THIRTEEN
Monday, April 22
Day Shift
0812 hours
Lieutenant Alan Hart proofread his first of his two reports to the Chief of Police. The complaint against O’Sullivan and Battaglia flowed nicely, laying out the facts of the complaint and his findings in a clear, succinct, but complete fashion. His eyes flicked over the familiar words, slowing down at the RECOMMENDATION section long enough to enjoy his own prose.
Clearly, both officers employ a great deal of irreverent humor in the course of their daily work. While humor is a common response to stress and can provide some relief to the tension associated with police work, it is not appropriate for officers to direct it maliciously toward the citizenry. The testimonial evidence uncovered in this case leads this investigator to the unavoidable conclusion that both officers are guilty of doing exactly that with regard to Mr. Elway, the complainant. Not only was Mr. Elway ridiculed and insulted, but this occurred while he was attempting to report a felony crime.
This investigator does recommend a finding of FOUNDED with respect to the complaint of POOR DEMEANOR and INADEQUATE RESPONSE. This finding should be entered for both officers. This investigator recommends the following sanctions: One (1) day suspension for Officer O’Sullivan and a three (3) day suspension for Officer Battaglia. The difference in the sanction is justified due to the use of profanity by Officer Battaglia.
Nothing Follows
.
Lieutenant Hart smiled. It was a well-written summary. Hopefully, the Chief would see things his way. These two clowns needed to get a firm message from management. Police work was not a big joke, no matter how much they might think so. A suspension might just get their attention. If it didn’t, well then it was a nice springboard to termination if they didn’t get with the program.
He closed the file and slid it into a confidential envelope. Then he reached for the Chisolm file, which he’d just completed earlier that morning. While he wished he’d been able to find a bigger hammer for this one, he figured he’d just have to settle for what the case gave him.
He flipped open the file and skimmed his report. Once again, he slowed at the RECOMMENDATION section and read carefully.
Officer Chisolm’s speed may have been justified, given the nature of the call which he was assigned to assist. However, if one concedes that the response speed was appropriate, it naturally follows that the officer should have engaged his emergency equipment. The use of overhead lights is the lowest acceptable measure, though the intermittent use of a siren to clear traffic may have also been in order, depending upon traffic control devices and the number of civilian vehicles present.
This precaution may or may not have occurred to Officer Chisolm, but in either event, he did not utilize this equipment as per policy. Rather than address this fact in his interview, he chose instead to become defensive and shift blame. As the transcript indicates, Officer Chisolm focused upon the criminal record of the complainant instead of his own actions. Although he rightfully identified the nature of the complainant’s offense, that fact had no bearing on the question of this investigation – did Officer Chisolm drive in an unsafe manner without using the appropriate emergency equipment as outlined in Policy 44A? The evidence clearly answers this question emphatically in the affirmative.
Given that this transgression is firmly established, what should the sanction be? Under most circumstances, with no mitigating factors, this investigator would recommend a written reprimand for the involved officer. However, Officer Chisolm has shown a history of working outside of policy, flaunting rules and displaying considerable disrespect to his superior officers. This behavior can be, and frequently is, contagious. Additionally, this investigator saw very pointedly during the interview process that Officer Chisolm did not believe he had done anything wrong. He certainly did not express any remorse or accept any level of accountability for his actions. Therefore this investigator recommends a harsh sanction–a five (5) day suspension.
Hart smiled grimly. He knew five days was excessive, but it was a calculated play on his part. Any more than five days might start to seem ridiculous and would probably be rejected outright by the Chief. But by recommending a five day suspension, he’d planted the seed that a suspension was warranted. The Chief might – probably would – reduce the sanction to one or two days, thinking he was going easy on Chisolm. And that played right into Hart’s hands.
Of course, if he had his way, he’d have fired a malcontent like Chisolm a long time ago.
But he wasn’t Chief.
Yet.
Hart smiled. A stint in Internal Affairs looked great on a résumé when you walked into a promotional evaluation for the rank of captain. Especially a résumé that showed that the time spent in IA was an active one.
Yes, he’d make captain next time around. And the irony that he’d make it off of holding certain officers – two clowns and a burnout – accountable was not lost upon him.
Hart slipped the Chisolm file into a confidential folder. He glanced through the small window in his office. Outside, a light misty rain was spitting water against the glass. He stood and reached for his raincoat. His smile spread across his face for a moment before he forced his expression back to neutral.
It wouldn’t do to look as if he
enjoyed
delivering these files to the Chief. Even if, in fact, he
did
.
No, a future captain had to keep up appearances.
Hart opened the office door and stepped out to do his duty.
2232 hours
He sat in the small lounge, reading through the editorial page a second time. In addition to the scathing Op Ed article about the police keeping a serial rapist a secret, there were several letters to the editor. The ones that expressed outrage at the police were amusing, but there was the one that caught his interest. He read it over and over.
Dear Editor:
I hope that the River City Police Department understands what it is like to live in fear of a man like the Rainy Day Rapist. Never knowing when he might strike. Looking into every face with suspicion. Afraid to live our lives the way we want to out of a perverse terror that at any moment we might become a victim.
This doesn’t just change my life every day. It destroys my ability to live.
V. Rawlings
.
He smiled.
This wasn’t something he intended. He’d considered that he may have to outduel the police once things started rolling. Some bitches just didn’t know how to keep their mouths shut and it was inevitable that law enforcement would get involved.
But the press? This was...unanticipated. And while he hated the current incarnation of his nickname in the media, he knew it would change soon. After he laid the whammo on the next one. More of a whammo than his father ever laid on any bitch, that was certain.
This next one would be almost like the first again, he mused, lifting his drink to his lips. He sipped the cognac (a gentleman’s drink, something else his father would never achieve nor understand), savoring the smooth bite of the alcohol. He’d only meant to have one, but then he got to reading the newspaper article, then the Op Ed and finally the letters to the editor. Especially the one written by V. Rawlings.
He wondered what the ‘V’ stood for.
Valerie? Vanessa? Veronica?
Victoria?
The last was his favorite of the lot, though he imagined that the pedestrian broad who wrote that letter was probably more of a Vicky than a Victoria.
He chuckled.
Vicky the whining bitch. That was probably it.
It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was afraid of him. He was – how had she put it? Not ruining her life, but destroying her ability to live.
That was very satisfying. Not as good as laying the whammo on those other women, but there was a certain fulfillment to knowing that he was affecting more than just one bitch at a time. They were all sisters, after all.
Just like
her
.
And now he was making them all feel it. Fear. Apprehension. An unsettling feeling in the pit of every one of their stomachs.
Well, as far as he was concerned, they could just reap it.
Fucking reap it.
And then some, because more was on the way.
He drained the last of his cognac, even though such an act was decidedly ungentlemanly. Three cognacs in, he didn’t really care. Right now, he just wanted to get home and start planning for his next one.
The new
first
one.
2235 hours
Katie had refused to walk in the rain. When Tower argued with her briefly, she flat out told him that she wasn’t going to catch pneumonia instead of a rapist. Tower relented and the group retreated to Mary’s Café to wait out the downpour. They sat and talked idly about everything but police work – sports, movies, vacation plans, along with a little bit of department gossip. Tower noticed that MacLeod was quieter than Sully or Battaglia. She sat, fiddling absently with the fake headphone wires on the mock-up of a walkman that the tech guys had put together for her transmitter. He wondered if something might be wrong with her. Maybe she was stressing over the accidental discharge. Or some personal issue. Then he realized that Chisolm was just as quiet and that it had been Sully and Battaglia who carried most of the conversation. And the two of them could talk non-stop, especially when they were together.
When the rain let up half past ten, Tower laid down enough money on the table to cover everyone’s coffee.
“Let’s get to it,” he told them.
Sully and Battaglia grumbled, but Chisolm nodded his thanks. Katie rose without a word. She adjusted the disguised transmitter as she stood.
“You still want to focus north of Clemons Park?” Chisolm asked.
“Yeah. Unless you’ve got a better idea?”
Chisolm shook his head. “No, that’s as good as anywhere. It’s all a shot in the dark, anyway.”
“Glad you’re so optimistic.”
“Just realistic, Cochise.”
Tower smiled at the nickname. He didn’t know Chisolm very well, but he knew he only used terms like that with people he liked. Since he was pretty sure Crawford hated his guts, it was nice to have someone around who liked him.
“You and MacLeod can ride with me,” he said. “We’ll drop her about a block from the target area.”
The group filed out of the diner.
2239 hours
His car warmed up quickly and he started north on Monroe. The arterial ran from downtown all the way north to the city limits, making it a convenient road for him. He only needed to get out of the low valley area surrounding The Looking Glass River, though. The first real hill came just a few blocks before Garland, another main arterial. He lived up above that first rise, on Atlantic just a block south of Garland.
He took a deep breath and let it out. A glimmer of irritation fluttered through him. He could feel the impact of the three cognacs he had at the lounge. While the effect wasn’t unpleasant, the impairment irked him. He couldn’t afford for some overly aggressive patrol officer to pull him over and arrest him for drunk driving.
He kept his car pointed carefully north and drove.
2240 hours
“This is good,” Chisolm suggested.
Tower slowed but didn’t stop. “You sure?”
Chisolm nodded. “We’re right at the base of the hill here.” He pointed. “Look, there’s a minor tree line here for several blocks along Mona Street. Behind that, heavy bushes and some trees all the way up the hillside. No houses. It’s a perfect location for an ambush.”
Katie watched, fascinated with how quickly he evaluated the topography. A small chill went through her, though, when he mentioned the word ‘ambush’.
As if sensing her unease, Chisolm shifted his gaze to her. “Don’t worry. If we post up at opposite ends of this street, we should have good visibility. You’ll have an eye on you the majority of the time.”
“I’m not too comfortable with anything less than one hundred percent surveillance,” Tower said.
“Probably not possible. But you’ve got the transmitter for whenever she’s temporarily out of sight.”
“I’ll be okay,” Katie said. She looked back and forth between the two men. “Really.”
“All right,” Tower said, giving in. He slid the receiver earphone plug into his ear. “Go ahead.”
Chisolm opened the passenger door of the Toyota and slid out. Katie followed him. Once outside, she voice checked her fake walkman transmitter.
“Loud and clear,” Tower reported.
Katie fired him a thumbs up.
“How’s the leg?” Chisolm asked her.
Katie adjusted her fanny pack. “Still sore. But that goop really helped, whatever it was.”
“I told you what it was. Magic juice.”
“Right. Well, it helped. Thanks, Tom.”
Chisolm grinned. “Good hunting,” he told her.
Katie took a deep breath. She hunched her shoulders and looked down at the ground in front of her. Then she began to half-limp, half-shuffle toward Mona Street.
Behind her, she heard the Toyota truck door close. Tower’s voice floated across the wet air to her.
“Magic juice, Tom?”
“Shut up, Tower.”
Katie smiled and limped forward.
2244 hours
At the last minute, he decided to cut over to Post Street. It ran closer to Atlantic. The Garland Theater was at the corner of Monroe and Garland, anyway. This time of night, there’d be a show getting out and he didn’t want to get caught up in that traffic.
He slowed for Cora Street, but refused to turn there. The very sight of the letters on the white street sign sent a surge of rage barreling through his chest and out to his fingers. He didn’t want to think of the name Cora. He didn’t want to hear the name. He certainly didn’t want to drive down a street named for that worthless bitch of a mother.