Under a Raging Moon

ONE

Friday, August 12th, 1994

Graveyard Shift

2116 hours

Crack!

The flashlight clattered to the pavement. Thomas Chisolm looked up from his note pad to see his rookie, Maurice Payne, looking sheepish. Payne grabbed the light and checked it. Relief flooded his face when it still worked.

Chisolm struggled not to shake his head in disgust. Payne had already spent three times longer than he should have putting the police cruiser through its pre-flight check. To make matters worse, he’d managed to forget half the procedures.

How in the hell did this kid make it through his first two Field Training Officers? Chisolm wondered. Christ, how did he make it through the Police Academy?

Payne finally settled into the seat and started the engine. He carefully turned on and off every emergency light, including the yelp and wail sirens. Satisfied, he started to put the car into gear.

“Forget something?” Chisolm asked in as neutral a voice as he could muster.

Payne looked worried and confused.

Jesus, this kid flusters easy, Chisolm thought. He’d acted the same way earlier when Chisolm pointed out that he forgot to check the back seat.

Payne’s worried look grew almost frantic. He looked to Chisolm for the answer. The veteran put his hand on the shotgun, which sat right beside the radio, its barrel pointing upward.

“Oh.” Payne put the car in park and released the shotgun. He started to clear the weapon in the driver’s seat.

“Do it outside,” Chisolm instructed in an even voice. For the fifteenth time, he groused inwardly.

Payne stepped out of the car, banging the butt of the shotgun against the steering wheel along the way. Chisolm watched him unload the shotgun, clear it and then reload. His movements were clumsy and unsure. His attempt to complete the task faster than his abilities allowed only made it worse.

“Easy, son,” Chisolm told him. “Take your time and do it right.”

Payne finished awkwardly and replaced the shotgun in its rack. He picked up the radio to check them into service. “Adam-112, log on.”

“Go ahead,” responded the dispatcher.

As Payne recited their badge numbers and vehicle assignment, Chisolm winced at the rookie’s voice. It sounded weak and mush-mouth, carrying no authority at all.

Reflecting briefly, Chisolm knew why Payne had made it through two Field Training Officers. They’d gone on a few calls where compassion had been the order of the day. Chisolm had to admit the kid did a superb job. A rape victim is not an easy person to communicate with, especially for a male officer. Some victims demanded a female officer for that very reason, but Payne had been able to establish an excellent rapport with the victim, kept her emotions in check and took a good report.

Still, Chisolm knew that there was a lot more to the job than being compassionate. He had long ago learned to save his compassion for those who deserved it. A cop had to be strong enough to be gentle, but he had to remain strong.

Chisolm recalled the incident right before their days off, when a gang member had come close to assaulting Payne. Chisolm had seen it coming, but let Payne go with it as far as he safely could. He hoped the rookie learned that the nice-guy routine doesn’t always work, especially when a street-wise gangbanger is yelling, “Kiss my black ass, you white pig!”

A cop had to wear many hats, Chisolm knew: counselor, confessor, friend, philosopher, detective, hard-ass, just to name a few. Those who failed to understand this were weak officers, even if they excelled in one area. Like Payne. Or like James Kahn, who was a grouch almost all the time and got complaints by the trunk load.

“Let’s get some fuel,” Chisolm suggested. And we’ll see if you can find the fueling station this time.

“Yes, sir,” Payne replied, his voice meek.

Payne surprised Chisolm by finding the fueling station easily enough. The rookie filled the tank wordlessly and the two of them cruised out to tackle the calls that were holding.

The night passed slowly, giving Chisolm plenty of time for reflection. Payne took way too long to accomplish even the simplest of tasks. A traffic stop became a major ordeal for him, which Chisolm considered ridiculous this far into his training.

Even more unforgivable, Payne’s officer safety bordered on critically poor. He seemed completely oblivious to where his gun side was in relation to everyone around him. He took his eyes off people all the time, sometimes even turning his back to them. He wasn’t vigilant at all about having suspects keep their hands out of their pockets. Not only did all of this endanger Payne, but anyone who worked around him.

Chisolm pressed his lips together in disgust when Payne elected to make a traffic stop on a soccer mom in a mini-van. On graveyard shift, they operated in a target rich environment. There were plenty of shitheads out driving around, guilty of far worse infractions-much less actual crimes-than the failure to signal that Mrs. Middle Class just committed.

Payne fumbled through initiating his emergency lights and advising radio of his location. Chisolm wasn’t sure which bothered him more-the weak sound of Payne’s voice or the fact that the location he gave radio was a block off.

He clambered out of the passenger seat and stood safely behind the curtain of light at the front tire of the patrol car. Payne approached the car like a frightened cat. Chisolm noted that he carried his flashlight in his gun hand, another cardinal sin.

Payne made contact with the driver, taking three times longer than necessary to acquire her documents. Back at the car, he quickly filled out the ticket, but agonized over whether to write the woman for no insurance since the card in her car had expired two weeks ago. He looked to Chisolm for help.

“You think she’s got insurance?” Chisolm asked him.

“Uh…” Payne swallowed nervously. It seemed like he treated very question like a life or death final exam. “I guess not. I mean, the card’s expired.”

Chisolm gave him an even stare, refusing to answer the rookie’s question. “It’s your call,” he said, figuring the kid would learn something either way.

Payne nodded hesitantly, then returned to the ticket. He scratched out the charged for no insurance.

Chisolm struggled not to frown.

Back at the van, Payne patiently explained to the woman in the mini-van what constituted proof of insurance.

“But I have insurance,” she protested. “My agent just sent me the new card. It’s on my kitchen counter.”

“It’s supposed to be in your car.”

“I know that,” she said. “I just forgot.”

Payne cleared his throat. “Well, uh, I suppose if you bring that into the judge, he could probably just-”

“Who’s got time for court?” she snapped. “I have three kids and a house to take care of. Do you have any idea how time-consuming that is?”

“No,” Payne squeaked.

She eyed him with contempt. “Just give me the ticket.”

Payne handed it to her. She scrawled her signature and thrust it back at him. “I hope you’re happy,” she said. “Because you’re an asshole.”

Chisom suppressed a smile.

Payne looked stricken. He tore out the driver’s copy of the ticket and gave it to her, stammering out his prepared speech on how to take care of the ticket.

She interrupted him. “Can I go?”

Payne blinked. He looked back at Chisolm, then at the driver. “Uh, sure. I mean, if you understand how to respond to this infraction, you can-”

“I got it,” she answered, dropping the van into gear and driving away.

Payne watched her go, then turned and trudged back to the car. Once there, he reached for the radio to clear when a shrill alert tone sounded.

“Dispatch to all units. Receiving an armed robbery alarm at 1527 N. Birch, 7-11 store.” The dispatcher’s voice intoned. “Hold-up alarm, 1527 N. Birch.”

“Go!” shouted Chisolm and grabbed the mike. He listened in frustration as several units attempted to answer at once, covering each other with a harsh buzz.

“Coverage,” stated the operator. “Receiving further. Suspect is a single, white male wearing black jeans, white shirt with long dark hair. Also has a scar down the left side of his face. Suspect displayed a black revolver. Fled westbound on foot.”

“C’mon!” Chisolm yelled, excitement coursing through him.

Same damn guy, the one everyone called Scarface.

Payne approached the red light at Indiana and Post. His hand hovered over the emergency light controls as if he couldn’t decide whether to use lights or both lights and siren.

“Just drive,” Chisolm told him, punching the lights. At two-thirty in the morning on a Monday night, there wasn’t much traffic to worry about.

“Adam-116, I’m a couple off. I’ll check westbound.”

Chisolm recognized Katie MacLeod’s steady voice.

“Baker-123, in the area to the south. Also.” Stefan Kopriva, another good troop, chimed in.

“Go ahead, Baker-123.”

“Do we have a K-9 working?”

A pause. Then, “Negative. Do you want us to call one out?”

“Affirm.”

Good call, Chisolm thought. Maybe we’ll catch the guy this time.

Payne drove right past the turn on Monroe Street. He realized it half a block later and started to slow.

“No,” Chisolm instructed him. “Go up to Ash, we’ll back Katie.”

“Adam-113, on scene at the 7-11 for the report.”

Chisolm shook his head. Adam-113, James Kahn, was only willing to take a report if it meant less work than the alternative. Or if there was a woman involved. Otherwise, forget it.

Ash was a one-way arterial southbound, but Payne still drove way too cautiously for Chisolm’s liking. At Maxwell, he directed him to turn right as soon as he saw Katie’s lights.

“Baker-123, I’ll be mobile on Boone west of-”

The buzz of radio transmission coverage cut him off.

“Baker-123, copy,” replied the dispatcher. “Other unit?”

Chisolm knew Katie was out of the car and running as soon as the transmission began.

“Adam-116… foot pursuit… south bound from my car. We’re going through… construction yard… ”

Chisolm got on the air before the dispatcher could respond. “Adam-112, her vehicle is parked at Maxwell and Cannon. We’ll swing around and come in from the southwest.”

“Copy.”

“Baker-123, coming in from the southeast.”

“Copy.”

“Take Belt,” Chisolm ordered sharply. He didn’t care anymore about training at this point. Katie was running around in the dark with an armed robber. She needed backup. “And hurry up!”

“This is L-123. All other units set-up a perimeter, four blocks in each direction,” Sgt. Miyamoto Shen said, his voice calm and authoritative.

No one answered, leaving the radio clear for Adam-116.

At the corner of Belt and Sinto, Chisolm directed Payne to turn left. The rookie did so, still way too slow for his liking.

“Hit all your lights. Everything. Light up that yard.” He pointed at the construction yard to the northeast. An eight-foot fence ran all along the south side of the yard.

Good, thought Chisolm, already out of the car and scanning for movement. That should slow him down a little.

Payne scrambled out of the car, knocking his side-handle baton out of its holder. It clattered onto the pavement. Chisolm ignored him, continuing to scan from behind the curtain of light created by the patrol vehicle’s spotlight, high beams and takedown light located on the roof in the light bar.

Nothing.

Fifteen seconds of nothing on the air from Katie.

Then twenty.

Chisolm scowled. Radio should check on-

“Adam-116, an update,” came the dispatcher’s voice.

There was a terrible moment of silence. Chisolm’s drew his gun and held it at the low-ready position. He saw Payne in his peripheral vision and watched the rookie mimic his stance.

“I got him, he’s running near the south fence.” Katie’s voice was labored and tense. “Westbound.”

“Copy. Westbound near the south fence. Baker-123?”

“I’m almost there,” Stefan Kopriva replied.

Then where the hell were they? Chisolm thought.

There!

He saw a figure, short and slender, running hard near the fence. The figure pulled up abruptly, probably noticing the lights. Chisolm drew a bead on the figure, trying to see his hands but unable to at this distance.

“Adam-112, I see him about mid-block,” Chisolm told Radio.

There was a flash of light from the figure’s hand and a loud bang.

“Shots fired!” called Katie.

Chisolm carefully aimed at the figure, but held his fire. The danger of cross-fire was too great. He would give Katie and Stef a few seconds to take cover, at least.

The suspect climbed the fence. He went over it military style with almost no effort, climbed rapidly up one side, swung over the top and then dropped to the ground in two quick, controlled movements. He landed in a crouch and immediately fired in Chisolm’s direction.

Chisolm ducked next to the wheel well, using the engine block for cover. He heard the sound of shattering glass as the bullets struck the patrol car. He popped up and returned fire over the hood of the car, squeezing off three quick rounds. The muzzle flash took away his already minimal night vision. He scanned for movement but saw none.

“Adam-112 to -14, do you see him?” Chisolm keyed the mike with his left hand while keeping his pistol pointed where he’d last seen the suspect.

“We’ve taken cover here in the yard. We lost visual on him as soon as he fired.”

“Copy. -12 to Radio, he may have fled southbound.”

“Copy, southbound.”

Chisolm heard a moan from the driver’s side and glanced over. Payne was nowhere in sight. The spotlight was dark. Chisolm ran around the back end of the car and saw Payne collapsed on the ground holding his face. He could see dark blood next to him and seeping through his hands.

“Adam-112, officer down,” Chisolm spoke into his portable radio. “I need medics to my location.”

Radio copied his transmission as he knelt next to Payne, still keeping his weapon trained on the threat area. “Payne?” He asked gently.

Payne moaned. “It hurts.”

Chisolm pulled Payne’s hand away from his cheek and saw the cut. It was two inches long and had probably been caused by flying glass after the spotlight had been hit.

“You’ll be okay,” he said through gritted teeth, then keyed the mike. “Adam-112, injuries are a facial laceration, not life-threatening.”

“Copy, I’ll inform medics.”

Chisolm stood by with Payne as a dog handler arrived on scene and began a track. He remained alert but at Payne’s side for twenty minutes during the track until it was called off. The K-9 officer advised that it was likely that the suspect had gotten into a vehicle at Sharp and Elm.

Medics, who had been standing off until the area was declared secure, arrived and treated Payne, who seemed to be slipping into shock. Chisolm watched as they wiped the cut with iodine and put a gauze pad against it to stem the bleeding, which had slowed to a trickle. An ambulance transported Payne to Sacred Heart Hospital for stitches.

As the ambulance pulled away, Chisolm picked up Payne’s gun and put it in his briefcase. The young officer had not asked about it once. Chisolm felt sorry for him. Not only because he’d been hurt but also because it was very apparent that he was shortly going to have to recommend that Payne be fired.

What the hell, Chisolm thought. I was his teacher, his doctor and now I am going to be the axe-man. Bad night for us all.

Thomas Chisolm, despite being a fourteen-year veteran of the police department and former Green Beret with two tours in Vietnam, could not shake the sinking feeling in his chest as he kicked the shards of glass from the spotlight to the curb of the street. He couldn’t stop wondering how much worse it was going to get.

Saturday, August 13th

Day Shift

0554 hours

Officer Karl Winter made his way out of the locker room and toward the roll call room for his fifth day shift of the week. He walked past the sergeants’ offices and the lieutenant’s office to get there, but didn’t even turn his head. Despite their rank, he held most of his superiors in contempt. Besides, he remembered when some of them were rookies who could hardly keep from handcuffing themselves instead of the suspect.

Officer Stefan Kopriva passed him on the way out of the roll call room. The graveyard officer had changed into plain clothes before finishing up his reports.

“Go home and get some sleep, kid,” Winter said.

“I will,” Kopriva said, his voice a tired croak. He slid his reports into the IN box, muttered, “G’night” to Winter and headed down the hallway.

Winter remembered those days well enough. Kopriva had three or four years on the job, and he’d spend quite a few more on graveyard before he gained enough seniority to bid another shift.

Not me, Winter thought, and smiled inwardly. Nine months to go and he’d retire. Not long. Just like waiting for a baby to be born. Only the delivery would be a piece of cake and when it was over, he and Mary would sell the house and move up to the lake cabin where he planned to catch so many fish they’d have to re-stock the lake.

Winter’s thick mouth broke into a half-smile at the thought.

The roll call room was unimpressive and square, with three large tables, one for each sector. Most of the shift was already present. Winter walked toward his seat at the Charlie sector table. He noticed several graveyard patrol officers at the back of the room, still working on reports.

“Milking the system, Chisolm?” Winter asked.

Chisolm looked up. The intense look on his face melted and he smiled at Winter. “Call me a dairy maid.”

Winter chuckled. “Nine months, Tommy.”

“Nine months and you drop that baby elephant you’re carrying?” Chisolm grinned.

Winter ran his hand over his uniform shirt, which was stretched tightly over his large stomach. “Ah, screw you. Nine months and I retire.”

“Oh, hell, Karl. You’ve been retired on the job for years now.”

“I say again, screw you. You’re just jealous.” Karl gloated. “What do you have left? Six, seven years? Ten?”

“You’re jealous.”

“Me? Why? Because I don’t get to work graveyard and live like a vampire?”

“No,” Chisolm said evenly, “You’re jealous because I get to eat your wife but not her cooking.”

Karl exhaled heavily into the silence. No way he could top that one without sounding lame. Chisolm’s eyes danced mischievously as he waited.

Finally Winter said, “Oh, go back to shafting the citizens out of their tax dollars, you O-T whore.”

Chisolm chuckled and returned to his report.

Winter plopped down into his customary seat at the Charlie sector table. All around the room, insults and jokes flew across the room, while others discussed everything but police work. Cars, boats, sports and hunting were popular topics. The two rookies assigned to the shift sat rigidly in their chairs, speaking only when spoken to, obviously uncomfortable in the midst of so much seniority.

Will Reiser tossed a travel brochure to Winter. The words Bienvenido a Cancun were plastered above the picture of a smiling blonde in a bathing suit. The model walked along a sandy white beach next to a light blue ocean.

“Whattya think, Karl?” he asked. “A trip to Mexico good enough for a twenty-year anniversary?”

Winter thumbed through it briefly, nodding. It was a good idea. Police wives go through a lot in a twenty-year career. Will’s wife Patty deserved a trip like this. So did his Mary, for that matter.

“You bet. Good choice.” He slid the brochure back to him. Rookies coming on now had a new retirement system and had to do thirty years or until age fifty-five. He felt sorry for their wives.

Sergeant David Poole entered the room and sat wordlessly at the head of Winter’s table. He looked grouchier than usual. Winter didn’t find that surprising. Poole had made sergeant before Alan Hart, who was now a lieutenant. Poole had helped Hart study and brought him along. Once Hart made sergeant, the two were bosom buddies. But after Hart made lieutenant, he suddenly became too good for a lowly three-striper and began dumping on Poole. Worse yet, Poole had become an effective, if reluctant, suck-up.

Lieutenant Alan Hart entered the room and talk quickly subsided. Winter knew Hart thought it was out of respect for him, but in reality, no one wanted him to over-hear anything. In a profession of strong-willed men and women, Winter saw an awful lot of disagreement but there was one thing universally agreed upon: everyone loathed Lt. Hart. Even the boot-lickers who sucked up to him didn’t like him.

Hart was either unaware of this fact or didn’t care. He stepped up to the lectern and looked around the room slowly before calling everyone to order. “Listen up. Several stolen vehicles last night.”

Only the two rookies wrote in their notebooks as the lieutenant read off four license plates belonging to stolen vehicles.

Hart continued, “Has anybody seen Gregory Macdonald lately? Black male, hangs out down on the Block? Detective Browning wants to talk to him. Call him anytime day or night.”

He shuffled papers, skipping an irrelevant memo, then said, “Captain Reott is looking for volunteers for the Cops-2-Kids program. Two from each shift. Paid as overtime. Any volunteers?”

Anthony “Gio” Giovanni spoke up, “Lieutenant, no one wants to do that because Channel Two puts you on TV.”

Hart’s eyes narrowed. “I have one volunteer. Thank you, Tony. Any others?”

No one even breathed.

“Okay, well, there will be a volunteer by roll call tomorrow or I will designate one. And Tony,” he turned to face the officer, “since Channel Two is paying for everything but your time on this project, don’t you think they deserve a little help with the publicity?”

Giovanni didn’t respond. Winter knew what the officer thought and figured he and everyone else in the room knew how difficult it was for Gio not to say it.

Hart held his stare for a moment then moved the memo to the back of the stack.

“Okay. Graveyard had another armed robbery tonight in Adam Sector. The 7-11 at Birch and Maxwell was hit. Suspect fled westbound. Officer MacLeod gave chase through the lumber yard at Maxwell and Elm. .” Hart looked up and directed his gaze toward the back of the room. “Officer MacLeod?”

Winter turned to look at Katie, who looked up from her report. “Sir?”

“The suspect was armed?” Hart asked.

“Yes, sir. He displayed a black revolver.”

“Same description as the other Scarface robberies?”

MacLeod nodded.

“And you chased this man through a construction yard in the dark?”

MacLeod nodded again.

Hart looked around the room of assembled officers. “Let’s learn from this, people. Is it safe to pursue an armed robber alone into a dark construction yard? Or would it be better to set up a perimeter and wait for backup?”

“She had backup.” Chisolm stared coldly at Lt. Hart. The thin white scar that ran from Chisolm’s temple to his chin pulsed with hatred.

“Sir,” MacLeod said calmly, “perhaps this is something you would like to discuss with my lieutenant?”

Hart blanched as if just struck with a one-two punch. The tension in the room had jumped noticeably and a couple of day-shifters chuckled surreptitiously at Hart’s dilemma.

Typical, Winter thought. Hart wasn’t diddly on the street and now he is the ultimate Monday-morning quarterback. It was no wonder Scarface hadn’t been caught yet, with people like Hart directing the response. Winter admired MacLeod for standing up to him. The girl had grit.

Hart recovered quickly, brushing aside the exchange. “I understand the suspect fired several shots at officers. A trainee was wounded. Yours, I think, Tom?”

A rumble erupted from the tables. Winter shook his head in disbelief. Officers were involved in a shooting last night and Hart leads off the briefing with stolen vehicles and some community program?

Chisolm appeared to ignore the grumbling and locked his glare onto Hart. “It will be in my report, Lieutenant.” He then lowered his eyes to the paper in front of him and resumed writing.

Winter smiled, glad his back was to Hart. Another bureaucrat trying to screw with Tom Chisolm. Good luck, Al. You haven’t been successful yet.

Hart moved on. “This is the eleventh robbery in two weeks. The department is starting to look like the Keystone Kop Brigade. Double…no, triple your checks of all convenience stores and fast food restaurants. Everyone understand? And you might want to think about canceling breakfast until this guy is caught. It looks bad to see four police cars at a restaurant with Scarface out robbing places.”

Screw you, Hart, Winter thought, knowing everyone in the room shared his sentiment.

“Anyone have anything for the shift?”

No reply.

“Okay, then, hit the streets.” There was a scraping of chairs as everyone stood and gathered their gear. Hart shifted his gaze to Chisolm. “Officer Chisolm, I’ll need to see you in my office.”

Chisolm nodded. “As soon as my report is complete.”

“No, now.”

“Lieutenant, the Captain wants a copy of this report on his desk right away, since there was an injury and shots fired.” Chisolm spoke in an even voice.

“Fine,” Hart’s tone was curt. “As soon as you finish.”

“Yes, sir,” Chisolm answered, his respect a hollow echo.

Hart gathered his papers and left the room.

What a prick, Winter thought. From the look on his face, Thomas Chisolm was thinking the exact same thing.

0643 hours

Breakfast was holy writ for the day tour. Everyone knew it, including the radio dispatchers. Day shift dispatchers routinely held low-priority report calls to allow the officers their break. The oft-given justification was that once things got busy, there was a strong chance that the officer would not get a lunch later on. This was rarely true.

Eliza’s Cafe was seven blocks from the station and a favorite of the south-side day tour. Winter arrived to find Will Reiser and Mark Ridgeway already half a cup down.

“Can you believe that prick Hart?” Reiser asked Winter as he sat down.

“Been that way since he got the gold bar,” Winter responded, waving at Eliza and mouthing the word coffee.

Ridgeway, a seventeen-year veteran who was one of the fittest men on the department, sat glumly at the table. His craggy face pinched into a scowl. “Hart,” he said in a bitter voice, “is so stupid he couldn’t find his ass with both hands and a flashlight.”

Eliza brought Winter’s coffee. “What are we chuckling about today, my evil little policeman?”

For a woman who looked like everyone’s grandmother, Winter was often surprised at what came out of her mouth.

“We were discussing the virtues of our superior officers,” Reiser told her with a wink.

“Oh, you mean what a horse’s patoot Lieutenant Alan Hart has become.” Eliza returned the wink before turning to Winter. “The usual, Karl?”

Karl considered the offer, then declined. “Just coffee this morning, sweetie.”

Eliza shrugged. “Is anyone going to eat this morning?”

“Gio will,” Reiser said. “Hart volunteered him for something at roll call. You can probably start the French toast now.”

Eliza walked away, saying, “If he doesn’t show, I’m charging you for it, William Reiser the Third.”

Reiser grinned.

The three men talked easily for several minutes, though Winter and Reiser carried the conversation. Ridgeway muttered an occasional response, then returned to sipping his coffee.

Ten minutes later, Anthony Giovanni entered and slumped into his seat. He looked at each of the three men in turn, then asked, “Is that Hart a raging prick or what?”

All three men nodded sympathetically.

Giovanni continued. “Try to tell the guy why there are no volunteers and I get hammered.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” Ridgeway said, stroking his short mustache.

“And who the hell else calls me ‘Tony’? No one has ever called me that. Even my own parents don’t.” He shook his head. “It’s like some kind of harassment. That’s what it is. I should call my Guild rep and file a grievance.”

“Why don’t you?” Winter asked.

Giovanni shrugged. “It is overtime.”

“Charlie-257 and a unit to back,” squawked the portable radios of all four men.

Giovanni cursed. “I just checked out here.” Then to radio, “-257, go ahead.”

“An alarm, 5103 E. Trent, KayPlus parts. No zoning.”

Giovanni copied the call and looked at all three men. “That vindictive wench.”

All three immediately understood. Thirty-two year old Giovanni was one of the youngest men on day shift. Fit, tall and dark, he made use of his physical assets when it came to dating. A self-proclaimed womanizer, Giovanni made no bones about his intentions and he made no promises. And given that, he couldn’t understand what the hell was wrong with all these women who ended up hating him so much.

Irina was the third dispatcher Giovanni had dated briefly and then stopped calling. In each case, he ended up getting hammered on calls for quite some time after the breakup.

Winter chuckled. He didn’t really approve of Giovanni’s dating habits, but he had to admit he had lived vicariously through him on occasion. Twenty-four years of marriage, even a happy marriage, was not as outwardly exciting as Giovanni’s many conquests.

“I’ll take it,” Reiser said, finishing his coffee and notifying radio. Ridgeway did the same. All four men could hear the slight tone of irritation as Irina copied their transmissions.

“You know,” Reiser said as he left, “Janice would not let this type of thing go on. She might not be a supervisor but she would still put that Irina in line right now.” He snapped his fingers.

“Too bad she went to graveyard,” Ridgeway muttered as he walked away. “Abandoned us.”

Eliza arrived and put a huge plate of French toast in front of Giovanni.

“My God, Eliza, I can’t eat all of this,” he protested.

“You’ll eat it and you’ll like it, Anthony Vittorio Giovanni,” Eliza told him, pouring him a cup of coffee and refilling Winter’s cup.

“I won’t eat all day and night after this,” Giovanni muttered and dug into the pile of buttered, syrupy bread. In between bites, he complained bitterly to Winter about Irina. He didn’t understand what her problem was. They went out, they had fun, they had some great sex and now he was done. He didn’t want to be tied down, he wasn’t looking for a relationship and he had told her that right from the beginning. Well, maybe not the very beginning, but pretty early on.

Poor Gio, thought Winter. He really doesn’t understand.

Even though he knew it was probably pointless, he tried to explain. “Gio, listen. Everyone knows your reputation. Still, a lot of women think maybe they’re the one that can change you.”

Giovanni snorted around a mouthful of food. “Fat chance. There ain’t a woman alive.”

Winter didn’t answer. He hated to admit that twenty-four years ago, there was a man who felt and acted much the same way. That man had been wrong. And the woman’s name had been Mary.

0854 hours

Chisolm was almost two hours into overtime when he burned off a copy of his report on the copier and put it in the Captain’s box. He turned the original into Sgt. Poole, since his own sergeant had already gone home. Poole accepted the report woodenly, skimmed it and scratched his initials on the bottom before Chisolm had even made it out of the office.

So much for supervisory review, Chisolm thought as he left the office. Tired and in a bad mood, he was not particularly looking forward to seeing Hart.

Hart was waiting for him in the shift commander’s office. Chisolm knocked and stood by while the lieutenant continued to write something. Chisolm doubted it was anything important and figured Hart just wanted to make him wait.

After almost a minute, Hart looked up. “Come in. Close the door.”

Chisolm obeyed.

A plastic chair faced the desk. Chisolm once heard that Hart had purposefully brought in a small chair that sat low to the ground to intimidate his visitors. Hart made no offer for Chisolm to be seated. Chisolm made no move toward the chair. A brief, silent battle of wills ensued until Hart surrendered.

“Officer Chisolm,” he said with exaggerated formality, “as you know, I am the Officer-in-charge of the FTO program. I would like your appraisal of Officer Trainee Maurice Payne.”

Chisolm set his briefcase on the chair. “Lieutenant, I have been quite specific in my reports.”

“Nonetheless, I would like a verbal to-date report,” Hart insisted.

“Fine.” Chisolm crossed his arms and gave Hart a hard look. “I think that Trainee Payne should be dismissed.”

“On what grounds?”

“Incompetence.”

“Incompetence?” Hart raised his eyebrows. “Explain.”

“It’s all in my reports,” Chisolm repeated.

Hart raised his voice, “I want a verbal explanation right now, Officer Chisolm. Is that clear?”

“Clear.” Chisolm bit off the word.

“Now, on what grounds do you feel he should be dismissed?” Hart clearly enjoyed his power trip.

Chisolm sniffed a short breath, and then began. “Quite simply, Lieutenant, he is not cut out to be a police officer. His officer safety is almost non-existent, his knowledge of the city streets is poor and his judgment under stress is almost always wrong.”

“His previous two FTOs rated him better than that,” Hart pointed out.

“They were too easy on him. Besides, one of his tours was swing shift and he frequently got tied up on early calls. He can establish rapport with people and his high marks are generally in those areas.” Chisolm paused. “He has weakness in every area except that one.”

“Not tough enough, huh?” Hart’s voice was sarcastic.

“The kid is afraid of his own shadow.”

“That kid,” Hart reminded him, “is going to get several stitches in his face.”

Chisolm shrugged. He knew a lot of officers with scars.

Hart stood and walked around to the side of the desk. He sat on the edge and affected a pleasant expression. “Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh, Tom? I mean, I had my share of difficulties early on.” He smiled a plastic smile. “Hell, we all did as we came up, right? Why are you being so hard on this kid?”

Hart’s transparent chummy mode made Chisolm’s stomach churn. What an arrogant, condescending prick, he thought. “Lieutenant, if you had these kinds of problems as a trainee, maybe you should have been dismissed, too.”

There was a long moment of silence as Hart stared at Chisolm, disbelieving. His face turned white, then red.

“You can’t talk to me like that!” he yelled, spittle flying from his lips.

Chisolm stood stock-still, his countenance unchanging.

Hart’s face and hands trembled with fury. “You…you’re hereby suspended from the FTO program. I want your daily log, your weekly file and your key to the file cabinet.”

Chisolm showed no surprise. He opened his briefcase and withdrew all three items and dropped them with a thunk on Hart’s desk.

“Payne will be re-assigned to someone who is not such a burn-out,” Hart said through gritted teeth.

“He may need this, then.” Chisolm reached inside his briefcase and withdrew Payne’s pistol. He slammed the weapon down on Hart’s desk. The slide was locked to the rear and the magazine had been removed. Chisolm tossed the magazine to Hart, catching him by surprise. Hart juggled the mag, then dropped it.

Chisolm ignored him, gathered up his briefcase and strode out the door.

1743 hours

Thwack!

Two halves of firewood fell off the splitting block and onto an already sizable pile. Karl Winter stepped forward and tossed them aside into his stacking pile and set another round on the block. He removed the axe and stepped back.

Winter had once heard that cutting wood is a favorite activity of men. That’s because it is hard work and one sees immediate results. Who said that? Mark Twain? Winter wasn’t sure but he agreed with the sentiment.

He set up and swung easily, letting the weight of the axe do most of the work. Two pieces leapt apart as if in pain when the axe struck, landing several feet to each side.

Winter chopped most of his wood in the summer, storing it for the winter season. He hated chopping wood in the cold. Actually, he avoided doing anything in the cold. Besides, there was something satisfying about swinging an axe under the August late afternoon sun and sweating from honest work. Police work was hard, dangerous at times, but not physically demanding, except in small bursts. His protruding belly spoke to the truth of that.

He set up another piece and continued chopping at a leisurely, constant pace. His mind wandered, as it often did, to work issues. This Scarface robber situation bothered him. The guy threatened clerks with a gun and now he was shooting at cops. Add to that the fact that the administration bungled their handling of the situation so far, both within the department and with the media. But most of all, it rankled him that the bastard was getting away with it.

Eleven stores in two weeks.

Winter shook his head in disgust and swung the axe.

Thwack.

Another piece of wood ready for burning in three months.

Winter reviewed the information he had. The description was always the same. The robber made no attempt to disguise himself. He either didn’t care, or. . maybe he wanted to be seen. Which would mean he wore a disguise. Probably the hair. A good wig, maybe, giving him long hair.

What about the scar? He considered the question, but decided it was probably real. One of the clerks would have noticed a fake scar.

So the robber runs out of the store, goes three or four blocks on foot, maybe less, and gets into a car. Every track that Winter knew of ended with the K-9 officer saying the suspect probably used a car. Officers are set up on perimeter and looking for a white male with long black hair on foot. Does he slip out with his short hair and in a car?

Maybe.

Winter swung the axe lightly, sticking it into the block. He began to stack the wood.

Probably not, though. An officer would stop someone that even vaguely matched the description, car or not. And how close did you have to be to see the scar? He might be able to slip out two or three times, but not eleven.

So what then?

Winter shook his head and tossed the wood into the stack. He knew the detectives in Major Crimes had more information they weren’t putting out to patrol. Part of it was security and some it was the ridiculous game of ownership. They wanted to keep the information to themselves and they wanted to catch the bad guy instead of patrol. After all, why waste information on a bunch of patrolmen? They were just cops who weren’t smart enough to make detective, right?

Winter frowned. He had to stop hanging out with Ridgeway. He was getting more negative by the day.

He returned to the puzzle at hand. So the robber gets in the car and drives away… or maybe someone else is driving?

An accomplice?

Winter smiled. Of course.

A woman. That’s how he does it.

Winter resisted the urge to hoot and holler. Hot damn, it was so easy once you saw it!

He robs the store, then runs to the car and hops in. He lays down in the back seat or something. Maybe covers up with a blanket. The woman driver gets on an arterial and drives two miles an hour under the speed limit in one direction. Five minutes later, they are way out of the area and safe. All the cops in the city are either back near the store that he just robbed or they are running lights and siren to get there.

Not bad. I’ll bet that is how he does it.

With the last piece stacked, Winter returned to the chopping block and with exuberance cut a few more pieces. He wondered if the detectives or the crime analysis unit had figured this out yet. He wondered whether he should share the idea, or give the detectives a dose of their own medicine.

Then he wondered why this guy felt like he had to rob a store every day and a half. That was a hell of a lot of exposure.

Winter’s brow furrowed.

Drugs? Probably.

He set up a piece of wood and stepped back to chop it. Another small mystery solved.

The back door opened and Mary approached carrying a glass of iced tea. Winter admired her slender frame for a moment, but found himself drawn as usual to her face and to the laughing eyes that stared into him. Her dark hair was pulled back into a clip. He smiled when he noticed the single large strand that always pulled free and hung loosely on her cheek.

“Take a break, Grizzly Adams,” she said lightly, handing him the tall glass.

Winter took it and drank deeply. Mary’s tea had always been bitter, something he’d never had the heart to tell her. Eventually, he’d grown to like the taste. Inside the house, he could hear the stereo playing and recognized a Springsteen tune, Thunder Road. He lowered the glass and let out a satisfied sigh.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome.” She smiled at him and Winter felt his heart melt. Forty-four years old, and she still made him feel like a schoolboy.

Winter remembered when he would play Springsteen songs for her on his acoustic guitar. His voice was horrible and his guitar playing barely mediocre, but he had passion. He took several rock songs and slowed them down, doing them acoustically and, he tried, romantically.

Her favorite was Thunder Road, partially because the woman in it was named Mary. Years later, Springsteen himself did an acoustic version of that song on M-TV. Winter broke his vow never to watch that channel and tuned in for the show. After it was over, Mary leaned against him and kissed his temple. He could still remember her warm breath in his ear as she whispered, “I liked your version better.”

Winter stared at her and took another drink of the bitter tea. It was cold. Mary looked back at him with a small smile playing on her lips.

“Are you going to chop wood all day?” she asked coyly.

Winter glanced at the dying sun, then back at her. He shook his head. “No. Not all day.”

Mary took the iced tea from his hand and set it on the chopping block. She gathered both his hands in hers and led him up the back steps to their house.

Karl Winter forgot all about the Scarface robberies.