Mortal Pursuit

2

Late and running scared.

Trish Robinson shrugged off her pullover as she crossed the ladies’ locker room. The room was empty, the silence ominous.

She opened her locker, then sat on the bench, quickly shed her clothes, and began to change.

Normally she was never late-certainly not for work during her first week on the job. But this was a case of circumstances beyond her control.

At seven P.M., just as she was leaving, her toilet had overflowed … again. The landlord had ignored her repeated pleas to fix it, and her jury-rigged repair job hadn’t lasted.

By the time she found the shutoff valve, the bathroom was flooded. It took ten minutes to mop up the mess.

Then naturally her car wouldn’t start. She spent an additional ten minutes cranking the ignition key before the engine finally turned over. The ‘79 Honda badly needed a tune-up-or something-but after her recent moving expenses, she didn’t have the means to pay for it.

Bad apartment, bad car, no money. She supposed life was meant to be like this when you were twenty-four.

Roll call was at 7:45. She checked the clock on the locker-room wall. 7:42.

Pull on trousers, then a short-sleeve shirt. Button down. Tuck in. Hurry.

Trousers belt. Shoes.

7:44.

The leather gun belt hung from the inside of the locker door. She snugged it over her hips, hooking it in place.

Rapid check of her gear. All there. The Smith .38 heavy in its high-ride swivel holster.

Her badge was already pinned to her shirt. She slipped her I.D. holder in the back pocket of her pants.

Anything else Her hair.

She wore it shoulder length when off duty, but was required to keep it above her collar while in uniform.

From a shelf in the locker she grabbed a barrette, wound her blonde hair in a chignon, clipped it in place.

Done.

The locker slammed. Padlock clicked.

7:46.

Go.

She sprinted out the door, through a puzzle of windowless corridors lit with fluorescent panels.

Rounding a corner, she nearly collided with two plainclothes officers. One of them put a fatherly hand on her shoulder.

“Whoa, darling. No running in the halls.”

He and his partner laughed.

Jerks.

She continued, walking at a brisk clip, red heat on her face.

The roll-call assembly room lay at the end of the corridor. She eased open the door.

Sergeant Edinger paused in his remarks as she stepped into the room.

He made no comment, didn’t even look at her, but in the momentary interruption of his monologue, he communicated an unmistakable reproof.

She sat in a chair in the last row. Pete Wald, her training officer, cast a glance in her direction, then turned coolly away.

Edinger resumed speaking. “Four eighty-eight at Chet Kesler’s Mobil station late last night. Maybe fifty, sixty bucks in quarters ripped off from the Coke machine. Same M.O. as the Thrifty-Wash theft last weekend. You find any juveniles carrying sharpened screwdrivers, I want to have a word with them.”

Trish struggled to catch her breath as she glanced self-consciously around the room. Aside from Wald and herself, only two other cops were in the audience, each cruising solo. A total of three units-standard for the mid-P.M. watch on a late-summer Saturday night. The watch ran until 4:00 A.M., overlapping the tail end of the night watch and the first hours of the graveyard shift.

“Another bicycle theft at Crestwood Apartments. They took somebody’s Schwinn off a bike rack in the carport. If you’re in the vicinity, swing through the parking lot and check it out.”

The steel rims of Edinger’s glasses flashed, his eyes screened by ovals of glare. He had the most completely hairless head Trish had ever seen.

“Oh, and one more item. You’ll be glad to know we successfully supervised another duck crossing at Lake and Third. There were no casualties.”

A scatter of ironic applause. Trish managed a smile.

Duck crossings, she had learned, were a common police call in town. Traffic would be stopped while a sluggish procession of waterfowl marched from curb to curb.

“That’s about it. Any questions” There were none. The meeting started to break up when the sergeant added, “Robinson. See you a minute”

The others, filing out, avoided looking at her as she made her way down the aisle.

This was bad. This was a demerit noted in her phase-board review.

Edinger stood with head lowered, making check marks on his legal pad, for a good deal longer than he probably had to, while Trish waited stiffly.

Finally he looked up. “Bored, Officer”

She didn’t understand. “Sir”

“Bored with your job Disappointed, maybe Work not living up to your expectations”

“No, sir-“

“I guess you’re finding it hard to take your duties seriously. Vending-machine rip-offs. Stolen bikes. Duck crossings. Not what you drilled for, is it”

She knew no answer was required.

“Drama, excitement. That’s why you joined up, right You wanted to be Starsky and Hutch. Didn’t you”

“No, sir.” She didn’t even know who Starsky and Hutch were.

“This is, what, your sixth night on patrol What’s the most exciting call you’ve been on”

“Uh … shots fired at Graham Park.”

“And it turned out to be …”

“Kids setting off firecrackers.”

“That’s fairly typical of a busy night here. You know, the last homicide we had in this part of Santa Barbara County was back in 1984. You would have been how old then Ten”

“Eleven. Sir.”

“Long time ago. Now, down in L.A. it’s a different story. L.A.’s got two thousand homicides a year. That’s where all the crazies are. You want excitement, go to L.A. You read me”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t be late again.”

He turned away, and she realized she had been dismissed.

Her stomach rolled and her shoulders shook as she retraced her steps toward the door where Wald waited.

Excitement, Edinger had said. What a joke.

She’d already had more than enough excitement for one night.