled the mag, then dropped it.
Chisolm ignored him, gathered up his briefcase and strode out the door.
1743 hours
Thwack!
Two halves of firewood fell off the splitting block and onto an already sizable pile. Karl Winter stepped forward and tossed them aside into his stacking pile and set another round on the block. He removed the axe and stepped back.
Winter had once heard that cutting wood is a favorite activity of men. That’s because it is hard work and one sees immediate results. Who said that? Mark Twain? Winter wasn’t sure but he agreed with the sentiment.
He set up and swung easily, letting the weight of the axe do most of the work. Two pieces leapt apart as if in pain when the axe struck, landing several feet to each side.
Winter chopped most of his wood in the summer, storing it for the winter season. He hated chopping wood in the cold. Actually, he avoided doing anything in the cold. Besides, there was something satisfying about swinging an axe under the August late afternoon sun and sweating from honest work. Police work was hard, dangerous at times, but not physically demanding, except in small bursts. His protruding belly spoke to the truth of that.
He set up another piece and continued chopping at a leisurely, constant pace. His mind wandered, as it often did, to work issues. This Scarface robber situation bothered him. The guy threatened clerks with a gun and now he was shooting at cops. Add to that the fact that the administration bungled their handling of the situation so far, both within the department and with the media. But most of all, it rankled him that the bastard was getting away with it.
Eleven stores in two weeks.
Winter shook his head in disgust and swung the axe.
Thwack.
Another piece of wood ready for burning in three months.
Winter reviewed the information he had. The description was always the same. The robber made no attempt to disguise himself. He either didn’t care, or. . maybe he wanted to be seen. Which would mean he wore a disguise. Probably the hair. A good wig, maybe, giving him long hair.
What about the scar? He considered the question, but decided it was probably real. One of the clerks would have noticed a fake scar.
So the robber runs out of the store, goes three or four blocks on foot, maybe less, and gets into a car. Every track that Winter knew of ended with the K-9 officer saying the suspect probably used a car. Officers are set up on perimeter and looking for a white male with long black hair on foot. Does he slip out with his short hair and in a car?
Maybe.
Winter swung the axe lightly, sticking it into the block. He began to stack the wood.
Probably not, though. An officer would stop someone that even vaguely matched the description, car or not. And how close did you have to be to see the scar? He might be able to slip out two or three times, but not eleven.
So what then?
Winter shook his head and tossed the wood into the stack. He knew the detectives in Major Crimes had more information they weren’t putting out to patrol. Part of it was security and some it was the ridiculous game of ownership. They wanted to keep the information to themselves and they wanted to catch the bad guy instead of patrol. After all, why waste information on a bunch of patrolmen? They were just cops who weren’t smart enough to make detective, right?
Winter frowned. He had to stop hanging out with Ridgeway. He was getting more negative by the day.
He returned to the puzzle at hand. So the robber gets in the car and drives away… or maybe someone else is driving?
An accomplice?
Winter smiled. Of course.
A woman. That’s how he does it.
Winter resisted the urge to hoot and holler. Hot damn, it was so easy once you saw it!
He robs the store, then runs to the car and hops in. He lays down in the back seat or something. Maybe covers up with a blanket. The woman driver gets on an arterial and drives two miles an hour under the speed limit in one direction. Five minutes later, they are way out of the area and safe. All the cops in the city are either back near the store that he just robbed or they are running lights and siren to get there.
Not bad. I’ll bet that is how he does it.
With the last piece stacked, Winter returned to the chopping block and with exuberance cut a few more pieces. He wondered if the detectives or the crime analysis unit had figured this out yet. He wondered whether he should share the idea, or give the detectives a dose of their own medicine.
Then he wondered why this guy felt like he had to rob a store every day and a half. That was a hell of a lot of exposure.
Winter’s brow furrowed.
Drugs? Probably.
He set up a piece of wood and stepped back to chop it. Another small mystery solved.
The back door opened and Mary approached carrying a glass of iced tea. Winter admired her slender frame for a moment, but found himself drawn as usual to her face and to the laughing eyes that stared into him. Her dark hair was pulled back into a clip. He smiled when he noticed the single large strand that always pulled free and hung loosely on her cheek.
“Take a break, Grizzly Adams,” she said lightly, handing him the tall glass.
Winter took it and drank deeply. Mary’s tea had always been bitter, something he’d never had the heart to tell her. Eventually, he’d grown to like the taste. Inside the house, he could hear the stereo playing and recognized a Springsteen tune, Thunder Road. He lowered the glass and let out a satisfied sigh.