Pete Malloy entered the locker room of LAPD's Central Division forty-five
minutes before his shift on Daywatch officially began. He headed for his
locker to change from his soft clothes into his blues, surprised that he didn't
see his partner, Jim Reed, standing at his locker, since he'd seen Jim's
car parked in the lot when he arrived. Pete was amazed that his young partner
had beaten him to work. Central Division and the Rampart Division of the
LAPD had engaged in a “friendly” baseball game the night before
and they'd both been out late.
The game had been hard fought and not nearly as friendly as it should have
been between fellow officers, but Central Division had eked out a 4-3 victory,
thanks in large part to a brilliant piece of relief pitching by Jim. His
partner's 2-run homer in the 8th inning had put them ahead to stay. But
an extended heat wave had made the early September evening hot and humid,
and the effort to win had exhausted all the of the officers, many of whom,
including Pete, were now dragging into Daywatch.
Pete greeted his equally tired colleagues as he opened his locker and started
dressing. They shared some chit chat about the previous evening's game and
how beat they all were because of it. Still his partner didn't show. He
supposed that Jim had dressed already and was in the break room getting coffee.
Pete had just put on his tie and strapped his equipment belt around his waist
when the locker door opened and fellow officer Bob Brinkman burst through,
his face contorted with suppressed laughter.
“Hey, Malloy!” Brinkman scurried over to Pete, a lopsided grin
breaking out over his fleshy features. “You gotta come see this!”
“See what?” Pete asked warily. Brinkman's reputation for having
a strange sense of humor was notorious in the division. And he certainly
wasn't beyond orchestrating some elaborate scheme to entrap a fellow officer
in an embarrassing situation. Pete prided himself on his ability to sniff
out and avoid such traps. So he exercised caution in rising to Brinkman's
bait.
“Your partner, that's what. Or who, rather.” Brinkman was
hardly able to choke out the words through his laughter.
“What's Jim doing?” Malloy stuck his baton in the ring and
reached for his briefcase. He could imagine his partner doing a variety
of outrageous things that might set off Brinkman's warped idea of funny.
Normally, Jim Reed was a straight arrow, but would occasionally spiral off
into goofy behavior when the mood struck him. Like the time he'd spent over
half the shift telling that ridiculous “alligator dog” joke.
Thankfully, those moods didn't strike Jim too often.
Brinkman's laughter prevented him from answering for a several seconds.
“Come on, Brink, give,” Pete urged.
“He's sleeping!” Brinkman finally blurted out when he could
catch his breath.
“Sleeping,” Malloy repeated, not quite sure he'd heard correctly.
“Sitting straight up in the break room!” Brinkman continued
to snicker. “Well, not quite straight up. He's kinda leaning on his
hand. But he's definitely asleep.”
Pete frowned. Jim was young and in good shape; even though he'd played
hard last night, he shouldn't be so tired that he'd fall asleep sitting up.
He hoped Jim wasn't getting sick. Then he worried that little Jimmy, the
Reed's 18-month-old, might be coming down with something. Maybe Pete's godson
had kept his dad up all night crying.
“Why doesn't somebody wake him up?” Pete asked, irritated.
The probability of a juvenile joke, such as tying Jim's shoelaces together
or balancing a cup of water on Jim's head, seemed likely.
“Because it's fun watching him sleep!” Brinkman laughed.
“I'd better go rescue him,” Pete sighed, pushing past Brinkman
toward the door.
“Aw, Pete, nobody's gonna hurt him,” Brinkman insisted, then
added, after a pause, “at least not permanently!”
“Uh, huh,” Pete grunted. He reached the break room and pushed
open the door.
It was still a bit early, so there weren't many officers in the room.
Jim was sitting at the back table, with his head propped up on a hand and
a cup of coffee sitting in front of him. And, as Brinkman had said, he was
sound asleep. Five officers stood around him, watching him sleep, grinning
and talking quietly over the oblivious Jim's head.
“Aw, the party's over -- Malloy's here,” motorcycle officer
Grant caught sight of Pete and alerted the others in a loud whisper.
“They look so innocent when they're asleep,” Rich Richardson
grinned as Pete approached.
Pete checked under the table to make sure no one had tied his partner's
shoelaces together.
Grant groaned. “Come on, Malloy, you don't think we'd stoop low
enough to pull a juvenile stunt like tying his laces together, do you?”
“I certainly do.” Malloy set his hat and briefcase down on
the table. “I been working with you clowns long enough to know you'd
do just about anything.” He kept his voice level normal, hoping Jim
would just respond to the voice and awaken.
“That must have been some ball game last night,” Richardson
remarked. “He's dead to the world.”
“Aw, it broke up about 10 o'clock,” Grant objected. “And
he was pretty pumped after that pitching job he pulled off. My guess is something
happened after he got home that has him all tuckered out.”
“Three guesses and the first two don't count,” Sam Crowson,
a reserve officer, spoke up. “We've all seen that pretty little wife
of his, right, fellas?”
“Maybe he needs some vitamins,” Richardson suggested over the
muted laughter that followed Crowson's innuendo.
“All right, you idiots, that's enough,” Malloy said firmly.
“You'd better be glad he's asleep, Crowson, because if he heard you
talking about his wife like that, he'd probably tear your head off. Now,
shoo, boys, and let the man catch a few more zs before roll call.”
“Let me just knock his hand away,” Grant begged, a wicked grin
splitting his dark face.
“No way. Now, scram!” Pete growled, waving them off with a
hand motion.
“Uh-uh,” Brinkman stood his ground. “We wanna see his
face when he wakes up and realizes he's been drooling in front of everybody.”
“You're all acting like a bunch of harpies. Or buzzards circling
roadkill.” Malloy pulled out a chair and sat. He looked at his partner's
face, peaceful in repose. He was drooling. Jim would probably die
of embarrassment when he realized what he'd done. At least he isn't snoring!
“Let's drop a briefcase on the table,” Crowson suggested.
“That ought to wake him up.”
“A cup of cold water in the face would be funny,” Brinkman
supplied.
“No, no, you dudes, where's your imagination?” Grant shook
his head. “Let's get that new chick in records to come down here and
plant one on him. Now that would be funny.”
“Ah, yeah, that's perfect!” Crowson exclaimed, and the others
shushed him. Then the reservist's face fell. “But she doesn't come
in until 9:00.”
“Too bad,” Grant mused quietly. “Hey, we could get Shaaron
from dispatch to come in here and put out a code three for Adam-12. I bet
he'd fall all over himself gettin' up!”
“Is this any way to treat the hero of last night's game? Nobody's
gonna do any of that,” Malloy said over the whispered din of agreement
to Grant's idea. “He's my partner, and I'm the one who's gonna wake
him up. Nicely. In a way that won't embarrass him or get my head torn off.”
“You're no fun, Malloy. This would be the perfect opportunity for
a little payback. We hardly ever get a chance to get something on
the golden boy, here. You know you want to, Pete!” Grant hissed.
“No, I don't want to. Look, we don't know why he's sleeping. He
might be sick or something. Now wouldn't all of you feel bad if you're laughing
at a sick man?”
“Okay, you win, Malloy,” Brinkman conceded first. “Let's
leave the man in peace, fellas.”
Before anyone could agree or disagree, the whole point became moot. Detective
Sanchez came into the break room, dropped a couple of quarters into the food
machine, and gave the recalcitrant piece of equipment a resounding thwack
with his fist to get it to deliver a can of stew. The report of the slap
sounded as loud as a gunshot, and startled all of the officers in the room,
who looked up to see what fool was getting stew at 6:30 a.m.
Reed jerked awake with a strangled gasp and a snort. “Whaa...?”
He looked around him, blinking his eyes in sleepy confusion.
Even though it didn't go down exactly the way they wanted it to, Reed's
jolt awake delighted the officers standing around,. They all laughed loudly
at the startled confusion on their young colleague's face.
“Thanks, Sarge!” Grant called out to the detective, who looked
at them all with a puzzled scowl.
“I'm not gonna ask,” Sanchez growled, pocketed the unopened
can of stew and left the break room.
“Sleeping Beauty awakens,” Brinkman teased.
“Have a nice nap, there, Rip Van Winkle?” Grant asked.
Reed rubbed at his eyes and blinked at the crowd of laughing officers around
him. “Musta dropped off,” he mumbled.
“You must have had some night last night, kid,” Crowson said
with a wink.
“You don't know the half of it,” Jim said around another yawn.
He arched his back as if to work out a kink, and the crowd of spectators
started up a new round of raucous laughter. A crimson blush crept up Jim's
neck and face as he apparently realized his compromised position and that
he'd added fuel to Crowson's intimation by his vague response.
“Here, partner, wipe your mouth,” Pete ordered dryly, handing
him a paper napkin. “You're drooling.”
Jim took the napkin and wiped at his mouth, his face now the color of a
ripe tomato. Apparently he was awake enough to fully realize just how ridiculous
he looked.
“Okay, you boys have had your fun,” Pete turned a scowl on
the still-chuckling spectators. “Now, am-scray.”
“Right, boss,” Brinkman agreed, motioning for the others to
follow him. “See you in roll call, Sleeping Beauty.”
Jim sighed and looked under the table.
“I already checked,” Pete told him. “Your laces are
safe.”
“Oh, Lord, did I say anything stupid?” Jim asked, still blinking
the sleepy haze from his eyes. “Or incriminating?”
“Not while I was here. I did my best to protect you from those clowns.”
“Thanks. Man, I'm gonna have a hard time living this one down,”
Jim muttered. He yawned yet again and shook his head as if to clear it.
“You want to tell me about it?” Pete asked, a ghost of a smile
playing at the edges of his mouth. “Are you sick?”
Jim gathered enough energy to give Pete a baleful look. “I'm sick
all right, but not the way you think.”
“How about I buy you a cup of coffee?” Pete pointed to the
cup in front of Jim. “That one's cold as ice. Then you can tell me
all about it.” Pete hoped this story would turn out to be harmless.
And short.
“Okay.”
Pete dropped two dimes in the kitty and poured two hot cups of coffee.
He dressed them appropriately and returned to the table where Jim showed
more signs of life. But there were big, dark circles under his eyes, and
his expression and posture betrayed his fatigue.
“Everything okay?” Pete asked easily.
Jim took a long sip of the coffee before he answered. “I got less
than two hours sleep last night,” he confessed.
“Is Jimmy okay?” Pete tried to hide his anxiety, but when it
came to his godson, he couldn't help but worry.
Jim's expression actually darkened, the opposite reaction of what usually
happened when his partner talked about his son. “Oh, he's okay. He's
fine. Just full of himself.” He snorted derisively. “Jean says
he gets it from me.”
“And I'm sure she's right,” Pete agreed. “Now tell me
the story.”
Jim sighed. “After the ballgame I dropped you off about 10:30, right?
So I get home about a quarter of. I was hot and sweaty and needed a shower.
So, while I'm cleaning up, Jean's making me a snack, 'cause I was starving
to death. I get out of the shower, check on Jimmy -- he's sleeping soundly
-- and I go eat and tell Jean about the ball game. We talked about half an
hour, cleaned up the kitchen, and got in bed a little after 11:30.”
Jim paused and took another sip of coffee. “We, ah, didn't exactly go
straight to sleep, if you follow me.”
“I get the picture. You can skip that part,” Pete took a drink
of his own coffee and rolled his eyes.
“So I get to sleep about 12:15. I'm sleeping like a baby, and all
of a sudden, Jean's shaking me, waking me up. She says she hears somebody
in the house. This was about 1:45.”
Pete grinned in sympathy. Jean was notorious for hearing things in the
middle of the night. “So? What was it this time? The neighbor's cat
in the garbage again?”
“No, this time she was right.”
“Whaaat? Somebody got in your house?” Pete's eyes widened.
“Kinda. Sorta. Let me finish.” Jim choked back a yawn. “I
lay there a minute, and, sure enough, I hear a crash coming from the kitchen.
And then another one. Somebody was in the kitchen all right. Jean was scared
to death. You'd think she didn't live with a cop or anything. I got up and
got my robe on and got my gun. I could hear shuffling around in the kitchen
and all this crashing and noise. Sounded like somebody was tearing the place
apart.”
“You call the cops?” Pete asked, jokingly, but half-serious,
too.
“Jean wanted to, but I told her to let me check it out first. I
told her to stay in the bedroom with the door locked, and if I wasn't back
in three minutes, go ahead and call. Well, she was scared for Jimmy, too,
being in the nursery, away from her, so I told her I'd close his door on
the way by. We keep it cracked, anyway, so we can hear him.
“So I get going in the dark, toward the kitchen. I reached over
and closed Jimmy's door, and snaked around the wall toward the kitchen.
I could see the refrigerator light shining from the kitchen . . . like some
nut's in the 'fridge. I heard glass breaking and stuff hitting the floor
. . . I thought some mental case was in there. I mean, why would somebody
come in and raid your refrigerator? Now, my adrenaline's pumping, and I've
got my gun out, and I'm at the door of the kitchen ready to confront God
knows what, just about to make a move on this perp . . . and that's when
I hear it.”
Pete was on the edge of his chair. “Hear what?” He demanded.
The disgusted look was back on Jim's face. “Da-da.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. Da-da. And other familiar-sounding goos and gurgles.”
“Jimmy woke up?” Pete asked, confused.
“Jimmy was the perp!” Jim blurted out.
“What?” Pete exclaimed.
“Jimmy. James Allen Reed, Jr. Your godson.” Jim's
expression changed from disgusted to decidedly unhappy.
“How did he get out of the crib?”
“The little monkey learned to crawl over the rail,” Jim explained.
“But this is the first time he's done it in the middle of the night.”
“What about all the breaking glass and the crashing?”
“Oh. Well. When I heard him in there, I about collapsed thinking
how close I came to drawing down on my own kid. Scared me to death. When
I finally got the strength to move again, I reached in and turned on the
light just to make sure, and sure enough, there Jimmy was, in the refrigerator.”
Pete couldn't help but grin. “How'd he get it open?”
Jim shrugged. “Strong little guy, I guess. But it wasn't just that.
He'd gotten a chair, Pete, and crawled up onto the counter...”
“Uh, uh!” Pete objected. “How did he manage that? Those
kitchen chairs are big!”
“If I knew the answer to that, I'd feel a lot better. I don't know
how he managed it. I know he's a strong little kid, but I never thought he
could manage that at his age. His grandparents claim he's a precocious little
imp, and I guess they're right.”
“Scary.”
“No kidding! When he got up there, he threw everything out of the
dish drainer onto the floor, opened up all the ceramic canisters that Ruthie
gave us for a wedding present and threw a couple of them on the floor, too.
That's what woke up Jean. By the time I got in there, he was into the refrigerator,
sampling all the food. He threw out half the stuff in the thing by the time
I got the light turned on. There was milk and juice, and jelly and chocolate
syrup and broken eggs, and you name it . . . all over the place. And all over
Jimmy, too. He was covered in goo . . . face red and black from strawberry
jam and Hershey's syrup, his pajamas were soaking wet, hair sticking straight
up full of jam and syrup . . . and he just looked up at me and grinned when
I turned on the light. He said, 'ummmm, dada . . . good.'”
Pete couldn't help himself. He laughed. The image of his eighteen-month-old
godson in such a state struck him as hilarious.
“I knew you'd laugh,” Jim complained darkly. “You
didn't have to clean up the mess.”
“I'm sorry,” Pete managed between breathless laughing. “I
just can imagine that grin of his . . . oh, he's something else!”
“He's something else, all right,” Jim agreed irritably. “I
had half a mind to wring his little neck.”
“Say,” Pete admonished. “He's just being a kid. You'll
laugh about this someday.”
Jim looked doubtful. “Pete, it took Jean almost an hour to clean
him up. And it took me nearly two hours to clean up the kitchen! Not to
mention it's gonna take about 30 dollars in groceries to replace all the food
he ruined. And the cannister set that Ruthie gave us -- she made it herself
-- it's irreplaceable. He broke four glasses out of our set, too.”
“He didn't get cut, did he?”
“No, and that's the only thing to be thankful for out of this mess.
Well, that, and the fact I didn't shoot him.” Jim's dark look turned
to one close to fear.
“I think that's what's really bothering you, partner. You got scared
out of about ten years of your life.”
“Yeah, that's most of it,” Jim conceded. “But still,
not only did he make a mess, but now I can't even put him to bed without worrying
he's gonna hurt himself. Now that he's learned he can get out of the crib
and get anywhere in the house without waking us up . . . what's next? What
if he falls getting out next time? Or what if he gets out of the house somehow?
We keep the doors chained and all, but he's so little . . . what if he
slips out of the opening? Or what if he falls off that counter next time?
Or cuts himself on the glass, or chokes on some food? My God, Pete, you
think when you put your kid to bed he's safe. I don't have that reassurance
anymore. And I'm still mad at him for the mess he made.”
“You're just tired, Jim. Give it a couple of days and put it in
perspective. He's still a baby. Learning and growing and exploring. Sounds
to me like he's pretty darned smart and has a lot of ingenuity!”
“Sneaky, you mean,” Jim refused to be bullied out of his bad
mood. “If he's doing this at 18 months, I don't want to think about
what he'll do at 18 years!”
“That's a long way down the road, partner. You've got a lot of skinned
knees, fevers and broken hearts to go through before then.”
Jim put that baleful look back on his partner. “Boy, you really
know how to cheer a guy up, don't you?”
This is going to be one long shift. “Maybe you should just go
home and get some rest,” Pete suggested diplomatically.
“Sick days are like gold, Pete. I can't blow one just because I'm
tired.”
“Well, how come you didn't catch a couple more hours after you got
everything cleaned up?”
“Glad you asked, partner,” Jim managed some sarcasm. “Your
godson refused to go back to sleep. Jean gave him a bath while I cleaned
up the kitchen, and when she tried to put him back down he had a fit. He
was so wired from all the sugar he wasn't about to go to sleep! She rocked
him and read to him, and played with him while I finished up in the kitchen.
Then I took a stab at getting him down. No dice. We tried putting him back
in the crib and letting him cry, but he just crawled out of the damned thing
and came running into our bedroom. We tried putting him in the bed with us
but he just kept jabbering and wanting to play. By the time he finally drifted
off to sleep, it was 5:00 and I had to get up in less than a half-hour.
So why bother going back to sleep? I left him and Jean sleeping and I hope
they still are. What a night.” Jim drained the last of his coffee.
“Who knew having kids could get so difficult?”
Pete had to laugh again. “Even I know that, Jim. Kids will
be kids. And all kids have this gene in 'em that just compels them to give
their parents a hard time. And when they start going to school, the gene
expands to include their teachers. And when they get to be teenagers . .
. well . . . the gene mutates them into aliens from another planet.”
“Just one more thing to look forward to,” Jim sighed resignedly.
*****
“You gonna clear us some time this morning?” Pete asked.
“Sorry.” Jim picked up the mic and depressed the button. “One-Adam-12
Daywatch clear.”
“One-Adam-12, clear.”
They rode in silence, slowly patrolling their area, watching the early
morning rush-hour traffic thicken and swell as hordes of Los Angelinos made
their way to work or took their children to school. The traffic moved smoothly,
albeit slowly, and the men of Adam-12 found their first hour of work routine.
The radio stayed silent, as well, with no calls coming across for Adam-12.
“Quiet morning,” Pete remarked.
“If it gets any quieter I'm gonna keel over,” Jim yawned.
“Let's go patrol over by Eisenhower Elementary. There's always excitement
around when the kids start showing up for school.”
“Fine with me,” Jim agreed.
Pete threaded the car through the slow-moving traffic and turned off the
main road onto a secondary avenue and finally into the quiet residential neighborhood
surrounding Eisenhower Elementary School. The neighborhood, an older, established
middle-class neighborhood with shady sidewalked streets and neatly manicured
lawns, had very little traffic. The school itself sat in a dead-end cul-de-sac
surrounded by two large playgrounds. A small access road allowed buses
and teachers to reach the school, and a one-way drive for parents to drop
off kids in cars circled in front of the building. But other than that,
the closest street was yet another dead-end that bordered the rear of one
of the playgrounds. Pete thought it a perfect location for an elementary
school.
Pete turned onto the dead-end street that bordered the playground and slowly
drove its length. Groups of exuberant children played on the equipment, jumped
rope in the grass, or tossed a ball, waiting for the bell to ring. Most
of the buses and parents had already come and gone, so the predominant sound
in the area was the sound of squealing, laughing children. That sound usually
brought a smile to his partner's face, but as Malloy glanced over to the
opposite side of the car, he noted that Jim watched them with a pensive expression.
“Before you know it, Jimmy'll be going to school,” Jim said
with a sigh. “I hope he'll do okay.”
“He'll do fine.”
“I loved school,” Jim admitted.
“Why doesn't that surprise me?” Pete grinned. He'd reached
the end of the street, so he executed a three-point turn to head back in the
opposite direction.
Some of the children on the playground spotted the black-and-white, and
they crowded up against the fence to watch it cruise by. Some of them waved
at the officers, and they both waved back. Pete slowed their speed to a crawl,
then reached over and flashed the reds and touched the siren for a small
bleat. It had the desired effect. The kids cheered and waved wildly and
the ones who hadn't been looking at them stopped what they were doing and
took notice.
“Show off,” Jim accused, but a smile broke out on his youthful
face and Pete was tempted to do it again just to see if he would actually
laugh.
But Jim's smile disappeared almost as quickly as it had come, and he frowned.
“Pete, I think we've got trouble.”
“What?” Pete touched the brakes and followed Jim's gaze. It
only took him a few seconds to see what had caught Jim's attention. In the
far corner of the playground, two boys were rolling around on the ground,
pommelling each other in a serious fight. As the fight got the attention
of other kids on the playground, a small crowd gathered, cheering the combatants
on. “Uh-oh. A classic playground brawl. You see any teacher-types
out here?”
“Nope,” Jim shook his head. “They're probably all inside
because it's just about time for the bell.”
Pete frowned. “Somebody should be watching. But maybe we'd
better keep 'em from killing each other until one shows up.” Pete reached
for the mic to put them Code 6 as Jim left the car.
Pete had to hustle to scale the fence, drop over and catch up with Jim.
He and his partner then gently pushed their way through the chanting crowd
of kids. When the children realized that real, live, policemen were on the
scene, they parted obediently and quieted down, leaving only the antagonists
grunting and yelling at each other in between typical little-boy blows.
Jim reached down and scooped up a small boy dressed in a now dirty and
torn blue shirt, leaving Pete to haul a slightly bigger, slightly dirtier
boy off the ground. Based on their sizes, Pete judged them to be about eight
years old.
“What's going on here?” Jim snapped at the two. “What's
this all about?”
The little boy Pete held stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed at Jim. “Who
called the fuzz?” he demanded.
“I asked first,” Jim said. “What're your names, boys?”
“Timmy,” the little boy Jim was restraining said angrily.
“What about you, son?” Pete asked.
“Don't I get my rights read first?” the boy cried.
Pete exchanged a look with Jim then rolled his eyes. What kind of home
life did this one have? “Just give me your name, son.”
“Brian.” The boy glared at Timmy, then pointed. “And
you need to arrest him! He hit me!”
“And you deserved it, too!” The boy squirmed, but he couldn't
escape Jim's iron grip. “He called my mom a fat old pig! He called
her a fat old pig with warts! I had to hit him!”
“Is that true, Brian?” Pete asked. He looked around to see
if a teacher or administrator had made their way to the playground, but all
he could see was kids.
“Sure it's true. That's why I said it!” Brian exclaimed.
“She's a fat old pig with warts who hates kids!”
“Shut up! You just shut up!” Timmy tried once again to break
Jim's grasp.
“Timmy, there are better ways of handling when someone hurts your
feelings than hitting 'em,” Jim said, his voice stern.
“But I hadda do something!” Timmy wailed. “That wasn't
nice!
“No, it wasn't nice,” Pete agreed. “Brian, I think an
apology is called for.”
“I'd rather go to jail!” Brian insisted, scowling.
“We could arrange that,” Jim snapped again.
“Nobody needs to go to jail,” Pete said quietly, with a disapproving
look at Jim. “We can settle this like gentlemen.”
“I ain't apologizing!” Brian insisted, stomping a foot and
crossing his arms.
“Well, then maybe we should let your principal settle this,”
Pete said.
Suddenly Brian's demeanor changed. He stiffened noticeably. “The
. . . the principal?” He stammered.
“I think that'd be best, since this fight took place on school grounds,”
Pete said mildly. A movement caught his eye and he looked up to see a middle-aged,
slightly plump woman dressed in a business suit scurrying toward them. “And
I think I see her coming.”
Brian looked up in sheer terror. Timmy looked smug.
“Oh, please, officer, don't tell the principal what I said!”
Brian begged.
“Maybe you'll think before you say ugly things next time,”
Pete said.
“What is going on here?” The woman demanded, as she approached
the scene. “The police! Who called the police!”
“Ma'am, we were just on routine patrol when we noticed a little difference
of opinion here,” Pete reported politely.
The woman breathed heavily from her hurried trip across the playground.
But she wasn't too tired or breathless to turn a glare on Brian as she caught
sight of the first combatant. “Brian Sommersby! I might have known
you were behind this!” She looked at Pete and offered her hand to him.
“I'm Mary Molina, the principal here.” Pete shook it, relieved
that a school official had finally arrived on the scene.
The principal turned her attention back to Brian. “And who were you
fighting . . .” she then caught sight of Timmy and her voice trailed
off. “Timmy! Timmy!” she exclaimed, her voice clearly distressed.
“What on earth are you doing fighting?”
Timmy looked like he wanted to crawl under the grass beneath their feet.
He inched around behind Jim.
“Apparently, ma'am, Brian insulted Timmy's mother,” Jim supplied.
“Timmy took exception.”
Molina's eyes narrowed. “Oh, he did, did he? Well, Timmy, I'll
deal with you later, young man.” She turned back to Brian,
who stood quietly, now meek and compliant. “Brian, what did you say?”
She put a look on the boy that only police officers and school officials could
pull off successfully.
“Mrs. Molina . . .” Brian tried to hide behind Pete like Timmy
was trying to hide behind Jim.
“Brian . . .” The look got harder.
Brian appealed to Pete. “Aw, officer, do I hafta? I really
would rather go to jail.”
“Your judge and jury are right here,” Pete told him. “I'd
'fess up, if I were you.”
“Yeah, Brian, tell her what you said!” Timmy taunted.
Mrs. Molina looked back at Timmy. “You be quiet. You're in trouble,
too! Fighting, no matter for what reason, is against the rules here!”
She paused. “No matter who you are.”
Timmy bowed his head. “Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry, Mom.”
Whoa! Pete looked up at Jim, whose startled reaction matched his own.
“Mom?” Jim questioned, looking down at Timmy. “Mrs.
Molina is your mother?
“Yes, sir, she is.”
Pete completely understood Brian's terror now. Not only had the boy insulted
Timmy's mother and instigated a fist fight, the mother in question was the
school principal. The poor kid didn't have a chance.
“Well, Brian, you've dug quite a hole for yourself, here,”
Pete had to fight to keep a smirk off his face. “Good luck.”
He looked up at the principal and managed to keep his expression neutral.
“I think you can handle this from here, Mrs. Molina.”
“Yes, officer, I certainly can. Thank you for breaking things up
before they hurt each other too badly.” Mrs. Molina shook Pete's hand
again, then put a firm hand on Brian's shoulder. “Let's go, Brian.
You, too, Timmy. My office. Now.” She raised her voice. “All
of you kids get to class this second! Move!”
Kids turned and fled for the building as the principal led off the boys.
Both of them looked as if they were headed for the guillotine.
Jim walked over to stand beside Pete and watched the crowd of kids run
into the building.
“We should recruit her for the department,” Jim commented.
“Talk about crowd control.”
“No kidding. Come on, let's get back on the air.”
****
“I wonder what we're doing wrong. Jean and me. With Jimmy.”
Jim fretted again over the actions of his toddler.
Pete sighed. For nearly three hours Jim had been brooding, interrupted
only by two traffic stops and a plethora of yawns. It had been a remarkably
slow day, leaving the younger officer plenty of time to think about his sleepless
night. It was about to drive Pete crazy.
“Jim, you're not doing anything wrong,” the older officer assured
Jim for perhaps the fifth time that morning. “You and Jean are great
parents. He's just a baby! Babies do things like that.”
It was Jim's turn to sigh. “I guess so. But how do we get through
to him that he can't just get out of bed in the middle of the night?”
“That I can't tell you. But I can tell you what you can't do --
you can't tie him to the bed or lock him up.”
“Oh, that's helpful.”
“Look, if you're really worried about it, why don't you call your
pediatrician and ask his advice?” Pete suggested.
“That seems extreme.”
“Then talk to Mac or Ed, or somebody at the station who has kids
and who's been through this once or twice. Maybe they can share their wisdom.
But for cryin' out loud, quit worrying and relax!”
“Yeah, yeah, you're right.” Jim ran a hand through his hair.
“I'm just tired, I guess.”
“No guessing about it. When you get off, you need to go home and
crash.”
“One-Adam-12, one-Adam-12, unknown trouble. See the woman, 2978
South Rampart. One-Adam-12, handle Code 2.”
“One-Adam-12, roger,” Jim acknowledged
Traffic had thinned out considerably during the morning. That, and their
close proximity to the address, made the trip to the location a quick one.
Pete pulled the unit up to the curb in front of 2978, which turned out to
be a Mom and Pop candy store. The building was neat, but careworn, like the
other buildings in the neighborhood.
An older woman with thinning gray hair stood in the doorway of the store.
Her appearance almost exactly paralleled that of the building -- neat, but
careworn. Her anxious expression brightened slightly when she saw the black-and-white
pull up. She scurried toward the unit, nervously wringing her hands.
Jim got out of the car, donning his hat. “Did you call us, ma'am?”
He asked with his usual courtesy.
“Yes, officer, I did.” The woman's quiet voice held a hint
of a quaver.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“I'm not sure,” the woman said as she looked over her shoulder
nervously.
“Could I have your name, please, ma'am?” Jim fished for his
notebook and Pete joined him on the sidewalk.
“Ohhhh, I suppose, if you must have it. Irma Penrose. Mrs. Irma
Penrose. Irma is with an 'I'.”
“Is this your place of business?” Jim asked.
“Yes, officer. My late husband Abner founded it in 1925. But now
that he's passed on, I still keep the store up.”
“Mrs. Penrose, why did you call the police?” Pete prompted
as Jim scribbled.
“Well, about an hour ago, I was going to the dumpster, back there,”
Mrs. Penrose began, looking over her shoulder nervously and pointing toward
the alley. She shifted from foot to foot, looking like telling this story
was the last thing she wanted to do.
“Relax, Mrs. Penrose, and just tell us what happened,” Pete
soothed.
“I was throwing away some empty boxes in the dumpster. When I looked
down the alley, I saw three kids going into the storage shed behind Mr. McElvy's
apartment building there.”
“And that's unusual?” Pete questioned.
“Why, certainly it is!” Mrs. Penrose exclaimed with a little
more energy. “The shed is where Mr. McElvy keeps his cleaning supplies
and spare furnishings for his tenants. He keeps it padlocked, and nobody
but Mr. McElvey ever goes in there. I don't know how they got the
door open, but that's what they were doing when I first spotted them -- opening
the door.”
“Can you describe these kids, please, ma'am?” Reed asked.
“I only saw them from a distance, but there were two boys and one
girl. They looked about twelve or thirteen. Dressed like kids these days...jeans,
denim jackets. They all had long, blonde hair.” She paused. “Aren't
they supposed to be in school at this hour?”
“Yes, ma'am,” Pete confirmed.
“Are the kids still in the shed?” Reed asked.
“I think so. I've been watching and I haven't seen them come out.”
She started wringing her hands again. “I debated about calling at first,
because I just don't know if they're up to something or not. I don't want
to get anybody in trouble but I don't want them to steal any of Mr. McElvy's
things.”
“Well, ma'am, at the very least, they're probably truant,”
Jim pointed out.
“And at worst,” Pete began, then glanced at his partner and
let the words trail. Truants were a particular sore spot with Jim. “Well,
we'll take a look and see. You stay here and we'll come back if we need you.”
Pete motioned her back to the door.
“All right, officers.”
Pete walked off toward the alley and Jim followed, pocketing his notebook.
He caught up with Malloy in just a couple of long strides.
“This can't be good,” the younger man sighed.
“Probably not,” Pete agreed. “Let's check it out.”
They moved quietly to the shed, avoiding the two barred windows on the
back side of the little building. Pete pointed silently to the door -- an
open padlock hung from its hook. It didn't appear to be damaged or jimmied
in any way.
Reed made a hand motion to Pete of an imaginary key turning in a lock.
Pete nodded. One of those kids probably had a key. Either that, or Mr.
McElvy had been careless.
Jim moved around to the back of the shed and took a peek in the window.
His face contorted into a scowl, then turned into a look of concern and disgust.
His eyes closed briefly and he shook his head wordlessly.
“What?” Pete hissed as he joined him. He followed Jim's gaze
through the window and saw what had his partner on edge.
The three kids, all around twelve or thirteen as Mrs. Penrose had guessed,
were sprawled on an old sofa, apparently stoned out of their minds. Pete
could see smoldering remnants of several joints littering the floor around
their feet. One of the boys still held a joint in his hand that was propped
on an arm of the sofa. The smoke curled toward the ceiling. The girl was
half undressed, and the other boy had a hand in a place that it didn't belong.
She seemed oblivious to both her state of undress and her compromised situation.
Stupid kids. Damn, they're starting young. Pete caught himself shaking
his head in imitation of his partner.
“We'd better get in there,” Jim gritted through tight lips.
“Before they either blow themselves up or blow their minds.”
It may be too late for the latter. “Let's go.”
Pete pulled on the handle and the door opened easily. They entered and
the acrid smell of burning marijuana assaulted their noses immediately.
Pete eyed numerous cans of paint and other flammable supplies lining shelving
on the back wall of the small shack. It was a miracle they hadn't already
started a fire. He moved to the boy still holding a joint, removed it from
the kid's hand and extinguished it.
Jim moved to the shelving and removed a folded, paint-splattered sheet.
He opened it and covered the girl after removing the other young boy's hand.
Pete watched for a few minutes as Jim tried to bring the girl around after
securing her modesty, then turned his attention to the boy from whom he'd
taken the joint.
“Son, son, open your eyes,” Pete shook him by the shoulder.
Pete got no response from the boy, so he tried again. “Son, come
on, now, open your eyes and wake up. Look at me, boy, and wake up.”
“I'm not having any luck, either. These kids are really out of it.
Maybe they dropped some pills with their pot.” Jim's voice betrayed
his anxiety over the youngsters' conditions. “Maybe we should call
an ambulance.”
“Yeah, yeah, let's do that.”
“And, Pete . . . the girl . . . do you think . . .?” Jim's
pained expression spoke volumes.
Pete glanced at the oblivious girl again. Unconscious, she looked even
younger than thirteen. Kids and pot, and maybe pills on top of that. Who
knew? Better safe than sorry.
“I don't know. Maybe. Something was sure going on. Go on and get
that ambulance.”
“Right.” Jim sprinted for the door, and Pete heard him run
down the alley.
Pete lightly slapped the cheeks of the boy he was trying to revive. After
a minute or so of that, plus some harsh talking, the young man opened his
eyes to slits.
“Attaboy,” Pete encouraged. “Come on, kid, wake up.”
“Hey, man,” the boy slurred, a loopy grin tugging at his lips.
“Hey . . . fuzz.”
“Talk to me, kid,” Pete gave him a firm shake. “What's
your name?”
“Don't bug me, man. I'm feeling goooood right now.”
“Yeah, I'll bet,” Pete responded with appropriate sarcasm.
“Come on, tell me your name.”
“Bluebird, man . . . and I'm flying high!” the boy said dreamily,
then giggled.
“Cut the crap, kid, and give me your name. You're in big trouble,
son, so you'd better stop the flight and get back to earth.”
“Bummer, man, you fuzz are such downers...”
“Your name!” Pete snapped.
“Mikey. Mikey McElvy.”
Well, that explains the key, I'll bet. “Okay, Mikey, what're
your buddies' names?”
“Krissy and Joey. Now, bug off, man.”
“Where'd you get the grass, Mikey?” Pete asked.
“I said, bug off,” Mikey repeated.
Pete sighed. “Give me some last names, Mikey.”
“Man, I said . . .”
“I know what you said, but I'm telling you I need some names. Your
buddies are sick and we need to get them some help.”
“Man, they ain't sick. They're trippin . . . like me, man . . .
free as a bird . . . man, it's beautiful here . . .”
Pete looked over at the other two. Neither showed any signs of consciousness.
“Did you drop any pills, Mikey? Reds, maybe? Rainbows?” Pete
shook the boy again. “Come on, kid, wake up and talk to me!”
“Maybe . . . Krissy got somethin' . . . no big deal . . .”
Jim ran back into the room, breathless. “Ambulance is on the way.
Any change?”
“This one's last name is McElvy.”
Jim's eyebrows shot up. “Really. Guess that's where the key came
from. Now I wonder where the pot came from?”
“Take a look around and see if you can find any pills. Those two
over there look like they've had more than just pot. The kid here says the
girl got something.”
“Okay,” Jim said, after taking a long look at the kids.
Reed didn't have far to look. He moved the girl's discarded blouse that
lay in a crumpled heap on the floor at her feet. When he did, a small plastic
bag fell out that held two red capsules. “Pete.”
Pete looked over to where Jim pointed at the small bag. “Seconal?”
“That's my guess.” Jim bit his lip. “That ambulance
better hurry.”
“Go call Mac,” Pete said quietly. “He may want to get
narco or juvenile down here.”
“Right.” Jim nodded. He took one last look at the stoned youngsters.
“Stupid kids,” he said, then sprinted for the door again.
****
“One-Adam-12 clear,” Jim spoke into the mic, then reached to
hang it back on its holder as the dispatcher parroted his information. Somehow
he miscalcuated and the mic rattled to the floorboard, stretching the cord
to its limit.
Jim sighed quietly, but wordlessly leaned over and hung the mic back with
more deliberate care. He then turned and stared out the window. A casual
observer would think he was keeping an eye on the citizens of Los Angeles
as Adam-12 patrolled. Pete knew better than that.
Pete glanced at his brooding partner. After two years on the force, Reed
was getting marginally better at detaching himself from emotionally-charged
situations, but he still had a long way to go in fully managing his feelings.
On days like today, after a call like they'd just finished, Pete realized
yet again what concern his partner had for young people and how he worried
for their futures. Pete could see that Jim was still struggling to come to
grips with those kids in the shed. It sure didn't help that Jim was already
worried about his own kid's behavior and that, physically, he was running
on fumes.
The two officers had just left Central Receiving after completing the follow
up to their call to the pot party in the storage shed. They turned the investigation
over to a team of detectives from Juvenile and Narcotics. It was difficult
to let go of the case while the futures of the kids were uncertain and the
supplier remained unknown. None of the kids had been in any kind of shape
to give coherent information, and wouldn't be for quite a while. The doctor
provided mixed news on the conditions of the children involved. They would
all survive. The doctor had determined that the girl had been involved in
some sexual activity. Lab reports should identify the actual drugs, and
hopefully the kids would eventually identify the unknown pusher.
They had been unable to track down any of the parents. Juvenile detectives
continued to work on it, but for now, none of the children had any advocates
or caring adults waiting on word of their condition. It was sad. It was
frustrating. It was frightening.
Even Pete felt the frustration of dealing with such a tragic situation.
He wanted to say something to draw Jim out of his funk, but he couldn't think
of anything to say. Maybe giving his partner some time to process it all
was the best thing Pete could do for Jim. He could practically see Jim's
mental wheels turning, trying to make sense out of a senseless situation.
Finally Pete couldn't stand the painful silence any longer. “I really
haven't had a chance to tell you again what a great game you pitched last
night.” Neutral ground. Think good thoughts.
“Hmmmm . . . oh, thanks. Just got in a groove, I guess.”
“I'm glad we won. It gets the fall league off to a great start for
us. And some of those guys over at Rampart really get on my nerves with all
their yammerin'.”
“They do have big mouths,” Jim agreed. He continued to stare
out the window.
On any other day, Jim could have, and would have, talked endlessly about
the Rampart Division players and their needling, but he dropped it at that
single comment. Pete took that as a bad sign.
They patrolled in silence a bit longer. The quiet droning of the dispatcher
broke the silence only occasionally.
“Wanna take early seven?” Pete finally asked.
“I'm not hungry,” Jim replied, his voice wooden.
“Jim, don't do this to yourself.”
Jim turned to face Pete, his face betraying his inner turmoil. “Twelve
years old, Pete. She's twelve years old and she's living her life like somebody
twice her age.”
“It's out of your hands. You probably helped save her life today.
Content yourself with that. The rest we can't control.” Pete said
calmly.
“She's somebody's little girl, Pete. Twelve years old . . . that
could be Jimmy in just ten years or so. Maybe ten years ago she was toddling
around giving baby-kisses and saying 'ma-ma' and 'da-da' and now look at her.”
Jim's eyes looked troubled.
“We don't know the story and it doesn't do any good to try and guess.
The juvenile authorities will sort it out and do what's best for the kids.”
A long silence from the other side of the car made Pete wonder if Jim planned
on ignoring him. “Yeah, I guess you're right,” he finally said
with a heavy sigh. “It's just so scary to think about what might happen
to your kids in the future.”
“Then don't think about it,” Pete advised. He wished he could
drive Jim home and make him go to bed, so that he'd get some sleep and pull
out of his macabre mood. “Just love them and do the best you can.
That's all anybody can do.” Listen to me . . . acting like I know
what I'm talking about.
“All units in the vicinity and One-Adam-12, One-Adam-12, a 211 in
progress, at the liquor store. 4598 Bulwark. One-Adam-12, handle code 3.”
“One-Adam-12, roger,” Jim acknowledged as Pete hit the reds
and the siren.
“We're close,” Jim murmured as Pete sped the unit toward the
address. “Maybe we'll catch this one. Clear right.”
“Let's hope so.” Pete shot through the intersection. He made
a right turn and then another, and they were on Bulwark, racing toward the
liquor store.
“One-Adam-12, One-Adam-36 will back you up on your 211 call.”
“One-Adam-12, roger,” Jim acknowledged. He reached down and
pulled the shotgun from the rack without looking. “4300 block coming
up.”
Pete reached over and killed the siren. He hoped that Wells and Brinkman,
in Adam-36, weren't too far away.
As they approached the scene, about a half-block from the location, they
saw a figure emerge at a dead run from the liquor store and run down the street
in the opposite direction. The black male's clothing -- jeans, a black t-shirt
and a dark stocking cap pulled low -- pegged him immediately as the suspect.
Who but somebody with something to hide would be wearing a cap like that
on a sultry, early-September day?
“Pete!” Jim pointed.
“I see him.”
Just as Pete pulled the unit up to the curb, a second figure came tearing
out of the liquor store, gun in hand. He paused long enough to fire two shots
after the fleeing suspect and then took off after him. Pete assumed it was
the store owner.
“Oh, great!” Jim exclaimed. He was already opening his door.
“I'll try to catch up with the suspect!”
“Watch yourself!” Pete warned, grabbing for the mic as Jim
bailed out. He could hear Jim identifying himself and calling for both pursuer
and suspect to stop. But he pushed that aside as he depressed the key.
“One-Adam-12, supplemental on the 211 at 4598 Bulwark. One male negro
suspect, on foot, heading north on Bulwark, wearing jeans, black t-shirt and
black stocking cap. My partner is in foot pursuit.”
Pete slung the mic onto the seat as the dispatcher acknowledged and gave
out the supplemental information. Pete hauled out his gun just in case and
joined the breathless, excited man about a half-block from the liquor store.
Far down the street, Pete could see Jim turning the corner, just disappearing
from sight, pursuing the fleeing felon.
“What happened here?” Pete asked. He took the gun away from
the agitated man, because he was shaking so hard Pete feared it would accidentally
go off.
“He shot somebody in my store, officer! You gotta get an ambulance!”
“Just the one suspect?” Pete asked. He took the man's arm
and steered him toward the unit so he could call an ambulance.
“Yes!”
“Who'd he shoot?”
“A-a customer! A woman . . . she's hit bad! Please hurry!”
“Wait here.” Pete put the man against the fender of Adam-12
and reached through Jim's window to retrieve the mic again. “One-Adam-12
requesting an ambulance at 4598 Bulwark for injured civilian. Also, additional
information on the 211 suspect from 4598 Bulwark. Suspect is armed with an
unknown caliber weapon and has shot a civilian.”
“One-Adam-12, roger. Be advised 1-L-90 will meet you at the location.”
“One-Adam-12, roger.” Pete dropped the mic back in the car
and holstered his gun. “Let's go check on the victim.” He nodded
toward the store and moved off, with the owner following him.
****
After Jim had gotten the second man to stop pursuing the suspect, he'd
blown past him. He could hear the man yelling about the suspect having shot
someone, so Jim pumped a shell into his shotgun's chamber and ran a little
faster. The suspect already had quite a head start on him, so the best Jim
could hope for was to keep him in sight until Pete, or Wells in 36, could
bring a unit into the pursuit and get the guy cornered.
Jim saw the suspect, about a block and a half ahead of him, turn off Bulwark
to a side street. He knew the area consisted of a maze of short streets connected
with alleys, with a hundred places that a suspect could lose himself until
the heat was off, or conceal himself to take a potshot at a pursuing officer.
From the first time he'd pursued a suspect on foot, he'd wished the department
had the technology and the money for all officers to carry small cc units.
He still wished for that day. It would make him feel safer, and the pursuing
net could be spread much more efficiently if he could radio in a position
as he ran. But that was something for the future. Right now, he concentrated
on his adversary. As Jim approached the side street, he pulled up slightly
to make sure the suspect wasn't waiting to gun him down, then sped up again
when he saw that the suspect continued to run. Jim doggedly went after him,
pounding the pavement, trying to shorten the wide gap between them.
Jim could sense the heat of the high-noontime sun beating down on his back
. The air, thick with humidity and heat-inversion trapped smog, made breathing
difficult. After only three blocks of pursuit, Jim could feel fatigue catching
up with him already.
But he ignored it and pushed himself to run faster. He lost sight of the
suspect as the man made a sudden move to his right, ducking into one of the
side alleys, but a loud crash gave Jim a clue that he'd hit some cans or crates.
Maybe it'll slow him down.
Breathing heavily, Jim ducked into the alley after the robber. He searched
frantically for a glimpse of the suspect, then saw the man climbing over a
fence into an adjoining alleyway. Jim leaped over a couple of garbage cans
rolling in his way, ran to the fence and hoisted himself over it. He dropped
heavily onto the pavement on the other side, saw the suspect just disappearing
at its end, turning left back out onto a street that ran parallel to Bulwark.
Jim raced after him. Where's 36?
Jim made the turn onto the street, nearly plowing over a civilian carrying
a load of groceries, but dodged around in time and kept running. He looked
around for the suspect, but didn't see him in front of him, so he swiveled
his head even as he ran, trying to pick up the trail.
A loud, insistent blast on a car horn and squealing brakes caught Jim's
attention. When he turned to look, he saw his suspect weaving his way across
the street, dodging vehicles as the felon tried to shake his persistent tail.
Jim cut to the street immediately, with a quick glance at oncoming traffic.
The light had turned, so he had a relatively safe path between stopped cars
until he had to traverse the cross-street. He raced ahead of an on-coming
sedan, causing the driver to hit his brakes hard and honk. Jim put out a
hand and used the car for leverage, half-sliding over the hood, not taking
his eyes off the suspect, who he was just barely in his sights.
Jim raced up onto the sidewalk, glad to be out of the street, but then
he had to jump over a wagon that a dirty, disheveled woman was pulling around
behind her. The sum total of her wordly possessions were piled inside in
brown paper bags. He felt his foot graze the top of one of the bags. He was
fatiguing rapidly. The heat, coupled with his lack of sleep the night before
was taking a toll. Come on, Jim, don't think about it! Move! He
pushed himself to run, ignoring the cramping in his legs and the stitch developing
in his side.
The suspect made yet another quick move to his left and Jim found himself
chasing him down another alley. Jim thought he'd gained slightly on the suspect,
who had to be suffering from the heat, too. Once again, the man, with a
quick glance over his shoulder, ran to the fence that separated the alley
from another street, used a crate for a step, and threw himself over the
ramshackle wooden structure. A few seconds later, Jim mimicked the suspect's
move, pushing off the crate with his left foot, bracing with his left arm,
leaping and rolling over the fence. He stumbled when he hit the uneven pavement
on the other side, and had to use his left hand to stop himself from hitting
the ground.
Jim cursed his clumsiness until he heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot
and felt something whiz just past his ear. He hit the pavement and rolled
as another loud report shattered the noon-day traffic noise. Jim heard this
slug hit something metallic behind him, then he heard the pounding feet of
the suspect as he took off running again.
Jim rolled over, hauled himself to his feet, and started back after the
man, grateful that neither bullet had found its intended mark. But he wondered
just how much longer he could keep up the pursuit. He needed some back-up
and he needed it soon. They don't have a clue where I am.
*****
Pete knelt down beside the fallen woman in the liquor store, avoiding the
pool of blood that had formed under her body, now spreading across the tiled
floor. He reached for a carotid pulse automatically, but he'd seen scores
of dead bodies in his years as a cop and this one was definitely dead. Malloy
wasn't surprised when he couldn't find a pulse. He closed his eyes briefly.
Rest in peace, lady. I'm sorry we couldn't get here in time to help.
The bullet had hit her in the throat, going in neatly on one side, but
tearing half her slim neck out where it exited. She was young, attractive,
nicely dressed, wearing a wedding band on her left hand, but she was as dead
as they came. She'd probably hadn't lived two minutes after it happened.
He hoped she hadn't suffered too much.
“Oh, God, she's dead, isn't she?”
Pete opened his eyes at the sound of the man's distressed voice and tore
his eyes away from the gruesome sight to look at him. He was leaning up against
the counter, pale as the white shirt he was wearing.
“Yeah, I'm afraid so,” Pete confirmed. He got to his feet
and pulled his notebook from his pocket. “I'm going to need some information
from you, sir. Let's start with your name.”
“Nick Tourino. I own this place. I been here four years and I ain't
never been robbed until today! You guys keep a pretty good presence up around
here, and I don't stay open too late. I been lucky. Until now. God . . .
she's dead. I wish I'd shot that bastard!” The pallor of Tourino's
face gave way to scarlet blooms of rage on each cheek.
“Take it easy, Mr. Tourino. Do you know the lady?”
“Yeah,” Tourino's voice was strained. “She's a regular.
Name's Mitzi Ferguson. She works a couple blocks over as an assistant to
some bigwig at a bank.” The man paused and blinked. “I guess
I should say 'worked.'” He swallowed. “Anyway, Mitzi didn't drink,
herself, but she'd come in here a lot on her lunch break and buy stuff for
her boss. Said it was part of her job. She was in today to buy a case of
champagne for a party her boss is throwing this weekend. I was ringing it
up and we were passing the time, talking, when that guy came in. Just walked
in, bold as brass, pulled a gun out from under his t-shirt and demanded the
money.”
“Can you give me a thorough description of the suspect?” Malloy
asked. “I only got a quick glance at him as he ran out.”
“I'll never forget that face,” Tourino declared. “Black,
real young. About 19 or 20, I'd say. Has a big mustache -- it runs down
the face like a Fu Manchu, but it was thicker and kinda bushy. Had a black
stocking cap pulled down on his head, so I don't know if he had a 'fro or
not. Wearing a black t-shirt -- plain, no design, jeans, dirty tennis shoes.”
“Did he have any scars or other unusual facial features?” Pete
scribbled the information, noted out of the corner of his eye someone coming
in the door. He looked up to see Brinkman coming through the glass door.
“He had a scar . . . a big scar, under his, uh,” Tourino thought
a moment, “left eye. It was a big puffy kinda scar. You know, like
it didn't heal right.”
“Malloy?” Brinkman asked.
“Nothing to do here,” Pete reported. “Suspect's long
gone. Jim's in foot pursuit.” Pete couldn't keep an edge of worry out
of his voice. “Why don't you and Wells go back him up? He was heading
north on Bulwark, then turned east at the next cross-street.”
“Okay,” Brinkman nodded. “I heard the scar part, and
got the other details off the radio broadcast. What kind of gun's he got?”
The officer's eyes glanced over at the dead woman.
“Looked like a .45 to me,” Tourino replied.
“Sounds right, based on what I saw on the victim,” Pete nodded.
“Mac's on the way. Go see about Jim.”
“Right,” Brinkman rushed back out the door, motioning for Wells
to get back in the car. As they pulled away, the ambulance pulled up, followed
closely by Sergeant William MacDonald, their watch commander.
“Something you should know, officer, about Mitzi there,” Tourino
said. “Not that it makes any difference now, but just so you know.”
“What's that, sir?” Malloy asked.
“What we were talking about before the guy came in . . . she just
found out yesterday that she's pregnant.” Tourino's hands balled into
fists. “I hope your partner catches that crazy bastard.”
“I hope so, too,” Malloy agreed. Without getting killed
himself. He wanted to be out there looking for Jim, and had almost asked
Brinkman to finish here, but he'd reluctantly refrained. He was always concerned
when his partner went off on foot pursuit, but because Jim was so tired today,
he was more concerned than usual. A tired cop often made mistakes.
The ambulance attendants pushed through the door with a gurney, Mac right
behind them.
Pete walked over to them and said quietly, “No rush, fellas, this
one's gone already.”
“Whaddaya got, Pete?” Mac asked.
“Single black suspect, 19 to 20, armed with probably a .45, shot
the lady here and robbed Mr. Tourino.” He looked back over his shoulder
at the owner. “How much did he take, sir?”
“Only $55 and change,” Tourino spat bitterly. “That's
why he shot Mitzi, I think... when he saw how little I had in the till, he
demanded her money, too. She was so scared, she fumbled with her purse .
. . I guess he got impatient.” Tourino dropped his eyes. “When
he shot her I dove under the counter. I guess that makes me a coward, but
I didn't know what else to do. I keep my gun under there, so I was trying
to get it out. He took a shot at me then ran out the door. I grabbed the
gun, took off the safety and went out, but the bastard was so fast . . . by
the time I got out and took a couple of shots at him, he was out of range
and you guys showed up.”
“We don't encourage civilians following suspects out and shooting
at them, Mr. Tourino,” Mac said quietly. “It's dangerous, and
you might hit an innocent bystander. It's also against the law to discharge
a weapon in the city limits.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“Under the circumstances, I don't think so,” Malloy tried to
reassure the man. “We'll have to file a report, but we won't take you
in. But you may want to think twice about that in the future.”
“Reed in foot pursuit?” Mac questioned.
“Yeah. I sent 36 to back him up. I hope they picked him up by now.”
“I'll go call detectives and the coroner. I'll check in with Wells
and see what's happening. I'll see if I can scare up another unit or two to
help out. You finish up with Tourino.” Mac gave him a sympathetic look
and headed for his wagon.
****
After another three blocks of jumping over fences, crossing traffic-filled
streets and avoiding civilians and garbage cans, Jim had almost reached his
limit. He wondered if the suspect was on some drug that gave him speed and
endurance. He wished the guy would try to duck for cover and give him a minute
to catch his breath. But the suspect ran on, leading Jim through a maze
of streets and alleys and through an obstacle course of garbage cans, traffic,
fences, and people. Jim could barely keep the suspect in sight. He knew
he'd lost some ground, and that he couldn't run at his current speed much
longer. But he was determined not to lose sight of the guy if he could help
it.
The suspect ducked between two buildings into what Jim took to be an access
alley. As he approached the alley he saw that he was right. He cautiously
peered around the corner and saw the suspect scaling yet another fence at
the end. This fence, higher than previous ones, getting over this one seemed
to be giving the suspect some trouble. Jim pounced on this opportunity.
He took a deep breath and yelled at the suspect as he ran forward, “Freeze!
Police!”
The suspect did anything but freeze. Caught in no-man's land between the
ground and the top of the fence, the suspect dropped back to the ground, whirling
to fire at Jim. Once again, Jim dove to the ground and rolled for cover.
A second shot that landed too close for comfort made him roll again and
scramble on hands and knees for the security of a nearby dumpster. The second
shot hit the dumpster and ricocheted off with a loud ping. Jim hauled himself
up behind the metal structure and sighted the length of the shotgun barrel,
hoping to nail the guy once and for all. But before he was set to fire, the
suspect scaled the fence and ran out of range.
Jim wearily dragged himself to his feet to continue the pursuit. He reached
the fence, leaped for a one handed grab for the top since he had no crates
or other objects to help him get height, and slung his leg up and over the
top. He reached the top of the fence, ready to bring his shotgun arm and trailing
leg over when a sudden jerk stopped him. His left pant leg had caught on
something in the fence and threw his jump off-balance. He twisted crazily
over the side, his caught leg refusing to follow.
Jim hung upside down, only halfway over the fence. “Damn!”
he swore aloud. He flailed his arms about, trying to get leverage, trying
to reach the part of his leg that was stuck, trying to either get back over
the fence or to complete the jump. Red in the face from his exertions, he
pulled downward with all of his strength, heard a loud rip, and fell the rest
of the way over the fence. A sharp pain bloomed when something scraped down
his leg as he fell. Jim caught himself on his left hand and rolled with
the fall. By some miracle, he didn't lose the shotgun and actually managed
to come up running, though his left leg was burning with dull pain.
Jim sprinted as best he could to the end of the alley, but when he reached
the point where it intersected with the main road, he found he'd lost sight
of his prey. He looked frantically in all directions, but couldn't pick him
up. “Damn,” he swore again, quietly this time, under his breath.
“Damn, damn, damn.” He passed a sweaty arm over his equally
sweaty face and leaned against a building, trying to catch his breath. He
knew he looked a sight. His dirt-encrusted uniform clung to his back, saturated
with perspiration. His hair, wet from his exertions, stuck to his head like
glue. Both arms bore scrapes from where he'd rolled around avoiding bullets.
His legs felt like rubber, the left worse than the right, because the left
leg felt like a tire on fire. Jim looked down and saw that his left pant
leg was ripped from mid-thigh to mid-calf. “Great. There goes another
twenty bucks.” He pulled the ripped material aside to reveal an angry
red scratch that ran down his inner thigh to past his knee. Blood seeped
slowly from the wound. “Twenty bucks and maybe a tetanus shot,”
he mumbled. “And lost a suspect. What a day. What else can go wrong?”
To top it all off, there wasn't a black-and-white in sight. No Pete, no
Wells, no anybody. He'd have to walk back to the liquor store unless he came
up on one of them on the way back. He estimated he'd run about a dozen blocks
and his tired body felt every inch of them. He gulped in a few more breaths
of the humid, heavy air, checked a street sign to get his bearings, then
slowly made his way back to Bulwark.
***
Pete looked up from writing his report when Mac came back into the liquor
store.
“Detectives and the coroner are on the way,” the big Scotsman
said, looking at Pete.
“Any word on Jim?”
“Wells and Brinkman are looking, but there's no sign of either of
them. Relax, Pete, they've just covered a few blocks. Reed's so fast, he's
probably out running them.” Mac flashed a grin at Malloy. “Air-10
wasn't available, but X-ray-15 is in the area, too. So I'm sure we'll hear
soon.”
“I know.”
“Who's gonna tell Mitzi's husband?” Tourino interrupted the
conversation between the officers. The liquor store owner leaned against
the counter next to Pete, giving additional information for the report.
“We'll send some one go by and tell him when we're through here,”
Mac said. His voice held sincere sympathy. “The detectives and the
coroner have to take some pictures and we have to gather some evidence.”
“It seems so cruel, her just lying there and all,” Tourino
shook his head and rubbed a hand across his face.
“It seems so,” Pete agreed, “But look at it this way.
You want this guy nailed, right?”
“You'd better believe it!”
“For that to happen, we have to go by the book,” Pete said.
“That means thorough investigation, by the numbers. We don't do anything
that might louse up a chance at a conviction.”
Tourino sighed and nodded. “That is, if we catch the guy. You think
your partner's caught up with him?”
“I don't know, sir.” Pete shook his head and clamped down on
his worry.
“He should be back by now, if he'd caught him, right?”
“Not necessarily.” Pete wished Tourino would quit talking
about it.
“I hope he didn't lose him. I want that guy to pay! It's bad enough
he came in here and stole from me, but to kill somebody in my store. . . somebody
I know. . . a really good person who was gonna have a baby. . . .”
Tourino pounded his fist on the counter. “You gotta get that guy.”
“We're doing everything we can, Mr. Tourino,” Mac assured him.
“Try to settle down. Every piece of information you give us will help
in apprehending the suspect.”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. It's just that she's so. . . .was so. . . .nice.”
“We understand,” Mac assured him. “We appreciate your
willingness to get involved.”
“What else could I do?” Tourino shrugged. “I don't want
creeps like that in this neighborhood!”
Pete continued to scribble his report with help from Tourino, while Mac
made a preliminary investigation of the surroundings before the detectives
arrived. Long minutes passed without word from Wells or X-Ray-15, and with
no sign of Reed. Pete finished writing and put his pen back in his pocket.
“Mac, I think I need to go look for Jim,” Pete suggested.
“Pete, we've got two units out there. I need you here.”
Pete bit his lip and debated whether or not he should tell Mac about his
heightened concern over Jim. He finally decided that Jim wouldn't appreciate
him telling tales on him, so he just sighed quietly.
“But why don't you go out and check with Wells and see if they've
turned anything,” Mac appended, apparently picking up on Pete's concern.
He nodded toward the door.
“Thanks, Mac, I think I will,” Pete left the report book on
the counter and went out the door.
Malloy had just leaned in to pick up the mic and raise Wells when he saw
his partner come walking around the corner a block up Bulwark. Pete straightened,
put his hands on his hips and observed Jim limp towards him. Empty-handed.
And limping. Oh, brother, I know he's not happy.
“You okay?” Pete asked when Jim approached.
“Sure,” Jim responded, his voice ripe with sarcasm. He leaned
wearily against the black-and-white and blew out a deep, frustrated breath.
Pete took the shotgun from him and opened the door to put it back in the
rack. “Get 36 on Tac 2 and tell them the suspect was last seen in the
3400 block of Deposit Avenue. Armed and dangerous.”
“He take a shot at you?” Pete asked as he retrieved the mic.
“Nah. He took four or five shots at me.” Jim wiped sweat off
his forehead with the back of his hand.
Pete looked his partner over once again. “I assume you aren't hit?”
Jim shook his head. “Not for lack of trying.”
Pete depressed the button on the mic. “One-Adam-12 requesting One-Adam-36
and One-X-Ray-15 meet me on TAC 2 regarding 211 suspect from 4598 Bulwark.”
“One-Adam-12, roger. One-Adam-36, One-Adam-36, One-X-Ray-15, One-X-Ray-15,
meet One-Adam-12 on TAC 2 regarding 211 suspect from 4598 Bulwark.”
Pete changed the frequency and waited for the units to acknowledge. When
they did so, Pete supplied the location information, requested an update in
five minutes and signed off. “You wanna tell me about it?” He
asked when he was done. He took in Jim's disheveled appearance, red face,
and ripped uniform with a wry but sympathetic look.
“What do you think? I lost him,” Jim groused. “I ripped
my uniform. I cut my leg. I ran twelve blocks. I walked back. End of story.”
He took another deep breath and pushed damp hair off his brow. “What
happened here? Did he really shoot someone?”
Pete paused. Jim wasn't gonna like this. “Yeah. Customer.”
Jim looked at him. “Dead, isn't he?”
“She.”
Jim's mouth twitched. He made a move to go into the store, but Pete held
him back. “Nothing to do in there. Detectives and the coroner are
on the way. Stay here and catch your breath.”
The door opened and Tourino hurried toward them. “Hey! You're back!
Where's the bastard?” He demanded. “What'd you do with him?”
“I'm sorry, sir, but I lost him,” Jim explained.
“You lost him? How could you lose him?” Tourino cried, waving
his arms for emphasis.
“It happens sometimes,” Pete answered for his partner. “But
it's not over yet, Mr. Tourino. We've still got men out looking.”
“Well, that's just great,” Tourino complained. “A murderer
is running around loose in the neighborhood!”
“Mr. Tourino, why don't you go back inside and wait for detectives?”
Pete suggested.
“Why? So I can stare at poor Mitzi some more? So I can think about
her poor husband and that little baby that will never be born?”
“Baby?” Jim's head jerked around.
“She was pregnant, man!” Tourino exclaimed. “Just found
out yesterday!”
Jim closed his eyes and bowed his head, clenching his hands into fists.
“Mr. Tourino, please,” Pete took him by the arm and steered
him toward the door. “Go back inside and tell the sergeant my partner
is back but he lost the suspect.”
Tourino glared at Jim a final time, but Jim was lost in his own anger and
didn't notice. “Yeah, yeah,” the liquor store owner sighed, but
he honored Pete's request.
“The guy had a big head start, Jim,” Pete said after Tourino
left. “Next time.”
Jim whirled around and slammed both fists against the roof of the unit,
punctuated with an angry growl.
Pete grabbed Jim's arm before he could repeat the maneuver. He could feel
Jim's arm tensing under his grip. “Don't make things worse by breaking
bones in your hand. Or denting the car.”
“I got my pants leg caught on a nail going over a fence. I lost
him because I got hung on a nail, Pete. How stupid is that?”
“Sounds to me like you're just having one of those days, partner.
It happens.” Pete released Jim's arm but gave him a friendly pat on
the shoulder. “Don't sweat it. We'll catch the guy. Tourino got a
good look at him.”
“Pregnant,” Jim shook his head and wiped at his sweat-covered
face. “Damn.”
“Jim, you're not superman and you're not a one-man police force.”
Pete let a little of an edge creep into his voice. “How many times
do I have to give you this lecture?”
“I guess I'm a slow learner,” Jim snapped. He pushed away
from the unit and walked toward the liquor store.
Pete followed him with a sigh. Stubborn, stubborn. And he wonders
where his kid gets it.
Mac intercepted Jim before he could get in the door. He looked Reed up
and down and frowned. “Everything all right, Jim?”
“Yeah, Mac. Except I, ah, lost the guy.”
“So Tourino said.”
“We put out a broadcast on the last known location.”
“Good. I'll keep 36 in the area looking for a while. I'll also
ask the detectives to take Tourino down to look at the mug books. Maybe
he'll turn him that way.”
“I hope so.” Jim glanced past Mac's shoulder, apparently trying
to see into the liquor store. “If you kick us free, we can get out
there and look for him.”
Mac shook his head. “I'll kick you free to get back to the station
and get changed into a decent uniform. Like I said, I'll keep 36 in the area,
but chances are he lost himself in that housing project over on Rosemont.
We'll see how detectives want to handle it. Don't worry, we'll keep you in
the loop.”
“But the trail will get cold the longer we wait.” Jim sounded
almost petulant.
“Go change.” Mac repeated firmly. “Trust me to do my
job right.”
“Let's go, partner,” Pete spoke up as Jim mumbled an apology.
“Quite frankly, with you looking like you do now, I'm embarrassed to
be seen with you. I do have a reputation to maintain.”
Jim shot Pete an angry look, but softened it when Pete just cracked a smile
at him. “All right, let's go.”
***
“Here,” Pete shoved a first-aid kit into Jim's hands as his
partner cleaned up in the bathroom in the back of the locker room.
“Thanks,” Jim offered as he dabbed at the scratch on his leg
with a damp paper towel. He stood in his sock-clad feet and underwear trying
to clean up before he put on a clean uniform.
“It doesn't look too bad,” Pete offered. “When's the
last time you had a tetanus shot?”
“Who are you, Florence Nightingale?” Jim scowled.
“Just trying to help. I know you're not overly fond of needles,
but you don't want lockjaw, either.” Terrified of needles is more
like it, but I'll be kind.
“I'm sure it's up-to-date.”
“Maybe you'd better check with Jean and make sure. She keeps up
with it, doesn't she?”
Jim looked up and glared at Pete, then spoke through clenched teeth. “I'm
not bothering Jean with a little scratch. I'm sure it's up-to-date.”
“All right, all right.” Pete put up a hand as if in surrender.
“Brother, you really are crabby today. I forget how cranky you get
when you're sleep deprived.” He paused briefly, then drawled, “You're
lucky that I'm such a nice guy. If you were riding with Wells, he'd have
already booted you out of the car -- while it was still moving.”
To Pete's surprise, Jim actually laughed.
“Well, that's more like it,” Pete grinned.
“I know I'm hard to live with today,” Jim acknowledged. He
discarded the paper towel and reached for the alcohol and a cotton swab.
“You have a lot of patience with my temporary insanities.”
“We all have our moments, partner.”
“Yeah,” Jim grunted, then fell silent.
But Pete noted that the troubled look returned to his partner's face.
Maybe it's time to haul out the standard 'let it go” lecture, one
more time. “You're still bugged about things,” he stated.
Jim didn't look up. “Maybe.”
“It's all out of your hands. You gotta let it go. If you let it
eat at you you'll only feel worse.”
Jim sighed. “Sure wish I could,” he said, after a pause.
“I still can't seem to get the hang of letting it all go.” Jim
looked up at Pete, his eyes clouded with frustration. “I've been a
cop two years now, Pete, and I still can't help thinking about things like
those kids strung out on pills and pot today. It just keeps rolling around
in my head and I can't stop wondering about where they came from and what's
going to happen to them. And the pregnant woman. . . the shooter that got
away. I can't get them out of my mind.
“So you've got a big heart. Nothing wrong with that. But unfortunately,
in our line of work, when you have a big heart it's easier to get it stomped
on, and when you bleed, it's long and messy.”
Jim looked faintly embarrassed, and he rolled his eyes with a shrug. “Sometimes
I think I might bleed to death. Am I ever gonna be able to just put it aside?”
“You've made a lot of progress in two years, Jim. You're a lot
better at getting on with the job after a tough call than you used to be.”
“Maybe. But those tough calls still eat at me. It's like a knife
in my gut.” Jim paused and deliberately tended to cleaning the dirt
from the scrapes on his arms. When he finished, he looked up almost guiltily
and said softly, “I can't help but wonder sometimes if I'm doing any
good out there.”
“Jim, the 'buts,' 'if onlies,' and 'what ifs' will kill you. Don't
second-guess yourself. You're a good cop having a bad day. Take it at face
value and get past it.”
“You're right, you're right.” Jim agreed. “Just ignore
me.”
“I'll do my best,” Pete promised with a grin. “Now,
you'd better tend to that cut and get dressed,” Pete closed the subject
before it got too maudlin simply by changing it. “Then we'll go take
seven. I bet you'll feel better after a medium-well ranchburger and side
of chili at Duke's.”
“Too hot for chili today, Pete.” Jim dabbed at the cut with
the alcohol-soaked swab. “Maybe a glass of ice-cold lemona---ow!”
Jim hissed as he reacted to the alcohol burning the cut.
“Awwww. . . .” Pete teased. “You want me to blow on
it?” Malloy laughed at the look Jim gave him after that comment.
“You just stay right where you are,” the younger man warned,
his face pinking up slightly. He finished dressing the cut in stoic silence.
Once he could talk with out laughing, Pete said, “I'll wait for you
in the break room. Don't take too long, 'cause I'm getting hungry.”
This time, he missed the return look his partner gave him.
