Beneath a Weeping Sky

TWENTY-ONE

Friday May 9th

1406 hours

Detective John Tower stood on the fringe of the crime scene. He watched as Detectives Finch and Elias from Major Crimes worked the scene. The pair was an efficient tandem and he knew he shouldn’t resent them for being inside the yellow tape, examining evidence and espousing theories. It was their job. Moreover, this was an officer-involved shooting, so it fell under the purview of Major Crimes. It wasn’t their fault he was on the sidelines, so he shouldn’t be pissed at them for it.

But he was.

He stood at the front of his car, sipping terrible convenience store coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The acid in the foul brew made his stomach gurgle in protest, but he ignored it. Instead, he watched the hustle and bustle of the crime scene. Watched Elias direct Diane from Forensics and other support personnel this way and that. Watched Finch’s careful contemplation. He watched it all happen outside the residence and then he watched it all drift gradually inside as a careful, measured, recorded process.

A few minutes later, Ray Browning arrived. The compact, cocoa-skinned detective gave Tower a soft, sympathetic smile before ducking under the yellow crime scene tape.

Tower didn’t smile back.

He knew he shouldn’t resent Ray, either. But he did.

Lieutenant Crawford stood inside the crime scene perimeter, overseeing the activity but giving very little direction. Everyone knew their job, so little was necessary. He glanced over at Tower. Even at the distance of forty yards or so, Tower could read the disgust plainly on the lieutenant’s face.

Everyone knows their job, all right.

Tower held Crawford’s gaze, refusing to look away.

And my job is to stand here and watch. To have it rubbed in my face.

Crawford stared back until one of the crime scene photo-graphers approached a few moments later and asked him a question. He broke away and spoke with her. After that, he studiously ignored Tower.

“I had him,” Tower whispered. “I fucking had him, and I blew it.”

A dark green Lincoln pulled to a stop across the street. The Prosecuting Attorney, Patrick Hinote, exited along with Julie Avery. Both approached Tower. Hinote offered his hand. Tower shook it without much conviction.

Avery greeted him with a nod.

“Not how we’d have planned it, huh?” Hinote remarked, motioning toward the house.

Tower shook his head.

“What do you know?” the Prosecutor asked.

Tower took a sip of the brackish coffee. He eyed the lawyer for a moment, then said, “He attacked one of our officers. She shot him. They’re both up at the hospital.”

Hinote nodded, his expression calm and open. When Tower didn’t continue, he asked, “I’m sure there’s more to it than that, right?”

Tower motioned toward Crawford. “You can get it from him.”

Hinote gave Tower a confused look, but said nothing. Without another word, he turned and headed toward the lieutenant.

Tower watched him go. Then he peeled off the plastic lid on his cup and dumped the remainder of his coffee onto the black asphalt of the street. Turning, he headed toward the car.

“Wait.” Julie Avery’s voice stopped him as he opened the driver’s door.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “What?”

Avery cleared her throat. “You said the officer was up at the hospital?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he all right?”

“She,” Tower corrected. “And I don’t know.”

“She? Who was it?”

“Katie MacLeod.”

Avery’s eyes widened slightly. “She was the decoy, right?”

Tower nodded.

“And he attacked her?”

“That’s what I said.”

Avery walked around the nose of his car and to the passenger side. She tried the door handle, but it was locked. “Open it,” she instructed Tower.

“Why?”

“Because I need a ride to the hospital, that’s why.”

Tower regarded her for a moment, then nodded. He flipped the door lock switch. Avery opened the passenger door and got into the car without a word. Tower did the same. He started the car and drove away from the crime scene.

1442 hours

Beeps.

He heard beeps.

Not pleasant ones, either. No, these were insistent, shrill, accusatory beeps. He listened to the machine that made them, knowing in his rational mind that there was no emotion behind the monotonous sounds. But his rage wouldn’t listen.

He heard his mother.

You are the reason my entire life has been wasted.

His father.

You little whore’s son. You’ll never be shit.

Maybe they were both right.

Beep… Beep… Beep.

He pushed the medication button in time with the beeps.

He wanted to go away.

He stared at the machine. He thought of how close he’d come to…to becoming something. Would his father have ever been proud? Would he admit who the better man was? Oh, he wouldn’t show it, but if he found out his little Jeffie was the Rainy Day Killer, there’d have been a spark of pride that would’ve inevitably fired off in the old man’s chest.

If the old man was still alive, that is.

A weak smile touched his lips.

Of course, if he was in hell, looking up, he’d have been proud, too.

But now what was he? A failure. Just like his mother said, like his father said. Even the kids in school, all those years ago, had been right. He was a broken failure, destined for prison. Still only the Rainy Day Rapist, a ridiculous name.

Motion flashed in the doorway. The dark blue of a police uniform swaggered toward him. The creak of leather seemed to dance with the beeping of his machine, with his mother’s cruel tones, his father’s harsh voice.

A leathery face appeared next to his. A closely cropped mustache seemed to be almost burned into the man’s upper lip. The sour stench of coffee and cigarettes rolled off his tongue as he growled out his words.

“What the fuck are you smiling about, you piece of shit?”

Jeffrey forced his smile wider, a ball of spite beginning to grow in his belly.

The old cop smiled back, but his eyes were as cold as death. Jeffrey could see that even though the man was undoubtedly assigned to guard him, he’d much preferred to have throttled him. The hard eyes said it all.

“The doctor says one of MacLeod’s bullets hit your spine,” the cop whispered gruffly. “He says you might be a cripple.”

A cripple? Somehow, the karma didn’t surprise him. Why not? Everything else bad has happened to him. Why not that, too?

“I hope not,” the cop said to him. “You know why?”

Some confusion overcame him. The beeps were getting fuzzier. Colors seemed to blur. He turned his heavy eyes to the cop’s nametag.

M. Ridgeway, it read.

He looked back at M. Ridgeway’s face. He blinked a long blink.

“Wuh-eye?” he slurred.

“Because,” Ridgeway told him, “You’re going to prison for a long time. And I want you to be able to feel what rape is like while you’re there.”

He blinked at Ridgeway, still confused for a moment. Then it dawned on him through the fog of the medication.

Of course.

He was a cop. So he hated him.

He understood.

But it wasn’t his fault.

No. None of it was.

It was hers.

Katie’s.

Bitches ruin everything, he thought. Then a soft, blessed darkness took him.

1502 hours

Katie’s head rested on the hospital pillow. She wanted to reach back and fold it over for a little more support, but couldn’t work up the motivation to do so. Everything hurt. Her left forearm throbbed dully. Her left hand seemed to have more of a stinging pain. Her shoulder shared the general, aching soreness which had settled over her entire body.

She imagined the real pain lay lurking below the light pain medication they’d given her. She’d refused anything stronger. She had vague recollections about bouncing red balls and the secrets of the universe from her previous trip, and no desire to experience those bizarre images again.

The doctor entered, trailed by a pair of interns. He glanced wordlessly at her chart for a moment, the spoke without looking up.

“How are we feeling?” he asked in a preoccupied, distant tone.

“Like hell,” Katie answered truthfully.

“Mmmmmhhhhhhmmmm,” the doctor replied, his eyes skipping over the chart. “Well, all in all, things look well.” He handed the chart off to one of the interns, looking at Katie for the first time. He didn’t smile. “There’s really no reason to keep you any longer than overnight. Your cuts were deep, but clean. Luckily, no nerves were severed. The cuts stitched well, and scarring should be minimal. A couple of weeks of rest at home and you should be mostly recovered.”

“Why am I staying overnight if I’m all stitched up?” Katie asked.

“Holcomb?” the doctor asked.

One of the interns, a rail thin kid with small spectacles stepped forward. As he spoke, his Adam’s apple bounced up and down his throat. “Uh, your medical history shows a recent concussion. You were struck in the head during this assault, so there is an increased potential for another concussion.”

“Excellent, Holcomb,” the doctor said. He gestured to the second intern, a beefier man with soft eyes. “Bullock?”

Bullock glanced at the doctor, then at Katie. After a moment, he said, “He’s right about the concussion. And your body’s been through a lot today.” He gave Katie a warm smile and touched her foot gently. “Anyway, keeping you overnight is just a precaution.”

Katie nodded her understanding.

“Is there anything else you need?” the doctor asked her.

“No-uh, wait. Yeah. Can someone fold my pillow in half so that it’s a little thicker?”

“I’ll send in the nurse,” the doctor said. Without further hesitation, he turned and strode out of the room, Holcomb in tow.

Bullock paused, then stepped up to the side of her bed. “Lean forward,” he instructed.

With an effort, Katie did so. He folded over her pillow and replaced it. She sank backward onto it.

“Better?” he asked.

“A little.”

“They’re not much of a cushion, are they?” Bullock smiled.

“No.”

“I’ll ask the nurse to bring in another one,” he told her.

“Thanks.”

“Hope you feel better,” he said with another smile, then turned and left.

Katie watched him go. As he exited the room, another head leaned in around the closing door. She recognized Tower immediately. He raised his eyebrows at her questioningly.

“Okay to come in?” he asked.

“Sure.”

Tower swung the door open a little more and walked in. A redheaded woman in jeans and a green blouse trailed behind him. Tower saw Katie notice her and made an introduction.

“This is Julie Avery,” he explained. “She works with the Prosecutor’s Office as a victim advocate.”

Katie gave her a guarded nod. Julie replied with a warm smile.

Tower stopped at the side of her bed. He seemed to be taking in all of the bandages and Katie’s bruised and battered face.

“I look a mess, don’t I?” Katie asked.

“No,” Tower lied. “Just a little banged up, is all.”

“The marks from that time on Mona Street are barely gone,” Katie said, not sure if she was trying to joke or if she were feeling sorry for herself. “I’ve got bruises on my bruises.”

Tower nodded, seemingly at a loss for words. Finally, he said, “Once word gets out that you can have visitors, you know there’s going to be a parade of cops coming up here.”

Katie shook her head. “Can you tell Radio that they want me to sleep or something? I don’t want to see a bunch of people right now.”

And I don’t want to be seen looking like this. Like a victim.

“Sure,” Tower said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks.”

“Finch and Elias are going to want to talk to you, though.”

“I know.”

“But, uh, that can probably wait a few days.”

“Good.”

The two officers fell silent. Avery stood quietly next to Tower, saying nothing. Katie glanced at the woman, taking in her open expression and warm features. Empathy seemed to radiate from her. Katie imagined that made her very good at her job.

Avery caught her looking and smiled.

Katie cleared her throat and turned her gaze to Tower. “Can you tell me something?”

“Sure.” He leaned forward expectantly.

“Did he die? Did I kill him?”

Tower looked at her for a moment, then shook his head slightly. “No,” he said in a low voice. “He’s at a different hospital. Sacred Heart, I think.”

Katie nodded. She felt tears sting her eyes. Ashamed, she looked away.

“Are you all right?” Tower asked.

Katie let out a shuddering breath and wiped her tears away with her unbandaged hand. Confusing thoughts swirled through her head.

I don’t know if I’m crying because I shot him or because I didn’t kill him or because I wish I had.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Sorry,” Tower muttered. “That was a stupid question.”

Katie didn’t answer. Another long silence ensued, this one more awkward. Eventually, Tower said, “Well, I just wanted to check in on you. If you need anything, give me a call.”

“Okay.”

Tower removed a business card from his jacket pocket and scrawled something on the back. He placed the card on the nightstand next to her bed. “That’s my home phone on the back,” he said. “Call anytime.”

“Thanks,” Katie whispered, her voice husky with tears. She desperately wanted to stop crying, but the goddamn tears just kept welling up in her eyes. Instead of wiping them from her cheeks, she avoided his gaze.

“I’ll let Radio know about no visitors,” Tower said. He turned to go.

Avery slid a card from her jeans pocket and placed it next to Tower’s. “If you ever need to talk,” she said quietly.

Katie didn’t respond.

“I hope you feel better soon,” Avery added. Then she turned to leave with Tower.

Katie lay still, listening to their departing footsteps. When the pair reached the door, Katie turned her head.

“Wait.”

Tower looked over his shoulder at her, but it was Avery’s gaze that she met. Katie took a shallow, wavering breath.

“Can…can you stay a while?” she asked Avery.

Avery nodded. “Of course.” She returned to Katie’s bedside.

Tower watched for a moment, then said, “I’ll wait out here.”

“Thanks,” Avery said, without turning toward him.

Tower gave Katie a nod and left, closing the door behind him.

Avery stood next to Katie’s bed. To Katie, she seemed patient, as if she were willing to wait a year for Katie to speak.

Katie licked her lips, wondering where to begin. The two women remained silent for a long minute while the monitor next to her bed beeped.

“There’s something I want to tell you about,” she finally said.

“Okay,” Avery said.

“Not this,” she said, motioning toward her bandages. “Something else. From a long time ago.”

Avery reached out and touched Katie lightly on her hand. “We can talk about whatever you want,” she said with a light squeeze.

Katie swallowed. She looked up into Julie Avery’s warm eyes and nodded. “All right,” she said. “All right.”

2145 hours

Graveyard Shift

Connor O’Sullivan drove in silence while Battaglia looked out the window. The pair had been uncharacteristically quiet during the early part of the shift. Sully wondered if Battaglia was having issues at home or if, like himself, he was concerned about MacLeod.

“The El-Tee said she was going to be fine,” he finally ventured.

“Huh?”

“MacLeod. Saylor said she’d be all right.”

Battaglia nodded without turning from the window. “Good.”

“Yeah,” Sully echoed. “Good.”

They drove a few more blocks in silence. Then Sully said, “I guess she nailed the guy four or five times. Probably crippled him.”

“Good.”

“She’s a good shot.”

“Yeah.”

“Blasted the guy all around the groin area.”

“That fits.” Battaglia was silent for a moment, then added, “Sounds like she ten-ringed him like that rat under bridge.”

Sully smiled. “Exactly.”

Battaglia turned away from the window, a dark grin already fading from his face. “She’s the bomb,” he said. “MacLeod, I mean.”

Sully nodded in agreement.

“Guy attacks her in her own house. In her bathrobe, for Christ’s sake. But she still wins.” Battaglia shook his head. “I guess you just never know when it’s going to happen.”

“When what’s going to happen?” Sully asked, though he knew what his partner meant.

Battaglia stared out through the windshield, uncharacter-istically deep in thought. “You never know what moment on this job will turn into the moment.”

Sully raised his eyebrows, marveling at Battaglia’s serious side. It didn’t come out very often. Most of the time, he wondered if the man even had one.

“Adam-122?” the radio chirped.

Battaglia picked up the mike. “Go ahead.”

“Disorderly person at 2114 E. Wellesley,” the dispatcher recited. “Refusing to leave the Tacos Plus restaurant.”

“See?” Battaglia said. “This could be the big one right here. You never know.”

“Also,” the dispatcher continued, “the suspect is apparently wearing a clown suit.”

Sully and Battaglia looked at each other. A slow smile spread over each man’s face.

“Or maybe not,” Sully said.

Battaglia pushed the button on the mike. “Copy on the clown,” he said.

“This call is a joke,” Sully deadpanned.

Battaglia chuckled. He motioned toward the light controls. “We should run lights and siren.”

“Oh, Lieutenant Hart would love that.”

“Hell,” Battaglia said, “it probably is Lieutenant Hart. This is probably his off duty hobby. Getting drunk, dressing in a clown suit and raising hell.”

Sully let out a loud laugh.

“Oh, man,” Battaglia said, shaking his head, “We were born to take this call.”

Saturday, May 10th, 1996

0913 hours

Lieutenant Alan Hart sat at his desk. It being a Saturday, he was dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a neatly pressed collared shirt. The silence of his office was the same as it was every other day of the week, no change in his lonely existence.

He’d told his wife, Marianne, that he’d needed to run a couple of errands. That was true, he supposed, but he still ended up seated at his desk, whether by design or happenstance. He stared at the far wall, which was adorned with photographs of all River City police officers. Everyone was there, from the Chief of Police to the newest recruit in the Academy.

And I’m here to watch over them.

It’s not like anyone else would. He saw the summary judgment that the Patrol Captain filed on Officer MacLeod’s so-called accidental discharge. A cop lets a bullet fly in a public park, and all she gets is a written reprimand? All Hart saw there was a continuation of the century-old code of silence that has permeated and corrupted law enforcement for far too long. It was that same warped sense of loyalty that no doubt motivated the Chief to issue oral reprimands for O’Sullivan and Battaglia. Worse yet, he didn’t even give that light punishment to Chisolm for his violations.

Clearly, the cops in River City believed they were above the law.

“They aren’t,” Hart muttered, turning a heavy, gold pen over in his hands.

And it was his job to watch over them, to make sure that they paid for their mistakes. The public deserved it. Justice demanded it.

He knew the cost. Ridicule. Hatred. Ostracism. It was a small price to pay to do the right thing.

The River City Herald lay open on his desk. The front page headline blared RAINY DAY RAPIST CAUGHT! He’d read the article. Normally critical of the police department, the editors allowed this story to positively praise the stalwart bravery of Officer Katie MacLeod. The only negative element of the story was a subtle jab at Detective John Tower for failing to identify the suspect before the attack. The close resemblance between the police sketch and the suspect’s photograph made that failure seem like a particularly inept one.

Hart wasn’t concerned so much with that. There had been other mistakes. He was sure of it. Those mistakes needed to be answered for. Not just with an oral or written reprimand, either. With suspensions. Maybe badges.

How high did the mistakes go? He knew the only way to find out was to investigate thoroughly.

Lieutenant Alan Hart fired up his computer. He opened his word processor program and began drafting a memorandum to send to the Chief.

He planned on getting to the bottom of things.

1113 hours

Chisolm set aside the newspaper after reading the article about Katie for a third time. The reporter rightfully made Katie out to be a hero, but he didn’t like the dig against Tower. He knew the detective did the best job he could. Hell, if anyone was at fault, it was Chisolm.

Once again, he’d failed to be where he was needed.

Just like Mai. The image of the young prostitute was burned into his mind. Despite stopping two assaults on her, he couldn’t save her in the end.

Hell, Bobby Ramirez, too. When a sniper took his best friend’s life, had he done anything to prevent it?

No. He’d failed.

And, of course, there was Officer Karl Winter. He was a good man who died alone on the dark asphalt of a River City street. No help from Chisolm.

Other faces danced in front of his eyes. That kid he and Ramirez had teased mercilessly from the day he arrived in the unit until the day he hit a trip wire in the jungle. A young mother and her baby, on the run from an insane husband. That husband eventually hurt that little baby, didn’t he?

Sylvia’s knowing eyes came next. The image hovered before him, growing even more vivid when he closed his eyes against it.

All my ghosts are here today.

Thomas Chisolm clutched at his coffee cup, squeezing the porcelain in an effort to avoid going to the fridge for a drink.

1222 hours

Crawford turned onto Reott’s street. He drove to the front of the captain’s house, easing the car to a stop.

“Thanks for lunch,” Reott said.

“My turn to buy,” Crawford replied easily.

“So it was. But thanks, anyway.”

“You’re welcome.”

Reott reached for the door.

“They’re releasing MacLeod today,” Crawford told him.

Reott paused. “Good. She’s all right?”

Crawford shrugged. “A few good cuts. Some hard knocks. But I think she’ll be fine.”

“Good.”

“Our rapist won’t be out for another month. Maybe two,” Crawford continued. “Tower already has his affidavit to the prosecutor. Hinote said he is going to charge him with all four rapes, plus the attacks on MacLeod. He doesn’t believe he can win them all, but he figures he’ll win enough of them to send the guy up for life, or close to it. And if he decides to plea instead, then he has plenty of charges to bargain away.”

“Good,” Reott repeated.

Crawford’s eyes narrowed with concern. “You okay, Mike?”

Reott nodded. “I’m fine. Where are you headed from here?”

Crawford scowled. “Oh, the wife has us going out searching for antiques or some such shit.” He eyed Reott more closely. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Reott answered. He slapped Crawford on the knee. “Thanks for lunch. And good work on this case.”

Crawford snorted. “Good work? Hell, we got luckier than a falling drunk on this one.”

Reott clenched his jaw, his penetrating gaze burning into Crawford’s eyes. “You think that’s luck? Him attacking one of our officers like that?”

Crawford returned his stare without faltering. “I don’t think what happened to MacLeod was lucky at all,” he said quietly. “All I’m saying is that we didn’t do anything to catch him. We got lucky.”

Reott took a deep breath and sighed. “Maybe so,” he said. Then he opened the door and got out of the car. “See you Monday,” he told Crawford as he closed the passenger door.

Crawford gave him a wave as he pulled away from the curb.

Reott made his way up his sidewalk, unlocked the door and went into the house. The slam of the door echoed throughout the emptiness of the home. Tossing his keys on the table, he walked directly into the kitchen and swung open a cupboard. Inside, two fancy bottles of seventeen year old Glengoyne single malt Scotch whisky stood waiting for him. He wrapped his fingers around the neck of one bottle and pulled it from the cupboard.

At the table, he poured himself a glass, neat. He stared down at the amber liquid for a while, then raised it to his lips and sipped. The burning smoothness coated his mouth and his throat, before emanating outward from his belly.

Lucky.

Crawford’s words burned in his ears. He didn’t believe in luck. He believed in choices. And it was a series of choices that brought things to a head. A series of choices that put one of his officers in the hospital.

His choices.

Captain Michael Reott took another sip of the whisky.

“Damn fine scotch,” he said aloud. He allowed himself a wry chuckle, remembering Crawford’s theories on pay scale.

Maybe the lieutenant had been right about that.

But lucky?

Reott was pretty sure that wasn’t a word he’d use.

1658 hours

Katie MacLeod glanced to her left. Kyle, the large, bespectacled man in the driver’s seat remained focused through the windshield wipers and the rain upon the road ahead.

“Thanks again for the ride,” she said, her voice still a little groggy.

“No problem,” the hospital security officer said. “It’s an honor.”

Katie looked away. She remembered what Stef had gone through after his gun battle with the Scarface robber. There’d been a mixture of hero worship and contempt from the different members of the department. She wasn’t entirely sure which he’d been more uncomfortable with, but she knew that he’d struggled with both. She didn’t particularly want to go through that.

I only did what I had to do.

An image of her gun sight trained on the back of the rapist’s head flashed through her mind.

“Is this it?” Kyle asked her, pointing as they rolled up the street.

Katie followed his gesture toward her familiar brick house. Somehow, in the windy, rainy darkness of the night, it didn’t seem as welcoming as it once had. Yellow crime scene tape still hung from the screen door, flapping in the wind.

Kyle put the car into park. “Here we are.”

Katie paused. Suddenly, she didn’t want to go inside. She knew that he wasn’t there. Neither was Phil, for that matter. Those demons might not be vanquished, but after talking with Julie Avery, she felt like maybe they would be eventually.

But not yet.

In the meantime, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to be alone. A strange need swept over her and she thought about calling Kopriva. Maybe he would understand.

“Are you okay?” Kyle asked.

Katie turned toward him. “Yes,” she answered. Then, “No. Not really.”

Kyle gave her a confused look.

“Can you take me to a pay phone?” Katie asked. “I think I want to go somewhere else instead.”

1704 hours

Stefan Kopriva sat at his kitchen table, staring down at his hands. His knuckles pressed against the cool bottle of beer in front of him. A small black and white television flickered on the table. The mindless jingle about car insurance did little to keep his attention.

He glanced up and around at the small downtown apartment. The already narrow walls seemed to close in on him. His tiny kitchen lay only a few feet from the living room, which doubled as a bedroom when he remembered to unfold the bed inside the couch. Right now, a twisted pile of blankets lay in the corner of the ratty couch. Empty beer bottles were strewn across the rickety, stained coffee table.

Brave, dead soldiers, he thought mockingly. They served their city well.

“Better than I did,” he muttered, and lifted the bottle of beer to his lips.

He wondered in passing if he ought to consider taking up smoking. A few cigarettes might prove an interesting way to make the time pass. But he rejected the idea. He had precious little in the way of money as it was, and he much preferred the beer. And, of course, the pills that the nice doctor at the free clinic gave him for his arm and his knee.

“Too bad he can’t prescribe something for my heart,” Kopriva told the woman on television who was hawking insurance in a bright red dress.

Sadness awash in self-pity flooded through him, coupled with some shame. The idea of sitting around his tiny apartment smoking cigarettes all day made him think of convicts in prison. The irony that he used to be the instrument that put men behind those walls was not lost upon him

He took another drink. An image of a child’s still body in a half-empty body bag flashed through his mind.

“Fuck,” he muttered. He took another drink and glanced at the cheap Casio watch on the table next to him. One hour and eleven minutes. He had one hour and eleven minutes before he was supposed to take another pain pill.

The commercial dropped off suddenly. In the pause between the advertisement and the broadcast show, the TV screen went black. Kopriva saw his own disheveled image on the dark glass.

“You look like shit,” he said, raising the beer in mock salute, then draining the bottle.

The screen lit up with the station’s logo, accompanied by intro music for the news. Kopriva rose and went to the small brown fridge that he was pretty sure the landlord had bought from a Motel 6 going-out-of-business sale. Inside, three more bottles of beer stood tall and ready.

“We need some reinforcements,” he said. “And we might just have to move to cans.” He removed one bottle and twisted off the cap. “But what the hell. Not everyone can be a Marine. Not everyone can be a hero.”

Especially me.

He stumbled back to the kitchen table and settled into the chair just as the music faded and the news anchor affected a serious expression.

“A reign of terror is over tonight in River City,” he said. “Police have the Rainy Day Rapist in custody. For more, we go to Shawna Matheson, live at Sacred Heart Medical Center. Shawna?”

The screen cut to the perfectly coifed Shawna Matheson. Kopriva’s lip curled at the sight of her. She’d been on the forefront of reporting the Amy Dugger story last year. Chronicling his mistake and the tragedy that followed.

“You bitch,” he muttered at the reporter.

“Thank you, Jack,” Shawna said in polished tones. “I’m here at Sacred Heart Hospital, where accused rapist Jeffrey Allen Goodkind is being treated for gunshot wounds he received yesterday during his apprehension.”

A small gust of wind pushed Shawna’s hair into her face. Without missing a beat, she raised her hand and brushed it aside, continuing. “Apparently police believe Mr. Goodkind is responsible for the recent spree of violent rapes to rock River City’s north side. Dubbed ‘The Rainy Day Rapist’ by this reporter over three weeks ago, this suspect is responsible for attacking four different women since March of this year. Now, he is in custody.”

The camera switched to a photograph of a police sketch.

“This is a sketch police released of the suspect,” Shawna said, “and this is Mr. Goodkind.”

The camera cut to a professional photograph of a man that closely resembled the sketch. Kopriva immediately knew the man was guilty, simply by the way the face in the picture bore a forced smile.

“Instincts are still good,” he mumbled, a little rueful.

“What’s most interesting about this story,” Shawna continued, “is how Mr. Goodkind was apprehended. Police almost caught him during a sting operation in April, but he was able to escape. Instead, he was captured tonight at the residence of the very same police decoy that he attacked during that sting operation.”

A picture of Katie MacLeod filled the screen.

Kopriva’s eyes flew open in surprise. He leaned forward, turning up the volume of the tiny television.

“Officer Kathleen MacLeod, a five year veteran of the River City Police department, was attacked in her home, allegedly by Mr. Goodkind. She was injured, though police sources say she is recovering from her wounds at a different hospital. Officer MacLeod shot the intruder several times before police arrived to take him into custody.”

“Jesus,” Kopriva breathed.

The broadcast returned to a very serious Shawna Matheson. “It is unclear what Mr. Goodkind’s intentions were when he allegedly assaulted Officer MacLeod. What is clear is that people in River City can rest a little easier tonight.” She paused a beat, then finished gravely, “For Channel 5 Action News, I’m Shawna Matheson.”

Kopriva leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. He felt tears well up in his eyes and roll down his temples while he stared up at the low ceiling.

“I’m sorry, Katie,” he whispered huskily. “I’m a selfish bastard, and I’m sorry.”

He continued to stare up at the ceiling for a long while, his hand wrapped firmly around the cold bottle on the table in front of him.

1712 hours

Thomas Chisolm sat in his dark living room, staring at the photographs on the wall. He’d surrendered to his ghosts, letting them run free throughout his consciousness. They battered through his feeble defenses, trampling down any mild excuses he might have been working up that even he didn’t believe.

His first beer of the evening sat on the coffee table, half full.

Who would it be tonight?

Mai?… Bobby?… Karl?… Sylvia?

Or would someone else step up to remind him where and how he’d failed to save them? It wasn’t like the list wasn’t long enough.

As if on cue, his telephone rang. He considered not answering it, but the shrill tones annoyed him enough to pluck the receiver off the cradle and bark a hello into the mouthpiece.

“Tom?” a female voice came over the line, with vehicle traffic in the background.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“It’s Katie.”

Chisolm clenched his jaw and nodded. This was fitting. It was right. She should let him have it for not being there when she needed him.

“Tom?”

“I’m here,” he said evenly.

“Oh.” She paused. “Listen, I’m out of the hospital and…well, I really don’t want to go home just yet. I was wondering if I could come by your place?”

It was Chisolm’s turn to pause. Then he answered, “Of course.”

“Thanks,” Katie said, relief plain in her voice.

Chisolm gave her the address.

“All right,” she said. “I’m about five minutes away.”

Chisolm hung up the phone. He moved around the house, turning on several lights. Then he pulled some bedding from the hall closet and plopped it down on the couch. He stripped his own bed and re-made it with clean sheets. He was just tucking the top blanket into the foot of the mattress when he heard the knock at his front door.

Katie smiled tiredly at him when he swung open the door.

“Come on in,” he said.

“Thanks,” Katie said, stepping inside. She slid off her jacket and handed it to him. He noticed she moved a little woodenly, as if her entire body were sore and not just her direct wounds. In addition to the smell of rain, the unmistakable antiseptic odor of a hospital still clung to her, filling his nostrils as she passed by him.

“Please,” he said, motioning toward the couch, “have a seat.”

Katie lowered herself gratefully onto the cushion, letting out a sigh as she did so. “It feels so good to be out of the hospital.”

“I’ll bet.” Chisolm hung her coat and cleared his throat. “You want something to drink? A beer or…?”

“Some water would be great.”

Chisolm retrieved a few ice cubes from the freezer and filled a glass with tap water. In the living room, he set it in front of Katie. He sat down in the chair across from her. She smiled her gratitude, raised the glass and took a sip.

The two sat in silence for a few moments. Katie leaned back on the couch with another sigh. “I’m so tired,” she croaked in a drowsy tone, suppressing a yawn. “I feel like I’ve been up for a month of graveyard shifts.”

“You can have my bed,” Chisolm said, motioning toward the bedroom. “I changed the sheets for you.”

Katie reached out and took hold of one of the blankets on the couch with her hand. “Oh, this’ll be fine, Tom. Really.”

“You sure?”

Katie nodded tiredly, pulling the blanket toward her and kicking off her shoes.

Chisolm rose from his seat. He picked up one of the pillows and tucked it in the corner of the couch.

Katie smiled at him as she nestled her head into the pillow. “Mmmmm, thanks.”

Chisolm helped spread the blanket over the top of her. Once she was covered, he kissed her lightly on the top of her head.

“You did damn good, Katie,” his whispered into her ear.

“Thanks,” she replied, her voice already thick with sleep.

A lump rose in Chisolm’s throat. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

Katie took in a deep breath and let out a peaceful sigh. “You’re here for me now, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s all I need, Tom. I just need you…” she yawned into her shoulder, then finished, “…I just need you to be a friend.”

Chisolm smiled slightly. “I can do that.”

“Then that’s all I need.”

He rose and turned off the living room lamp for her. Then he sat down in the chair across from her in the dim light of the living room. Outside, the heavy rain battered the windows of his house. He picked up his bottle of beer and took a sip, looking at her curled form on his couch. She wasn’t asking to be saved. Just for him to be her friend. To watch over her tonight.

I can do that.