Beneath a Weeping Sky

FOURTEEN

Tuesday, April 23rd

Day Shift

0611 hours

Tower stood in his kitchen, staring at the small cactus in a coffee cup that was on the windowsill. That cactus was his sole contribution to the flora and fauna life in his home. All the rest came with Stephanie as she slowly moved in. As he sipped the strong coffee from his own cup, he ran the events of the previous night through his head.

He tried to work up some anger toward Kahn for not breaking perimeter to go after the car. Or at Chisolm for directing him not to. But in the end, he knew it had been the right decision. Besides, he’d been too worried about MacLeod’s injuries to even be aware of the track. It wasn’t until she’d been shuttled off to the hospital that he turned his attention to the activities around him.

He took a long sip of the brew in his cup. The bold blend overwhelmed his mouth with taste. As he swallowed and enjoyed the after-scent of the coffee, he decided that even if there had been mistakes made by the officers, it had been his task force. He should have foreseen the mistakes or prevented them. Or had a better plan.

The cactus on the windowsill looked dry. He supposed that was the cactus’s nature, but that didn’t stop him from reaching out and dribbling coffee over the top of the spiky bulb. The steaming hot liquid washed down the green cactus and darkened the dry earth beneath it.

A shuffling sound arose behind him.

“John, what’re you doing?”

“Watering the plants,” Tower said evenly.

Stephanie brushed past him toward the cupboard containing the coffee cups, leaving a trail of bed-warmth from her body in her wash. She poured herself a cup and sidled up next to Tower.

“You didn’t get in ‘til late last night,” she said.

Tower grunted and took another sip.

“You should have woken me,” Stephanie said, giving him a gentle nudge with her hip.

Tower sighed. “I was exhausted.”

“What happened? Did you catch the guy?”

“Nope.” Tower reached out and dribbled some more coffee onto the cactus.

Stephanie watched him. Then she said, “You know, some people believe that plants can feel pain. You could be burning the hell out of that poor cactus.”

“Those people are idiots,” Tower remarked. He gave the cactus one last splash of coffee. “Besides, cactuses are tough.”

“Cacti,” Stephanie corrected.

Tower sighed again, a tickle of irritation going through him. “Thanks. Are you getting into crosswords or something?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Tower drank the last of his coffee. He thought about pouring himself another cup but hesitated. He should get to work. Of course, he knew what was waiting for him there.

Questions.

And Lieutenant Crawford.

He poured another cup.

“I saw your sister yesterday,” Stephanie said. “Little Ben sure is cute.”

Tower smiled in spite of himself. His nephew was a cute kid, and he was proud of the boy. He didn’t know if he’d ever have kids of his own, but somehow being an uncle to Ben made that concern less worrisome.

“Thought that’d make you smile,” Stephanie said. Then she assumed a mock pout. “Although, it’d been nice if the prospect of waking me up for sex had done the same thing.”

Tower leaned over and kissed her temple. “I really was exhausted, babe. And I had a bad night.”

Stephanie leaned in and nestled into his chest. “Well, I’ll tell you what. When you have bad nights like that and you’re tired, wake me up anyway. I’ll make your night better. And I’ll even do most of the work.”

Tower kissed the top of her head. “Okay. You got it.” He kissed her head again, pausing to smell her hair. “Thanks,” he whispered.

In that moment, it didn’t matter to him that Crawford was probably already waiting to chew his ass at the office. Or that the Rainy Day Rapist was getting the better of him. For those few seconds, it didn’t even matter that Katie MacLeod was up at the hospital. All that mattered was the scent of her hair and the closeness of her body.

“Thanks,” he whispered again.

0630 hours

He sat at his kitchen table, staring down at his uneaten breakfast. The reality of his near capture the previous night settled in after he’d slept for a few hours. He’d been foolish to attempt something with no plan. And to risk doing it without his ski mask was doubly foolish. What if she’d seen his face?

The entire scenario played itself out behind his eyes. Spotting her while driving by. The rush to grab her. The quick response of the police. Her rebellious words-

Fuck you!

— once he had her in the wooded area rang in his ears. So did the beautiful sound of his fist slapping into her face. The memory of the sweet limpness of her body afterward still made his fingers and palms tingle hours later.

But he forced his mind to ignore that for a moment. He worked on the events some more, thinking things through. He supposed it was possible, though not probable, that there had been police officers that close simply by chance, but he doubted it. And one of them had called out a name.

“Katie,” he breathed.

If they knew her name, then they knew who she was. So that meant she was with the police. Or she was police. Probably a decoy.

Yes, he decided. That was it. He’d fallen for a decoy.

The idea made him grind his teeth. Still, even with all their planning, his unplanned actions had won out. He’d escaped, leaving behind a limp body. Not a dead body, granted. But a limp one was pretty good for the time he’d had to work with.

So now their little ploy had failed. He knew their game. He could stop what he was doing. Maybe even move to a different city and start over.

The thought caused his jaw to clench even tighter. He didn’t want to be dictated to by the police. He’d never considered them as rivals before because he’d been so focused on his work, but now he knew that was exactly what they were. Rivals. Enemies. And there was no way he was going to allow them to beat him. Especially not some bitch cop who thought she could trick him.

No. He’d stay. He’d just have to be more careful.

The first thing he needed to do was get them to stop with the decoys. After that, he needed to finish the job with this Katie the Cop bitch. The prospect of that made his whole body tingle.

Still, first things first. How to get rid of the decoys?

He stared down at his uneaten blob of scrambled eggs. Next to the plate was the River City Herald, still folded and unread. His mind drifted to the letter V. had written-

Was it really Victoria, he wondered. He thought so.

— the day before. He recalled how good the letter made him feel when he realized that at any given time, Victoria or some other bitch like her was walking around afraid of him.

He reached out and touched the newspaper. A thought struck him. He considered it for a few moments, liking the idea better and better the more he thought about it. Finally, he smiled.

It would work, he decided. He lifted his fork and scooped up his lukewarm eggs into his mouth, gobbling down his breakfast. Then he rose from the table, found a coat and left the house in order to find a payphone.

0707 hours

Katie MacLeod stared up at the ceiling. The faraway beep of medical monitors seemed to echo down the quiet hallway. She imagined a four-foot bunny rabbit stepping lightly along on the red balls that each beeping sound created.

Beep.

Out her door.

Beep.

Down the hallway.

Beep.

Past the nurse’s station.

She blinked. She took a deep breath. The sound of the air sucking into her lungs sounded like a hurricane.

A small voice in the back of her mind screamed out, “You’re loopy, MacLeod. You’re doped up!” but she brushed the voice away with a giant light blue feather. The effort made her exhale, then swallow. That seemed to take five minutes. And it created another hurricane, followed by a waterfall.

A stocky nurse bustled into the room. “How are we this morning?” she asked in a blasting, cheery voice that seemed harsh against all of the softness in Katie’s world.

“Gooooood,” Katie managed to reply. She’d wanted to tell this loud, happy woman all of the secrets of the world that she’d discovered, but she didn’t know how to put those colors and sounds into words.

The nurse glanced at her chart. “Mmm-hmmm. I’ll bet. Well, just so you’re aware, the doctor has ordered us to taper off your magic juice by noon.”

Magic juice? Katie flashed to the women’s locker room at the police station. Chisolm’s rough hands digging into the little jar. The heat on her leg.

Was Chisolm a doctor? Was he her doctor?

Of course he was. That made sense. Chisolm took care of things.

Chisolm was always there.

Chisolm was a four foot bunny who could dance on red balls down any hallway.

“The doctor will be in himself once your test results are in,” the nurse said. “Until then, you just rest, okay? We’ll check in with you every so often, all right?”

She wanted to tell her that Chisolm could just make more magic juice if she needed it. He had plenty of beeps. And besides that, she had just figured out where God really came from. She couldn’t wait to explain it to Chaplain Marshall, who would be disappointed that Captain Jean-Luc Picard wasn’t somehow involved.

“Goooooood,” Katie said.

0714 hours

Pam Lincoln rubbed her tired eyes. Being the crime beat reporter meant a lot of late nights. Most police action that was newsworthy took place in the evening hours, so she was up monitoring her scanner. She kept her pager and cell phone at her bedside even after she turned in, just in case she got a call. Not only did she have a few officers who were willing to tip her to the events that might make the cops look good, there were a couple of disgruntled ones who let her in on the more scandalous occurrences as well. Plus she had half a dozen stalwart citizens from both sides of the pro-police/anti-police fence who also monitored the scanner frequencies. Not much occurred without her getting at least a whisper of it.

Despite the need for late nights, her editor required her to be at her desk every day at seven sharp. He didn’t seem to care that her work carried her until at least midnight every night or that she was frequently woken up in the middle of the night to cover something big. He was an old school journalist who idolized two things: Walter Cronkite and a seven A.M. start time.

Pam sipped her triple-shot vanilla latte through two skinny straws. She thanked the coffee gods for caffeine and the fact that there was a drive-through latte stand approximately every fifty yards in River City. Seattle may have been the birthplace of the 1990s coffee craze, but River City certainly embraced the notion.

As she got her oral caffeine infusion, she reviewed her notes. There wasn’t much from the previous night.

There’d been a violent domestic dispute in Browne’s Addition, but she’d already written up the brief paragraph on that story. Except for the names and the address, it could fit any dozen other domestic violence assaults she’d reported in the past three years.

On the north side, officers were briefly in foot pursuit of a rape suspect, but that petered out before she’d been able to get to her car. The only real interesting aspect of that call was that an ambulance had responded. She wondered if the Rainy Day Rapist had struck again, but she doubted it. Captain Reott had assured her that she’d get a call any hour if there were any developments on that case.

That left a vehicle pursuit which occurred out in the County. The suspect had been a four-wheel drive truck that simply went off road and lost the Deputy Sheriff, who couldn’t follow in his Chevy Caprice. That might make for a mildly humorous piece, but Pam didn’t think it was worth embarrassing the Deputy. It never was, in her mind. Unlike some of her colleagues, she knew that cops were people, too, just like everyone else — not simply convenient targets.

So all in all, she had a puny paragraph about a DV to hand into Mr. Seven O’Clock.

Her phone rang. She glanced down at the caller ID, but didn’t recognize the number. She lifted the receiver.

“Pam Lincoln, River City Herald.”

There was a pause. She could hear the flow of traffic in the background and guessed immediately that her caller was on a payphone.

She squinted. Now, why would someone call her on a payphone? Leaning forward, flipping open her notepad and fished around in her drawer for a pen.

“Hello?” she repeated, her interest piqued. She found her pen. Quickly, she held it poised above the steno pad.

“You wrote the piece about the Rainy Day Rapist,” a male voice said. Something sounded wrong in the tone and inflection, but for a moment, she couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

“Yes,” she answered, “I did.”

The voice fell silent again. A car horn honked in the background.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked in her most open voice.

He chuckled. “Yes. Yes, I think you can.” He paused a moment. She figured out what was wrong with the voice. He was trying to disguise it somehow. She started to make a note of that on her steno pad.

That’s when he dropped his bombshell.

0741 hours

The Chief of the River City Police Department sat at his desk, his hands folded on his lap. Across from him sat Captain Michael Reott of the Patrol Division and the head of Major Crimes, Lieutenant Crawford.

“I’m not sure these answers are satisfactory,” he told the both of them. “In fact, I have to tell you that, in my opinion, they’re not.”

Crawford squirmed in his seat, his lip curled up as if he were about to deliver a retort. The Chief looked at him placidly, waiting to see if he said anything, but ultimately the Lieutenant remained silent.

The Chief turned to Reott. “You’re the ranking officer here. Explain to me why this occurred.”

Reott didn’t blink. “Sir, at each stage of this operation, Lieutenant Crawford assessed the situation. He took into consideration the officers who were involved, what actually occurred and what was at stake. In each case, he determined that the best course of action was to press on and continue with-”

“Do you agree?” The Chief asked him. Crawford wasn’t Reott’s immediate subordinate, but he was pretty sure he knew how the Captain would answer.

“Absolutely,” Reott told him without hesitation. “He made the best decision at the time with the information available to him at the time.”

The Chief wasn’t surprised. Still, he asked, “When exactly were you made aware of these decisions?”

“As soon as it was practical,” Reott answered.

“Specifically,” The Chief said, “when?”

“No later than the following morning. Earlier, in some cases.”

The Chief nodded. Reott had always been a stand-up leader when it came to his troops, so his response was exactly what The Chief had expected. He admired the Captain’s loyalty. Still, he was disappointed at the turn of events.

“Just so I’m clear,” he said, “let’s recap how this task force has progressed.”

Crawford clenched his jaw and exhaled heavily, but Reott’s expression remained impassive.

The Chief continued. “The team was out for three total nights. The first night, no rapist. But MacLeod has an accidental discharge under the Washington Street Underpass. And yet she goes back out again the next night anyway. The second night, no rapist again. And MacLeod is assaulted in an attempted robbery. Even after that, she goes out again a third night. This time, we actually get the rapist. But the cover team blows it and MacLeod ends up in the hospital while the rapist gets away.” The Chief rested his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers in front of him. “Does that about sum things up?”

“No,” Crawford began, but Reott cut him off.

“Yes, sir,” the Patrol Captain said in an even voice. “That is what occurred.”

Crawford looked away and sighed heavily, but said nothing.

The Chief gave him an appraising look. “You know, Mike, I’m not a detective anymore. But I was at one time, years and years ago. Back in those days, we learned all about behavioral cues. And I have to tell you, as rusty as I am, it still looks like the Lieutenant here has something to say.”

He smiled humorlessly at Crawford. In his peripheral vision, he saw Reott turn to the Major Crimes Lieutenant as well.

Crawford stewed for a moment, as if engaged in an internal debate. He glanced at Reott, then leaned forward. “It’s not as clear cut as all that, Chief.”

The Chief held up both his palms. “Educate me, then.”

Crawford wiped the sweat from his lip and cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll deal with things in the same order you did, I suppose. For starters, not getting a bite from the rapist that first night was expected. It’d be like winning the lottery to catch the guy the first time out.”

The Chief made what he hoped was an expression of mild agreement.

“The A.D.,” Crawford continued, “was just nerves. MacLeod was in a dark place and there was movement. She shot a rat.”

“And what if it had been a bum?” The Chief asked.

“A transient,” Reott corrected.

“When I talk to the camera, they’re transients,” The Chief said, unfazed. “In this office, they’re bums.” He turned to Crawford. “Answer the question, Lieutenant.”

“If it were a bum,” Crawford said, “MacLeod would have killed him.”

The Chief nodded.

“And,” Crawford added, “if my aunt had balls, she’d be my uncle.”

The Chief raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. His silence seemed to embolden Crawford, who pressed forward.

“I told the Captain about the accidental discharge. He was considering a summary judgment in the matter rather than sending it to Internal Affairs.”

“Which means?” The Chief asked, his voice sounding a little tight to him.

“Which means a formal letter of reprimand.”

“How does that impact her?”

Reott answered before Crawford could speak. “According to Lieutenant Saylor, she’s just been given a position as a Field Training Officer. A formal reprimand would revoke her FTO status for six months.”

The Chief pursed his lips. That actually seemed a little harsh to him, but he left it alone for the time being.

Crawford pressed on. “The second night was just bad luck. There’s no way the team could have predicted a robbery attempt. The coverage on it was good. One of the suspects was captured, interrogated and charged.”

The Chief nodded, saying nothing.

“The third night,” Crawford continued, “was a stroke of good luck.”

“Good luck?” The Chief asked.

“Yes,” said Crawford. “Good luck. A victim came forward who hadn’t yet spoken to police. Her attack came in the exact same place as the victim we thought was number one. Tower and Renee in Crime Analysis both theorized that the suspect lived near that location. That was why they were at Corbin Park on night two and Mona Street on night three.”

“Tell me where the luck comes in,” The Chief asked.

“We found him,” Crawford answered. “Just three nights into the operation, we found the son of a bitch.”

“How do you know it was him?”

Crawford grunted. A smug look overcame him. “MacLeod was wired. Tower reviewed the tape. The guy used some unique phrases. It was him. No doubt.”

The Chief gave Crawford a long glance. He wondered for a moment if he should lay into him for his demeanor, but he figured Reott would take care of that later. Instead, he conceded the point. “Okay, so we got lucky. We failed to capitalize on that luck.”

Crawford nodded in agreement. “You’re right, sir. But the officers on the scene made the best call they could under the circumstances. They didn’t have the benefit of twenty/twenty hindsight.”

“Maybe so,” said The Chief, a whisper of frustration creeping into his chest. “But the end result is that I have an officer up at the hospital and a rapist still on the loose.”

“I’m aware of that, sir.”

“I’m glad you’re so aware, Lieutenant.” The Chief was unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Now, tell me what you plan to do about it.”

He saw Crawford’s eyes flash in anger, but the Detective Lieutenant held his tongue. “We stay the course,” was all he said.

The Chief raised his eyebrows. “Stay the course? You don’t think your operation is burned?”

Crawford shook his head. “Damaged, yes. But burned? No. We just need a different decoy and we can keep moving forward. A guy like this won’t stop. We’ll catch him. We just have to stay the course.”

The Chief looked over at Reott. “Mike, do you agree with this?”

Reott looked uncomfortable. After a moment, he opened his mouth to speak. Before he could say anything, The Chief’s telephone rang.

He glanced down. The ringing line was his private number. Not many people had that, so he figured he should answer it.

“Excuse me,” he said to Reott and Crawford, then lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hello, Chief. This is Pam Lincoln.”

The Chief didn’t miss a beat. “Hello, Pam. What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to make you aware of something before I took it to my editors,” Pam said.

The Chief narrowed his eyes. That didn’t sound good. “I appreciate that,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“I got a call from a man about twenty minutes ago who claimed to be the Rainy Day Rapist,” Pam told him.

The Chief paused. “Really?” he asked.

“Really.”

He looked at the two men across from him. “Pam, let me put you on speaker phone,” he said. “I’m in a meeting right now with Captain Reott and Lieutenant Crawford.”

“I’m not surprised,” Pam said. “Go ahead and put me on the speaker phone.”

The Chief pushed the speaker button and rested the receiver back on the cradle. “Can you repeat what you just told me, please?”

“Certainly. I received a call about twenty minutes ago from a man who claimed to be the Rainy Day Rapist.”

The Chief watched as the eyebrows of both men flew upward.

Crawford withdrew a notepad from inside his ancient sport coat. “Do you know what number?” he asked.

“Yes, I do.” Pam recited the number slowly while Crawford scrawled it onto the notepad. “But I think it was a pay phone,” she added.

“What did he say?” The Chief asked her.

“He said that the police tried to catch him with a decoy,” Pam said. “He also said that he badly assaulted the decoy before escaping from the area. Is that true?”

No one answered her. The three men stared at each other during the long silence.

“I thought I was going to be kept up on this operation.” Pam Lincoln’s voice from the telephone speaker broke the silence. “I’m already aware of a foot pursuit and a K-9 track for a rapist up at Mona and Post last night. I also know that there was an ambulance dispatched to that same location.”

There was another silence.

Again, it was the reporter’s voice that broke the silence. “Are you still there, Chief?”

The Chief cleared his throat. “I am. Pam, thank you for calling me about this. We were just discussing the matter in this meeting. I’m sure the lieutenant would have updated you.”

“Okay,” Pam said, her voice neutral.

“Are you anticipating running this story?”

“I have to, Chief. If I don’t pass this onto my editor, I’m fired. It’s that simple.”

“I understand,” The Chief said. “If that’s the case, then please give Lieutenant Crawford a call at his office in five minutes. Do you have that number?”

“I do. What can I expect from him?”

“Everything,” The Chief told her.

“Nothing held back?”

“Not unless there are clear security concerns,” said The Chief.

“Or specific medical privacy issues,” Reott added quickly.

“Of course,” The Chief said.

“I understand,” Pam said. “I’ll call in five minutes.”

“Thank you,” said The Chief. He pressed the button to disconnect the call. Then he looked up at both men. “Well, I guess that settles whether the task force is burned or not.”

Crawford’s face bore a sour look. “I’ll let Tower know it’s over.”

The Chief nodded. “Good. And do right by Pam Lincoln. She didn’t have to call us. She could have gone straight to her editor. We might still be able to minimize looking like the Keystone Kops on this one.”

“I will,” Crawford said. He stood and left without another word. As he swung the door open, Lieutenant Alan Hart stood outside, his fist poised to knock. Crawford gave him a distasteful look and brushed past him without a word.

The Chief hid his own feelings toward the Internal Affairs Lieutenant. “Come in,” he told him, gesturing to the chair just vacated by Crawford.

Hart strode in, his back ramrod straight. He stood next to the chair, then paused and looked at The Chief.

“Please,” The Chief said. “Have a seat.”

Hart nodded briskly. He sat down, his posture remaining erect.

Before Hart could speak, Captain Reott stood. “Unless you need me, Chief, I have some things to attend to.”

The Chief nodded.

Reott glanced at Hart, his disgust plain. Then he left the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

The Chief turned his gaze upon Hart. “What can I do for you, Alan?”

“A couple of things, sir. First, I wanted to discuss your findings that you issued on my investigations of both Officers O’Sullivan and Battaglia, as well as Officer Chisolm.”

“Refresh my memory,” The Chief said. “The one with O’Sullivan and Battaglia was…?”

“A demeanor issue, sir. And an inadequate response. It was in regard to a stolen vehicle. Mr. Tad Elway was the complainant.”

“Ah, yes. I remember now. I think I decided on a letter of reprimand on that one?”

“Yes, sir.” Hart bobbed his head. “I just wanted to express that, with all due respect, I thought that was a little bit lenient.”

“Noted, Lieutenant,” The Chief said, his voice dropping into a growl. “Anything else?”

Hart seemed to catch the audible clue. “Uh, no, sir. I’m sure you made the right decision. Anyway, I was more concerned with the Chisolm matter.”

“The driving issue?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The one with the child molester complainant?”

“Well..uh, yes sir.”

“I dismissed it,” The Chief said.

“I know,” Lieutenant Hart said, then hastily added, “Sir.”

“Then what?”

“Well,” Hart said, “in light of last night’s events, I believe another investigation is in order. Clearly, Chisolm made some errors during last night’s operation.”

“Hard to say,” The Chief said, “since we weren’t there.”

Lieutenant Hart pressed his lips together, clearly in disagreement.

The Chief leaned back in his chair. “Tell me something, Alan. What’s your beef with Thomas Chisolm?”

Hart’s cheeks turned red. He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw. Finally, he answered, “He doesn’t think the rules apply to him, sir.”

“Why do you suppose that is?”

“Because,” Hart answered, “Thomas Chisolm thinks that it is his personal responsibility to save the world. If rules get in the way of that, he just disregards them.”

The Chief considered Hart’s words. After a few moments, he had to concede that despite being a pompous, self-serving boob, the man was correct on this count. Chisolm did think it was his job to save the world. Still, as Chief, he’d rather have one Thomas Chisolm than fifty Alan Harts. Then again, he realized that he could probably only afford to have one Thomas Chisolm around.

“My decision stands, Lieutenant,” The Chief finally said. “But I appreciate your input.”

Hart’s face took on a pinched look. His cheeks remained flushed, but he stood erect, nodded, said “Thank you, sir,” and turned to leave.

“Lieutenant?” The Chief said to him before he reached the door.

“Yes, sir?”

The Chief eyed the ambitious lieutenant. Then he gave him a short nod. “After this Rainy Day Rapist thing is put to bed, I’ll reconsider your request to look into the operation. But not until.”

Lieutenant Hart seemed to be suppressing a smile as he said, “Thank you, sir,” and strode from the office.

The Chief leaned back in his leather chair. Like it or not, his job was a political one. He needed someone like Hart to watch the troops. Not that most of his officers weren’t stand up cops, but having Hart lurking in the wings had much the same effect that a locked door did on an honest man. He viewed it as an insurance policy of sorts.

But all the same, it irked him to see how much Hart seemed to revel in potential mistakes by officers. It appeared as if the arrogant, self-righteous bastard felt like every one of those mistakes was his chance to show everyone how much smarter he was than everyone else.

Which, in the Chief’s opinion, he wasn’t. He was a useful tool. Maybe even a round peg in a round hole, but one that he viewed as a necessary evil. And there was no way Lieutenant Alan Hart was going to make Captain, at least not while he sat in the Big Chair at the Big Desk.

The Chief of the River City Police Department let out a long sigh. It was on days like this that he wished he drank before five o’clock.

1432 hours

Katie’s head throbbed while she listened to the doctor’s explanation.

“You definitely suffered a concussion,” he told her, “but based on the results from the tests we ran last night, there was no significant brain trauma beyond that. So, with the exception of the bruises, swelling and small cuts on your face, you came through this assault rather well.”

Then why do I feel like shit? Katie wondered.

“There’s really no reason to keep you here in the hospital any longer,” the doctor continued. “I’ve already signed your discharge papers. The nurse will be along in a few minutes with your release instructions and a prescription for the pain you might encounter over the next few days.”

“What’s the prescription for?”

The doctor smiled. “Ibuprofen,” he answered. “What were you hoping for?”

“Magic juice,” Katie replied.

The doctor smiled at her. Katie tried to smile back, but the soreness on her cheek and the cut inside her mouth caused her to wince instead.

“I think you’ll find the ibuprofen will keep the pain under control.” Then he added, “Without the disorienting side effects.”

Katie nodded. Parts of the last twenty-four hours held a dream-like quality. Mostly, she remembered floating peacefully. The rest had already slipped away, just like dreams tend to do the morning after.

“If you feel spacey or have any other symptoms of disorientation, give your regular doctor a call. Same thing if you’re overly nauseous. That’s a sign that you haven’t come through the concussion yet.” The doctor glanced down at her chart. “Other than that, you’re good to go. Do you have any questions?”

“Just one. How long before I can go back to work?”

“That’s up to you, I suppose,” he said. “But I’d give it a couple of days, at least. After that, if you’re symptom free and feel up to it, there’s no medical reason not to.”

“Thanks, doctor.”

The doctor gave her a warm smile, replaced her chart and left the room. A few minutes later, the nurse arrived as promised. She went over the release paperwork in painstaking detail, causing Katie’s headache to get worse. Finally, after it seemed like she’d scratched out her initials enough times to buy a house or settle a peace treaty, the nurse told her they were finished.

“Do you want some help getting dressed?”

Katie shook her head no. “I’ll do it myself.”

“All right. Just buzz when you’re ready to go. We’ll need to escort you out to the police car.”

“Police car?”

The nurse gave her a confused look. “You’re the cop, right?”

“Yes, but-”

“Once the doctor discharged you, we called the police. It was in the instructions on your chart. They’ve sent a car to transport you home.”

“Oh.” Katie supposed it made sense. She had no other way home, anyway.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” the nurse said, and left.

Katie swung her feet off the bed and stood. The tile was cool, even through her hospital issue socks. She shuffled over to the mirror. Once there, she took a hesitant look at herself.

A large bruise was painted across the left side of her face, coating the entire cheek and under her eye. Even a day later, the noticeable swelling gave her the look of a boxer after a twelve-round slugfest. Another smaller bruise appeared like a shadow on her forehead, along with a narrow, red splash on her chin.

“Ugh,” she said back to the reflection.

She moved to the closet. The soreness and bruising throughout her limbs and torso punctuated each movement. When she reached for the closet door, it exposed her forearm, which was dotted with large splotches of dark bruising. And to top it all off, her leg was still tender from where the Russian kicked her.

“I should have been a firefighter,” she said, reciting a common police officer lament.

Inside the closet, the only clothing she saw was a neatly folded pair of dark green surgical scrubs and a pair of slippers. None of her own clothing was present.

Katie frowned. The expression made her wince, though not as badly as her earlier attempt at a smile. Where were her clothes?

A moment later, she realized that they had probably been seized as evidence. Someone, probably Tower, had taken possession of the clothes, bagged them, labeled them and logged them onto evidence at the Property Room.

For some reason, the thought bothered her. Maybe it was the idea of someone handling her undergarments. It gave her a feeling of vulnerability, almost as if her privacy had been violated.

Or it could be that victims had their clothing booked on as evidence. Not cops. And she was a cop, not a victim.

Katie shrugged away the thought. Instead, she focused on changing into the scrubs. The process was more painstaking than she expected, as every muscle she used to strip off the gown and slip on the clean hospital gear seemed to scream at her in protest.

Eventually, she managed to finish the job. She shuffled back to the bedside and pushed the call button for the nurse. A few moments later, the nurse appeared with a wheelchair. Before Katie could object, she raised up one of her hands.

“It’s hospital policy,” she said, “so don’t even think to argue.”

“Who’s arguing?” Katie answered.

“Most cops do,” the nurse told her, “so I figured I’d make things clear right up front.” She swung out the foot posts and gestured for Katie to sit down.

Katie lowered herself into the wheelchair. Part of her felt humiliated at using it, but another part of her was grateful for the ride. She settled in without a word.

The nurse put a small blanket on her lap. “We don’t have any jackets,” she explained. “It’s rainy out.”

“Figures,” Katie mumbled, pulling the blanket toward her middle.

The nurse wheeled her out of the room. Thomas Chisolm stood in the hallway, wearing jeans and a windbreaker. Katie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Tom?”

Chisolm shrugged. “I asked Dispatch to let me know when you were getting discharged. I figured you’d need a lift home.”

Katie didn’t know what to say. Eventually, she settled with a mumbled, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Chisolm said. He motioned to the wheelchair. “May I?”

“No,” the nurse said. “I have to wheel her to the door. Hospital policy.”

“Okay.” Chisolm fell into stride beside them as the nurse walked quickly to the elevator. They waited in silence for the elevator to arrive, then jockeyed their way inside.

“Where are you parked?” the nurse asked.

“Outside the E.R.,” Chisolm told her.

Her disapproval was plain on her face as she punched the appropriate floor. “That’s reserved for on-duty personnel.”

“I’m never off duty,” Chisolm told her lightly. He caught Katie’s eye and gave her a wink.

The nurse didn’t reply. Once they exited the elevator, she rolled Katie toward the Emergency Room entrance at something that seemed just shy of the speed of sound. Katie realized after a few moments that she was actually gripping the armrests of the wheelchair tightly.

“Hi, cop,” came a deep voice to her right.

Katie turned to see a heavy-set bearded man sitting in one of the alcoves. His placid features were immediately familiar to her. After a second, she recognized him. It was Dan, the Forty-eight who liked Emerson. Or thought he tasted like some kind of condiment. She wondered if he was still in the hospital from the call she had with him last week or if this was a completely new trip.

Before she could answer, Dan’s flat expression turned to a scowl of concern. “Oh,” he said. “Cop got hurt.”

In the next instant, the Dale Earnhardt of the nursing profession had her out of Dan’s sight.

Katie sighed to herself.

Cop got hurt? Yeah, you could say that.

Just as quickly, the threesome reached the entrance. “Okay,” said the nurse. “Here we are.”

Katie stood slowly. Chisolm reached out to help her, but she shook him off with a quick head motion. Once she was on her feet, she opened the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders like a cloak.

“Okay, I’m ready,” she said.

She and Chisolm walked out the sliding glass doors of the E.R. toward the nearby row of cars. Chisolm pointed at the blue Ford truck in the second slot underneath the awning. “That’s me.”

Katie nodded and shuffled toward the truck. She was glad that she didn’t have to walk in the rain. It was a cold, spitting mist that she imagined would sink the chill straight to the bone. At the passenger side, Chisolm unlocked the door and opened it for her. This time, she let him help her ease up into the passenger seat. Then he closed the door and went around to the driver’s side.

As the two of them snapped their seatbelts into place, Chisolm broke the silence. “What was up with Nurse Ratched in there?”

Katie grinned, then winced. “Don’t make me laugh, Tom. It hurts to smile.”

“Sorry.” He started the truck and put it in gear. “So where am I headed?”

Katie recited her address, knowing that Chisolm would have no difficulty finding it. That was the way it was with cops in general, her included. They didn’t want directions, just an address. Every one of them knew River City inside and out anyway.

“Sergeant Shen said to give him a call sometime in the next couple of nights to let him know how long you’ll be out,” Chisolm told her, pulling out onto Eighth Avenue.

“Okay.”

Chisolm drove in silence for several minutes. The stop and go motion of the truck made Katie feel tired again. She started thinking about her bed and how good it was going to feel to slip between the covers and sleep for another year or so.

As they pulled onto the Monroe Street Bridge, Chisolm cleared his throat. “Uh, Katie?”

“Yeah?” She stared off to the right toward the falls near the Post Street Bridge. Images of her experience there the previous year flashed through her mind’s eye. It was almost as if she could see herself on the bridge, her pistol pointed at the insane man who stood dangling his own infant son over the edge of the railing. She looked away.

“I’m…sorry,” Chisolm said.

“Huh?”

“I said I’m sorry. I let you down.”

Katie turned his direction. The muscles in his jaw were bunched. He stared straight ahead at the road in front of them.

“Tom, you didn’t — ”

“Yes, I did,” Chisolm interrupted, his voice intense. “I was supposed be your cover and I let you down.”

Katie didn’t want to argue. She just didn’t have the energy. Instead, she adjusted the blanket around her shoulders. “It’s okay,” she said.

“No, it’s not,” Chisolm said. “I should have been there.”

Katie thought about telling him that he was always there when it counted, but she sensed that he wasn’t going to hear her words. So she simply sighed and murmured, “You were there. And I’m fine. I’m just tired and I want to go home.”

Chisolm didn’t reply. He just kept driving.