Beneath a Weeping Sky

FIVE

Tuesday, April 16th

Graveyard shift

2014 hours

The ring of the telephone stopped Katie MacLeod at her door.

She paused, considering whether to answer it or not. As it was, she was going to have a difficult enough time getting her patrol uniform and gear on before roll call. Depending on who it was on the phone, she might not make it. And if it was her mother…well, forget it. She’d be on the phone for an hour.

I’ll wait to see who it is, she decided. In case it’s an emergency.

After the fifth ring, the answering machine kicked on. Her own voice sounded strange to her as it pleasantly asked the caller to leave a message at the beep.

The machine beeped.

“Katie?”

It was Stef.

Katie clenched her jaw.

“Are you there?” he asked, his words slurred. “If you’re there, pick up.”

Katie considered it for a moment. She thought very seriously about picking up the phone and telling Stefan Kopriva that he could go straight to hell. Which was where he seemed bent on going anyway, with the drinking and the pills.

“Katie, please. I… I have to… talka someone…”

The anger brewed in the pit of her stomach. Who did he think he was, calling her now? A year later? A goddamn year?

After what they shared together? What he threw away?

“Everythins’ so fucked up,” he slurred. “I’m so fucked up.”

She thought of Amy Dugger, the six year old girl that had died because of Kopriva’s mistake. A stab of pity cut through some of the anger in her belly. She took a step toward the telephone, letting the door swing closed.

“Jus’ the whole world,” he said.

She reached for the receiver. When her fingers touched the plastic, she paused.

Remember what he said to you? After what happened to you on the bridge, do you remember what that selfish bastard said?

She stood stock-still, struggling with her own thoughts. The cool plastic of the phone vibrated slightly with every word that came through the tiny speaker of the answering machine.

“Are you even there?” Kopriva asked, a tinge of anger settling into his voice.

“I’m here,” she whispered, but kept her hand still.

“Oh, fuck it,” he said. “Like you even give a shit.”

The line disconnected. A pair of clicks came through the speaker, then a dial tone. The answering machine stopped recording.

Katie stood at the phone, surprised that no more anger welled up inside her after his parting shot. Instead, she felt a deep sadness overcome her. She choked back the tears that rose in her throat.

“I did give a shit,” she whispered at the flashing red light on her answering machine. “Once. I really did.”

The light blinked in steady cadence.

“But not anymore,” Katie said.

She knew it was a lie as soon as she said it.

“Oh, Stef,” she said in a hoarse whisper. She reached out and pressed the delete button. The long beep that sounded when she pressed the button took on an almost accusatory tone. “Please don’t call me again.”

She’d considered changing her telephone number when she moved out of her apartment, but hadn’t. It was the same number she’d had since she moved to River City after graduating from WSU. She’d felt sentimental about it somehow. It was the first telephone number that belonged to her. Not her mother in Seattle. Not the entire dorm floor. Not her and three roommates that final year at college. Just her. So each time she moved, she kept the number. Now, she questioned that decision. The silence of her small house seemed to throb around her while she stood next to the telephone. She wiped away the beginnings of a tear from her eye and glanced up at the clock.

Great.

Now she was going to be late.

Katie turned and walked away.

2237 hours

“Adam-122?”

Battaglia reached for the mike. “Twenty-two, go ahead.”

“Respond on a vehicle theft report.”

“Great,” Battaglia said sarcastically, ignoring the dispatcher’s description of the call. “A real challenge.”

O’Sullivan didn’t reply.

The dispatcher relayed the address and Battaglia copied the call. Then he turned to Sully. “So I guess there’s no RPW to be done tonight.”

Sully made a U-turn. “Since when are stolen cars not real police work?”

“Stolen cars are real police work. They can even lead to pursuits. Which is fun.” Battaglia replaced the radio mike on the hook. “But stolen vehicle reports suck. There’s no challenge to them.”

“A call is a call.”

“A call is a call,” Battaglia mimicked. “Well, these calls suck. Every one is the same. And that’s if it is even actually a real stolen.” Battaglia mimed removing his notepad and flipping it open. He poised an invisible pen above his open palm. “Do you own the car? When did you see it last? Do you know who took it? What color is it? What do you want us to do with when we find it? Blah, blah, blah, boring.”

“Sometimes life is not all about every call being exciting,” Sully said.

“Oh, aren’t we just the philosopher tonight?” Battaglia observed. He paused to look through the windshield, then left and right. “What the hell?”

“What the hell what? That there’s actually a world out there?”

“Screw you, Soh-crayts.”

“Soh-crayts?” Sully shook his head. “It’s Socrates, you idiot. Sock-Ruh-Tease.”

“Like you know,” Battaglia said, waving his hand. “And the what the hell is, where are you going?”

“To the call.”

“Not the way you’re headed. Take Wall. It’s quicker.”

Sully snorted. “I’m driving, Guido. So don’t worry about it.”

“I’m telling you, Wall is quicker than Monroe.”

“It’s the same.”

“It’s quicker.”

“Shut up. Like you know this town.”

Battaglia raised his eyebrows in indignation. “I know this town like the back of my hand.”

“Bullshit. You can barely find the station on a good day. That’s why you always ride with me and that’s why I always drive.”

“I ride with you because no one else will and Sarge wants me to keep an eye on you.” Battaglia sniffed dramatically and rubbed his nose. “And I let you drive so I don’t offend your Irish sensibilities.”

“My sensibilities? Coming from Captain Sensitivo over here, that really hurts.”

“I know this town,” Battaglia insisted.

“Not only do you not know this town, you don’t even know anything about this town. You’re ignorant of your own city’s history.”

“Oh really? And what are you? The River City History Channel?”

“No,” Sully said, “but I know a few things.”

“So do I.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s called River City because it was founded by a river.”

“Oh, that’s good. Don’t stretch your brain.”

Battaglia shrugged. “It’s true. Deal with it.”

“So why’s Mount Joseph called by that name?” Sully asked.

“It’s named after some guy named Joseph.”

Sully slapped the steering wheel. “Another brilliant insight. Okay, Mensa boy, who was Joseph?”

Battaglia paused. “Some Indian, right?”

“Good guess. Yeah, some Indian. A chief, actually.”

Battaglia snapped his fingers and pointed. “That’s it. Mount Joseph was named after Chief Joseph.”

Sully sighed. “No kidding. So what tribe did he belong to?”

“Sioux?”

“No.”

“Pawnee?”

Sully shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

“Apache?”

“Oh, come on. The Apache live down in the desert.”

“We’ve got deserts around here. You ever been to Yakima?”

“Real deserts,” Sully said. “As in New Mexico and Arizona?”

Battaglia shrugged. “A desert’s a desert.”

“It’s Nez Perce,” Sully told him. “Chief Joseph was a Nez Perce Chief. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever. You didn’t learn this stuff in school?”

“Hey, I went to Rogers. We learned From where the sun now stands, I will kick your ass forever. And so what? At least I got that he was an Indian Chief.”

Sully stopped for a red light and looked over at Battaglia. “Fine. How about the river, smart guy? Why is it called The Looking Glass River?”

“Easy. It’s named after that Alice in Wonderland movie.”

Sully gaped at him. “You’re kidding me, right? I mean, you’re totally screwing with me here?”

Battaglia shook his head. “No.” He pointed at the stoplight. “Light’s green.”

Sully glanced up at the light and goosed the accelerator. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.

“What? You gonna tell me it’s not named after that Disney cartoon, then?”

“News flash. That cartoon was made back in the forties. The river was named about a hundred years ago. Do the math.”

Battaglia scrunched his eyebrows. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

Battaglia considered a moment. Then he said, “Well, wasn’t there a book or something that they based the cartoon on? It coulda been named after that.”

“Yes, there was a book. But-”

“See?”

“No, no, no, no,” Sully said with an emphatic head shake. “The river was named after one of Joseph’s sub-chiefs, Chief Looking Glass. It was named after a man, not a cartoon.”

Battaglia shrugged. “I didn’t know that.”

“I know!” Sully said, nodding repeatedly. “You could fill a large museum with what you don’t know, Batts.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, you could.” Sully raised his hand from the steering wheel and mimed a headline in the air. “The Official ‘Stuff That Anthony Battaglia Doesn’t Know’ Museum. It’d be a huge building, too. Bigger than the Louvre.”

“The what?”

“The Lou-never mind. It’d be a big building and it would be full of shit. Just like you. That’s my point.”

“Whatever, dude. The only point I’m seeing is the one on top of your head.”

“Oh, har-dee-freaking-har.” Sully picked up the radio mike and held it out toward Battaglia. “Hey, 1972 called. They want their joke book back.”

Battaglia clapped his hands together slowly. “Ha. Ha. Ha.”

Sully re-hung the microphone, turned onto Dalke and killed the headlights.

Battaglia shook his head. “It still woulda been quicker to take Wall.”

Sully pulled to the curb two houses from the complainant’s address. “Guess we’ll never know, will we?”

The two clambered out of the car, shutting the doors quietly.

The home was a small yellow rancher with a well kept yard. A pair of lawn gnomes stood as stoic guards on either side of the concrete steps up to the front door. The officers climbed the stairs. Without discussion, each took up a position on opposite sides of the doorway. Battaglia rapped on the door.

After a few moments, a short pudgy man in his forties answered. He wore khakis and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over a white tee. Sully glanced at the man’s thinning hair, which was plastered tight to his skull with gel and drawn together into a nub of a ponytail.

Ooh, he thought. A hipster.

“Good evening,” Battaglia said. “You called about a stolen car?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the man said, opening the screen door and waving them in. The officers filed past him and into a living room furnished with post-modern furniture. Several stark, nude line drawings of Marilyn Monroe encased in neon frames dotted the walls.

Battaglia removed his notebook and flipped it open. “Tell me about this stolen car.”

The man sank into an armless futon. “It’s my Beemer,” he sighed grandly.

Battaglia’s eyes flicked to Sully’s, then back to the complainant. Sully knew what the glance meant.

I’m supposed to be impressed?

“And?” Battaglia’s tone held the barest hint of his unspoken sarcasm.

The man seemed to sense Battaglia’s subtext. “Well, it’s stolen.”

Battaglia nodded his head. The man pointed to his notebook.

“Are you going to write that down?”

Battaglia’s head stopped moving up and down and shifted seamlessly to a left to right head shake.

The man looked to Sully for help.

Sully suppressed a sigh. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Tad.”

“Last name?”

“Elway. Like the quarterback. You know, John Elway?”

Sully nodded. “I’ve heard of him.”

“I’d hope so. He’s only been to the Super Bowl three times and — ”

Never won yet, Sully finished silently. “What happened to your car, Mr. Elway?” he said aloud.

Tad stopped. “I told you. It was stolen.”

“Right. How exactly?”

Tad bit his lip in contemplation. “Well, I loaned it to a friend and it hasn’t been returned.”

“You loaned it?”

Tad nodded. “Yes.”

“To a friend?”

“Yes.”

Sully glanced at Battaglia, knowing his partner probably shared his thoughts.

This isn’t going to be a stolen car. It’ll be civil. An ex-girlfriend, probably. A drug buddy, maybe. Or a hooker.

“What’s with all the looks?” Tad asked, irritation plain in his voice.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Sully said.

“You two keep looking at each other like I’m lying or something.”

Sully shook his head. “No, sir. We don’t think that at all.”

“Then what’s the deal?”

“Why don’t you just go ahead and tell us about your car so that we can take your stolen vehicle report?” Sully suggested.

“No,” Tad said, his tone indignant. “Not if you’re both going to stand there and treat me like some kind of criminal. I’m the victim here.”

“That’s why I need to get this information from you,” Sully said.

Tad would not be so easily assuaged. “It’s totally unprofessional,” he continued. “The way you two are acting. Interrupting people and having all these sarcastic little looks back and forth.”

Sully took a deep breath and let it out.

“Don’t sigh at me,” Tad snapped.

“I didn’t sigh.”

“You did. You did just a second ago.”

Sully sighed.

“There! You did it again,” Tad said. “What is with you two assholes?”

Sully felt the heat of frustration creep up the back of his neck.

“So sorry to take time out of your busy day,” Tad sneered. “I mean, it’s only your job.”

The heat flowered into outright anger and flooded his limbs. He knew that if he was feeling it, Battaglia was probably about to explode.

“Is this how you treat every victim?” Tad shook his head. “No wonder people hate cops. You guys are so-”

“Who took your goddamn car?” Battaglia snapped.

Tad’s eyes flew open at the profanity. “What?”

“Your precious BMW. Who took it?”

Tad stood up. “You can’t talk to me like this.”

“Was it an ex-girlfriend? Is this a domestic issue?”

“No, it’s not. And I want to talk to your-”

“Was it a male or a female?” Battaglia’s question was cold and forceful.

Tad paused. “Female,” he admitted.

Battaglia nodded and gave Sully a purposeful glance.

Sully couldn’t resist. He sighed loudly.

“Was she a doper or just a hooker?” Battaglia asked Tad.

Tad’s jaw dropped.

“Our practice is not to take stolen reports if you what you did was let a prostitute ‘borrow’ your car,” Battaglia mimed a pair of air quotes and continued, “to go get dope or in exchange for sexual favors.”

Tad’s mouth snapped shut. “She was-she-” he stammered, his face turning red.

“Which is illegal, by the way,” Battaglia finished.

Tad stopped trying to speak. He glared at Battaglia, who stared back dispassionately, though Sully knew from experience that he was furious inside.

“So what was her name?”

“Jade,” Tad answered through gritted teeth.

“Is that her real name? Do you even know her last name?”

Tad gave his head one slow, short shake.

“Your relationship to her was what, exactly?”

Tad didn’t answer.

Battaglia waited, returning Tad’s hot glare with flat coolness.

Thirty seconds passed. Sully listened to the sound of Tad’s breathing and the slight hum of the neon picture frames.

Finally, Tad growled, “I’d like you to leave now.”

Battaglia raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want to make a report?”

“Get the hell out of my house,” Tad snapped.

Without a word, the officers filed out. As they reached the bottom of the front steps, Tad slammed the door behind them.

Battaglia didn’t even look back. Neither did Sully. They walked without a word until they reached the car. Sully unlocked his door and hit the door unlock button for Battaglia on the passenger side. The two men got inside the car. Small flecks of rain started pattering against the windshield.

“Little arrogant prick!” Battaglia roared, once the doors were safely shut.

Sully’s anger at Tad’s attitude had already subsided. Now he was more worried about a complaint.

“You believe this guy?” Battaglia shouted.

“I’m right here,” Sully said. “You don’t have to yell.”

“Don’t tell me that didn’t piss you off, Sully. That little prick didn’t get your Irish up at all?”

“Already up and down,” Sully said, slipping the key into the ignition and starting the engine. “Now I figure we’re getting a complaint.”

“For what? Not taking a report?” He snorted. “Whatever. Ten to one, that Jade he mentioned is a hooker.”

“I know.”

“And we don’t take those reports.”

“I know.”

“So we’re within policy.”

“I know.”

“So where’s the goddamn complaint?”

Sully pointed at him. “Right there.”

“Me?”

“Your mouth.”

“What did I say?”

“Does goddamn ring a bell?”

“What?” Battaglia asked, surprised. “Are you the fucking language police now, Sully?”

“I’m not. But Lieutenant Hart is.”

Battaglia opened his mouth to reply, then fell silent.

Sully rubbed his eyes. The sound of the rain falling against the outside of the car grew to a dull roar.

“Goddamn,” whispered Battaglia. “You’re right.”

“I know.”

Both men were silent again for several moments. Then Battaglia broke the silence with a shrug. “Fuck it. What’s done is done. That guy is an asshole who loaned his car to a hooker.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? You’re taking his side?”

“No. Definitely he’s an asshole. Maybe the woman who took his car is a hooker.”

“I like my odds,” Battaglia said.

“Either way, he’s the kind of guy who calls and complains.”

“Yeah,” Battaglia agreed. “He’s also the kind of guy who is probably living in the house his mother left him.”

“Probably.”

“Probably lived in her basement until she died and he inherited the place.”

Sully nodded. “Good chance of it. That’s why the inside is decorated like an uncool bachelor trying to impress women but the outside is still all Mom.”

“Yeah, he’s impressive all right.”

“He’s something.” Sully pulled away from the curb. He drove past Tad’s house. Both officers eyed the front again.

As they drove on, Battaglia shook his head and grunted. “Maybe not.”

“Maybe not what?”

“I don’t think he inherited the house from his mom. I don’t think he’s the son at all,” Battaglia said. “In fact, I’m a little concerned.”

“Huh?”

“You saw those yard gnomes out front, right?”

“Sure.”

“There were two of them.”

“So?”

Battaglia sighed. “Sully, everyone knows those things travel in packs of three.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Listen,” Battaglia said with mock patience. “My theory is this. The guy calling himself Tad inside that house is actually the third yard gnome.”

A smile spread across Sully’s face.

Battaglia continued, “I’m thinking he probably came to life one night, murdered the occupants of the house and assumed the identity of the son. Now he’s got his two buddy gnomes guarding the front door — you saw them there, standing like sentries, right?”

Sully nodded, chuckling.

“So he’s got his guard gnomes standing post while he is out living the high life. Driving the Beemer, doing some dope, fooling around with some hookers, you name it.”

Sully laughed. “Yeah, you’re probably right. So should we call it in to Major Crimes? Get Lieutenant Crawford and some detectives out here to investigate?”

“I think it definitely warrants some looking into,” Battaglia said. “But I think we’ve got even bigger problems than that, you and I.”

“What?”

“Well, the thing is, if dipshit does file a complaint, you know his gnome friends are going to buddy him up. I’m positive that they’ll be witnesses for him.”

Sully laughed out loud.

“And those gnomes, they’ll say anything,” Battaglia said, his voice changing pitch as he held back his laughter. “Those little fuckers.”

Sully laughed louder and slapped the steering wheel. Battaglia finally broke down and joined him.

Maybe a complaint is coming, Sully thought. But Battaglia sure knew how to keep him from worrying.

“Lying, murdering, Beemer-driving yard gnomes,” muttered Battaglia through his laughter.

The two officers drove down Wall Street, howling.

“Well, at least this was one stolen vehicle report call that didn’t suck,” Battaglia said. “That’s something.”

2319 hours

Katie MacLeod sipped her coffee, looking out at the rain that ran down the window outside the cafe booth. Across from her, Matt Westboard blew wordlessly on his own coffee. The easy silence between them comforted Katie somehow. Westboard, sometimes a goof and other times sensitive, seemed to intuit her moods almost better than she did herself. The respite from Sully and Battaglia’s constant banter and James Kahn’s grouchiness was always welcome.

The coffee’s aroma filled her nostrils. She sipped again. All around them, Mary’s Cafe bustled with activity. Conversation buzzed, dishes clattered. Linda, the waitress, flitted from table to table, topping off coffee cups and smiling.

From across the table, Westboard slurped his coffee loudly.

Katie shot him a glance, momentarily irritated. He knew she hated that. Then she saw the coy smile playing on his lips.

“Matt-”

He slurped again.

“Knock it off.”

Westboard answered with a long slurp.

“Don’t be a jerk,” Katie said, but with the beginnings of a smile.

Westboard shrugged and put the coffee cup down. “So you going to talk to me or what?”

Katie sighed. “I was kind of enjoying the silence.”

Westboard nodded. “Yeah, silence is good.”

Katie returned his nod and sipped her coffee.

“The other nice thing about silence,” Westboard continued, “is that it solves so many problems.”

Katie swung her gaze back to the straw-haired officer. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“Nooooooo,” Westboard answered. “Not at all. I completely believe that if you have a problem, the best thing to do is to remain absolutely silent about it. If you ignore the problem, it will almost always go away.”

“Shut up.”

“It also works for ostriches, I hear.”

“Asshole,” Katie muttered without much conviction.

Westboard smiled tightly, picked up his coffee and slurped loudly.

Katie groaned. “You’re worse than those two juveniles at roll call.”

“Everyone copes in different ways,” Westboard said, motioning to Linda for more coffee.

“Maybe I cope by being silent,” Katie suggested.

Linda appeared at the table and refilled both cups, disappearing without a word.

Westboard picked up his cup, paused, then slurped.

“Fine,” Katie said, exasperated. “I’ll spill. Will that make you happy?”

Westboard leaned forward. “Yeah. But I think it will make you happy, too.”

“You really are an asshole,” Katie said with a grin.

Westboard grinned back. “And you’ve got a potty mouth, Officer MacLeod, as well as an apparently limited vocabulary. Now what’s up?”

Katie shrugged. “I just keep getting these calls.”

“Calls?”

“From Stef.”

Westboard’s eyes narrowed with confusion. “Kopriva’s calling you?”

Katie nodded, looking away. She figured the relationship she’d had with Kopriva was probably common knowledge in the undercurrent of department gossip. Still, she didn’t care to talk about it out in the open, even with Westboard.

He gave a low whistle. “How long has this been going on?”

“It started a couple of months ago,” Katie answered. “It’s nothing regular, just every now and then.”

“What’s he say?”

“Just that he wants to talk.”

“What do you two talk about?”

Katie shook her head. “It’s usually a message on my machine. Even if I’m home, I don’t answer the phone.”

“Why?”

Katie gaped at him. “Why? Matt, what do we have to talk about?”

Westboard didn’t answer. He turned to his coffee for a moment. Katie stared at him, feeling a tickle of anger in her stomach.

After a short silence, Westboard asked, “How does he sound?”

“Drunk,” Katie snapped.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Katie answered.

Westboard nodded. “That’s all?”

“No.”

Westboard waited.

Katie sighed. “Fine. He sounded like he was hurting, too.”

“That’s probably why the drinking,” Westboard observed.

“So what? He acts like he’s the only one who ever felt any pain in this world. Like he’s the only one who — ” She broke off, biting back tears. She stared down at her hands and realized that she was twisting the napkin in her fingers.

“Everyone copes in different ways,” Westboard said quietly.

The phrase seemed to have a decidedly different meaning to her the second time around. She gave the napkin a final twist and dropped it in next to her cup. She wondered why Westboard was being so sympathetic toward Kopriva. Maybe the next time the sonofabitch calls, she should just give him Westboard’s number.

“Yeah,” she answered instead, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Especially cowards.”

Westboard’s eyes widened slightly. He opened his mouth to reply.

“Adam-116, Adam-114,” crackled both radios.

Westboard lifted his radio to his mouth, his eyes remaining on Katie’s. “Fourteen, go ahead for both.”

“Northgate shopping center parking lot, near the battery store.” Dispatcher Janice Koslowski’s voice remained stoic, but Katie could sense the gravity in it. “I have a female at the pay phone stating she has just been raped.”

Katie and Westboard rose as one, pushing back from the table and bolting for the door. She heard Westboard copy the call for both of them as she swung open the door of her patrol car. A moment later, she fired the engine to life, punched her overhead lights and headed toward Northgate shopping center.

2326 hours

Thomas Chisolm looked up from the theft report he was writing in the car. His radio had been turned low, but the words “Northgate” and then “rape” caught his ear. He turned up the volume.

“Continuing for Adam-116,” Janice’s voice filled the car, “the victim is not very responsive, but says the assault took place within the last five minutes.”

“Copy,” Katie replied over the air.

Chisolm heard the deep-throated roar of her engine and the yelp of her siren in the background.

“Victim has now hung up the phone,” Janice reported.

Chisolm tossed his half-written report into the passenger seat atop his patrol equipment bag. Without pause, he dropped the car into gear and punched the gas.

Northgate was a ways off, but he figured he’d start that way just in case they decided to set a perimeter and do a K-9 track. Or there was always the chance that someone saw the suspect and got a good description and direction of travel. Plus, there was no telling if the victim had hung up the phone on her own or if the suspect had returned and interrupted her call for help.

As he zipped up Nevada, he listened for further radio traffic. In his rearview mirror, he noticed a blue truck keeping pace with him. He glanced down at his speedometer. Forty miles an hour. The speed limit was thirty.

What the hell was this guy doing?

Chisolm nudged the accelerator up to forty-five. The truck fell back, but kept following him.

“Adam-116 on scene,” Katie transmitted.

“Copy.”

Chisolm turned left on Francis, a wide arterial. He accelerated again, this time up to fifty miles an hour. He hoped there was a chance that the rapist was still in the area. He’d like to get his hands on a guy like that.

Behind him, the headlights of the blue truck kept pace.

Who was this guy?

Chisolm recalled the vendetta that a gang member named Isaiah Morris had developed against Kopriva a couple of years before. The gangster stalked Kopriva on duty before ambushing him at the Circle K at Market and Euclid. The resulting “Shootout at the Circle K” was now department legend, despite Kopriva’s fall from grace last year.

I’ve made a lot more enemies out here than Stef ever did, Chisolm thought. Could this guy be stalking him?

“Adam-116, I’m not seeing the victim yet,” Katie informed Radio.

Chisolm momentarily considered stopping the truck, but rejected the idea almost immediately. Katie might need his help. The blue truck mystery would have to wait.

2328 hours

Katie cruised through the parking lot, searching for the rape victim. The battery store was closed and there were no cars in front of it, so she rolled slowly through the lot. Her eyes scanned for dark figures in the poorly lit area. The short burst of rain had slackened to a slight, spitting mist, so she shut off her wiper blades.

She wondered briefly if this were a false report. That happened sometimes, especially if a certain crime gained any notoriety. She hadn’t seen any media coverage of Tower’s rapist cases yet, but she didn’t watch the news too often, either. When the Scarface robberies were going on, though, the media covered it extensively. Day shift patrol officers even caught an imposter before the real Scarface was captured.

Killed, you mean. Thomas Chisolm killed him.

Katie shrugged off that thought. Instead, she remembered the media feeding frenzy that had occurred during the Amy Dugger kidnapping last year. And when Kopriva’s mistake came to light-

There!

Katie slammed on her brakes. Off to her left, a woman huddled near the front wheel well of a Chevy Blazer. Katie turned her spotlight on the shivering figure. She was met with the woman’s frantic stare. Katie snapped off the light and reached for her mike.

“Adam-116, I have her over near The Onion restaurant.”

“Copy, near the Onion.”

Katie activated her flashers and stepped out of her patrol car. The woman stared in her direction. Katie thought she should smile, but then stopped herself. Instead, she let what she hoped was a warm, open expression fill her features as she stepped over toward the crouched woman.

“Police officer, ma’am,” she said in a soft voice. Even so, the terrified woman jumped at her words.

Memories echoed across the years inside Katie’s head.

Don’t be a goddamn tease.

“Easy,” Katie said, pushing the thoughts away. “I’m here to help.”

The woman began to sob.

You liked it. The male voice in Katie’s head was full of drunken confidence. Don’t forget that.

She crouched next to the victim. “Do you need a doctor?”

The woman didn’t answer.

“I know you’re hurt,” Katie said, “but do you need medics right now? I can call them for you.”

Still sobbing, the woman shook her head.

Ma, I have to tell you something.

“Okay,” Katie said. She reached out and touched the woman on the shoulder, causing her to start. “I’m here to help you. You’re going to be all right.”

Well, at least you weren’t a virgin.

Katie took a deep breath. She hated to push victims for information too quickly, but she knew that every moment was precious. The man who did this to her was moving further away every second.

“What’s your name?” she asked the woman.

“M-M-Maureen,” she sobbed.

Katie gave her shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Maureen, I want to help you. But I need to know how long ago this happened to you.”

2330 hours

Chisolm braked, slowing slightly before turning onto Division Street. Northgate was only a couple blocks away. He cast a quick glance into his rear-view mirror to see if his tail was still there. The twin headlights beamed back at him.

He ignored the following vehicle and pulled into the parking lot, looking for Katie. He spotted her flashing lights near The Onion Restaurant. Katie’s door and trunk lid stood open. She was nowhere to be seen.

Chisolm goosed the accelerator and cut through the lot quickly. As he approached Katie’s car, he spotted her kneeling next to a nearby vehicle. She wrapped a blanket around the shoulders of a huddled woman.

He stopped the car near hers and exited. Light drops of cold rain bit into his face, but he ignored them. As he approached, he saw that Katie was speaking in quiet tones with the victim. She glanced up at him briefly and nodded, so he held up and stood a cautious distance away. His experience with rape victims told him that every woman reacted differently. Some wanted the immediate comfort and safety of a man near them. Others wanted nothing to do with a man. He always tried to gauge the individual’s response as best he could, but it was an imperfect art.

After a few moments, Katie helped the woman to her feet and walked her toward the patrol car. Chisolm hustled ahead of them and removed Katie’s patrol bag and gear from the front seat of her cruiser. If there was one thing he knew, it was that it was a bad idea to put a woman who had just been sexually assaulted into the back seat of a patrol car. Prisoners went in the back seat. Bad guys. Not victims.

As he put Katie’s patrol bag into the trunk for her, Chisolm looked up to see the blue truck park a short distance away. The driver focused a camera on Chisolm. Chisolm stared back at him, seething.

Who the hell was this guy? A reporter? If he was a stalker, he sure wasn’t very good at it.

Chisolm closed the trunk and started walking toward the truck. The driver hurriedly put the camera aside, gave an almost playful wave and drove away, chirping his tires in the process. Chisolm tried to read the front plate of the truck, but it was too late.

Back at the car, Katie asked, “What was up with that?”

Chisolm shrugged. “Some lookie-lou.” He motioned with his head toward the front seat of her car. “More importantly, what’s up with that?”

Katie sighed. “She was raped. It sounds a little bit like the other one that the El-Tee mentioned at roll call.”

“The one over at the park?”

Katie nodded. “Yeah. The suspect did a blitz attack while she was out for a walk, not jogging. But still…”

“Hooker?”

Katie frowned. “I don’t think so. They don’t usually work this far north. Plus, she’s dressed in workout clothes. I think she’s just a citizen out for a walk.”

Chisolm nodded. “Okay. Who’s working the other rape case?”

“Detective Tower, I think.”

“I’d have radio give him a page, in case he wants to come out. You never know.”

“Right,” Katie agreed.

Chisolm glanced toward the front seat and shook his head sadly. “Terrible crime, rape.” Visions of his two tours in Vietnam pushed their way forward. He remembered the pleading eyes of a young Vietnamese girl, barely fifteen. Saw her accusing eyes. He clenched his jaw as the images blasted into his mind’s eye.

Mai. Her name was Mai.

“A guy who rapes should be castrated,” Katie said. “Simple as that.”

“Ouch.”

Katie grinned, but the expression had a grim undertone to it. “Hey, I never claimed to be Mother Teresa.”

“Not with that attitude.” Chisolm forced his own smile, but unbidden, the face of Mai flashed behind his eyes.

A North Vietnamese uniform on top of her, tearing at her clothing.

Then, later, an American uniform.

Her unforgiving eyes.

A sense of shame washed over him. He looked away from the woman in the front seat.

“I’ll take her to the hospital,” Katie said.

Chisolm nodded, hoping that his memories weren’t showing on his face. “Good. That’s good.”