Under a Raging Moon

TWO

Sunday, August 14th

Graveyard Shift

2010 hours

Stefan Kopriva blocked the punch and twisted to his right, snapping out a short round kick toward Shen’s abdomen. The lithe sergeant dropped his elbow, catching the top of Kopriva’s foot with the point.

Kopriva grunted in pain, but pulled the foot back and fired it at Shen’s head.

Shen leaned away from the kick, then slid underneath and swept Kopriva’s supporting leg out from under him.

Kopriva fell hard to the mat, his breath whooshing out.

Shen remained merciless, dropping next to him and reaching in for a chokehold.

Kopriva rolled out of range and stood up without using his hands. Shen pounced upon him almost instantly, flicking a punch toward his face. Kopriva blocked it with his left and countered with a straight right to Shen’s rib cage. It landed with a solid thud. Shen exhaled with a grunt and stepped back.

“Time!” yelled Chisolm.

Kopriva and Shen bowed to each other and shook hands, both breathing heavily.

“Nice work, Stef,” Shen said.

Kopriva shook his head. “Nice work? Nah, that foot sweep you made was excellent. That was nice work.”

Shen rubbed his ribs. “That last punch will stick with me for a bit.”

They thanked Chisolm for timing the round. The veteran officer winked at Kopriva. “Any chance to see someone beat on a sergeant, I’m there,” he said, and returned to the weight bench and resumed lifting.

Shen laughed. “I’m sure that’s a common sentiment.”

“Depends on the sergeant,” Chisolm said his voice straining as he curled the hand weights, “but I can’t discriminate.” He grimaced with effort, trying to affect a smile.

Kopriva walked with Shen from the gym down the hall to the locker room. He knew that some of the other graveyard patrolmen called him ‘Sergeant’s Boy’ because he sparred with Shen a few times a week. He didn’t care. They also called him a ‘Code-Four Cowboy,’ because he didn’t like calling for back-up, but so what?

Sticks and stones.

At his locker, he undressed and headed for the shower. The hot water felt good as it cascaded down his body. When he returned to his locker and began dressing, he read through the small phrases of positive self-talk taped to the inside of his locker door. They served to get him into the right mind-set for patrol every night. He always paused at the final one.

I will survive, no matter what, even if I am hit.

Below that, he had written I am a warrior, in mind, body and spirit.

Kopriva slipped his bulletproof vest over his head and secured the straps into place. A warrior’s armor.

Below the positive self-talk, he’d hung a narrow bamboo wall hanging. Painted upon the horizontal bamboo slats were a Japanese style tiger and a yellowing moon, tendrils of smoke or clouds snaking across it. It had been a gift from his sensei when he achieved his black belt two years ago. He called it “Tiger Under a Raging Moon” and said that the brooding cat reminded him of Kopriva.

Now, two years later, Kopriva still wasn’t quite sure why.

He strapped his duty belt into place and removed his.40-caliber Glock pistol from the holster. A quick check showed a full magazine and one in the pipe. He slid the gun back into the holster, closed his locker and made his way to roll call.

2100 hours

“Listen up,” Lieutenant Robert Saylor said as he stepped to the lectern at the front of the room.

The drill hall fell silent.

Saylor read through a couple of administrative memos, then paused and looked out at the assembled group of police officers.

“Last night,” he began, “we had officers fired upon by the Scarface robber. One of them was injured when a bullet struck a spotlight. That’s going to be a charge of attempted murder, or at least first-degree assault, when Scarface is apprehended. And it is one more very good reason to catch this son of a bitch.”

General agreement murmured through the room.

“El-tee?” Chisolm said, lifting his hand in the air.

Saylor nodded for him to continue.

“I believe this guy might have a military background,” Chisolm said. “He went over that fence infantry style. Besides that, he fired a shot our direction almost as soon as he landed.”

Saylor considered. “Did you get that information to Renee in Crime Analysis?”

Chisolm nodded. “I sent a copy of my report along with a note.”

“Good work.” Saylor turned his attention to the rest of the patrol officers. “That information should heighten your caution, ladies and gentlemen. This guy may not be some doped up mope who doesn’t know which end of the barrel is the working end. He may know your tactics and your abilities, so be careful.”

Saylor let his eyes flick from one face to another, holding each for just a moment before moving on. “I can’t stress this enough. Be safe. All right?”

The assembled group muttered assent.

“Okay,” Saylor said. “Then if no one has anything else, let’s hit it.”

2213 hours

Katie MacLeod wrote the traffic citation. Her pen skipped through the boxes, filling them in almost without thought. The driver had failed to stop for a red light and narrowly missed colliding with another car in the middle of the intersection. Katie had briefly considered arresting him for reckless driving, but the driver was immediately apologetic and obviously shaken up. A ticket for the red light violation would be more than enough.

As she wrote, Katie glanced up and around every few seconds. While this vigilance may have seemed extreme to the civilian onlooker, it had become second nature for her. Inattention was the number one reason officers got killed. A bit of caution went a long way.

Cautious like last night, Katie?

She exhaled deeply. That had been scary, running through the darkness after a guy with a gun. Then hearing shots ring out, not knowing if he was shooting back at her. She remembered how frightened and detached she had been at the same time, and how the roof of her mouth had itched strangely.

Katie took another deep breath. She filled in the Municipal Code for the red light violation and the fine. Images of the dark construction yard flashed through her mind. She shut them off and exited the car.

At the offender’s vehicle, she stood behind the doorpost. The driver was leaning forward with his forehead resting on the steering wheel. He didn’t notice her presence.

“Sir?”

The driver sat up immediately and turned to face her. Her positioning forced him to look over his own shoulder.

“Yes, officer?”

“Sir, what I have for you here is a citation for failing to stop for a steady red light. I need you to sign here,” she pointed. “Your signature is not an admission of guilt, merely a promise to respond.”

She handed him the pen and noticed his hand shook as he took it and signed his name.

“I’m so, so sorry, officer,” he said as he handed the pen back.

Katie nodded. “I can see that, sir. That’s why I didn’t arrest you for reckless driving.”

“I appreciate that.”

Katie tore off his copy of the ticket and handed it to him. “Instructions on how to respond are on the back. You have fifteen days. Do you have any questions?”

The driver shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

Katie gave him a nod and returned to her vehicle. Out of habit, she kept her eye on the offending vehicle as she did so. The driver signaled carefully and pulled back into traffic.

As she reached her own vehicle, a man approached her from the sidewalk. She watched him carefully.

“Can I help you, sir?”

The man lifted the bill of his baseball cap and nodded. “Yeah. I was in the car that guy almost hit. I was wondering, does he have any insurance?”

Katie paused. “Did he cause you to run into something?” She hadn’t seen any collision, but maybe she missed something.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “But he scared me half to death. Does he have insurance?”

“He did,” Katie told him.

“Can I get the policy number?”

Katie struggled not to show her disbelief. “Sir, there was no accident. He ran a red light and was cited for that.”

“He ran a red light and almost killed me is what happened!”

Katie nodded her understanding. “And I will put exactly what happened in my report.”

“You will?”

“Absolutely.”

The man gave a tug on his cap, considered a moment, then said in a subdued voice, “Well, okay then. But people like that shouldn’t have a license!”

“You’re probably right.”

He watched her for moment before shrugging. “All right then.”

“Have a nice night.”

The man paused again, looking at her. He tugged his cap, adjusted his belt-line, then turned and walked back toward his car.

Katie wondered what she would find if she checked his license status. He was probably in suspended status. She cleared her traffic stop with the appropriate code and started thinking about a nice cold Pepsi.

The convenience store at Monroe and Alvarado was considered officer-friendly. Katie pulled into the lot and backed her car into a parking place near the door. She turned her portable radio on as she got out of the car. Since she only planned on being a few minutes, she decided not to check out with radio. It was really none of their business that she needed a drink.

Patrons stared as she entered the store. She could read their minds from the looks on their faces. A woman cop? After almost three years on the job, Katie had grown used to it. Some people were just surprised, others resentful, and some people found it amusing. She had been in several situations where a male suspect did not think she was serious about arresting him. He found out differently, even if it took baton strikes or pepper mace. The tools of her trade didn’t care which gender of hands applied them, as the suspect-now-arrestee discovered.

From the cooler, Katie selected a large bottle of Pepsi and approached the counter.

“Adam-114, Adam-116.”

“Adam-114, Regal and Olympic.” Matt Westboard, a five-year veteran, answered with his location.

Katie answered up, knowing now that everyone listening to the north side channel would know she was on portable and hadn’t checked out. Oh, well.

The dispatcher continued with the call, “A D-V, 2711 N. Waterbury. Complainant lives next door. Says he hears a male and female voice yelling and it sounds violent. The house comes back to a Marc Elliot and Angie Phillips. Checking both names now. 2711 N. Waterbury.”

Katie copied the transmission, set down the Pepsi and hurried to her car. She ignored the fascinated patrons who watched her go. She was only a few blocks away from the house. She knew Westboard was a ways off, but that shouldn’t matter. More frustrated NASCAR driver than cop, he’d make good time.

Katie shot out of the lot with her lights flashing and cut onto a side street. At Howard, one block before Waterbury, she swung north and traveled parallel to the 2700 block. 2711 would be on the west side of the street, she knew, so she parked just west of Waterbury, out of sight.

“Adam-116, on scene,” she told radio.

Exiting the car, she slid her side-handle baton into its holder and walked south through the front yards. The mixed smells of a warm summer night swirled around her in the light wind-gasoline, barbeques and cut grass. When she reached 2711, the third house from the corner, she could hear frenzied yelling inside. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. The reassuring tap of her baton against the back of her leg and the comfortable weight of the gun on her right hip provided welcome reassurance.

A huge tree stood off-center in the yard and Katie took up a position behind it. ‘Thank God for all the trees in River City,’she thought. Not only were they beautiful, but they made excellent cover and concealment.

The screaming and yelling continued. Katie listened carefully but heard only words that she couldn’t make out and some crying. From the sound of things, nothing was being broken. It didn’t sound like an ongoing assault, either. Of course, she reminded herself, that didn’t mean it hadn’t already happened or wouldn’t still happen.

“Adam-116 and -114, Marc Elliot is in with a misdemeanor warrant, which has been confirmed. He has an extensive record, including two convictions for Domestic Violence assault and several controlled substance entries.”

So we’ll be arresting him no matter what, Katie thought pleasantly. The way he was screaming at her, he needed to go to jail.

Katie listened for another long minute before she heard a female voice scream, “No, Marc, I’m sorry!” A cry of pain followed, though she heard no sound of strikes.

She clenched her teeth and debated whether or not to go in alone. Westboard was probably less than a minute away. Still, a minute in a fight is an eternity. Hart’s admonition following her lone pursuit of the guy through the construction yard still rang in her ears.

But if this woman’s been hurt. .

Her decision became moot as a dark figure burst out the front door and hurried down the steps. In the glaring porch light, she could see that his hands were covered in dark red. Blood splattered his face and shirt. Katie immediately spotted a long hunting knife in his right hand. She drew her weapon and pointed it at him.

“Police, don’t move!”

The man turned slowly to face her. His face seemed askew and even at the distance of seven yards, she could see the craziness in his eyes.

“Put the knife down!” she ordered. “Now!”

He continued to stare at her.

Katie keyed her shoulder mike with her left hand. “Adam-116, have him step it up.”

“Copy. Adam-114, step it up. Adam-113?”

“-13, responding.”

“Adam-116.” Katie’s breathing quickened.

“Go ahead.”

“I’ve got the male half here at gunpoint. He’s bloody and armed with a large knife.”

“Copy.”

“I said put the weapon down!” Katie ordered again. She found herself wishing for that cold Pepsi.

The man’s trance-like stare ended and his face slowly broke into a grin. “I am going to carve you up, bitch.” He took a step toward her.

“Drop it!” she said, but her voice broke.

He took another step. His smile widened.

Oh God, she thought, I’m going to have to kill him.

In all the fights she’d been in, she could never remember thinking that someone would die. Wrestled down, punched, kicked, pepper-maced, but not die. She felt a stab of fear in her stomach as adrenaline washed over her. The roof of her mouth itched and beads of sweat popped out on her brow. For a moment, she thought she could smell freshly cut lumber. In the distance, she heard a car door shut.

Elliot took two more steps, reminding her of a lunatic Elmer Fudd.

Be vewwy quiet. .

She almost gave into hysterical laughter at the thought.

Concentrate, goddamn it!

“Stop right there!” she screamed at him, injecting as much force into her voice as she could muster. “Drop your weapon or I will shoot!”

The man slowed to a stop. She breathed a short sigh of relief, but then he chuckled and waved the knife. “Shoot, bitch,” he taunted. “Shoot, you fucking bitch. Shoot me. Shoot me. Shootme, shootme!”

Katie stared at him, trying to gauge just how crazy he was. As if sensing her indecision, he tapped his chest with handle of the knife. “C’mon, you stinking gash! Shoot me! Fucking woman cop slit!”

Katie barely heard the crude insults. She moved her finger from its indexed position into the trigger guard and onto the trigger. She was going to have to kill him.

“Adam-116, an update,” crackled the dispatcher’s voice over her radio. Katie ignored the transmission. With a sure hand, she placed her front sight in the center of the man’s chest.

“Come on, you whore,” he shouted. “Shoot me!”

Could she?

“I don’t want to shoot you,” she said gently, hoping to talk him down. “Just put the knife down.”

He must have taken her tactic as a sign of weakness. His manic grin melted into a mean glare, his teeth gritting hard. He stepped towards her, raising the knife. “I am going to cut you up, bitch. I am going to stick this knife in your-”

He stopped and flinched, waving the knife at his eye as if brushing away a fly. A small red dot was dancing in his eyes.

“Over here.” The voice was flat and deadly.

The suspect looked to his left. Katie followed his gaze and saw Matt Westboard behind a car, his pistol pointed at the suspect’s head.

Westboard tickled his crazy eyes again with the laser sight then moved the small red dot down to his chest.

“You take one more step, motherfucker,” Westboard told him, “and you are a dead man.”

2226 hours

Officer Stefan Kopriva swung the car around the corner as if it were on rails, the roar of the big-block engine loud enough to pierce the sound of his siren as he powered down Nevada Street.

“Adam-116, an update.” The calm in the dispatcher’s voice contrasted with Katie’s adrenaline-laced transmission moments earlier.

Kopriva whipped through the s-curves and cut the wheel hard to the right, turning onto Foothills Drive. He buried the accelerator.

“Adam-116 or Adam-114, an update.”

C’mon, Katie, Kopriva thought, his knuckles white, his forearms rigid as he approached Ruby.

“Answer up,” he whispered. He slowed briefly for the flashing red light at Ruby, checking left for traffic. There were two cars. Both slowed and pulled to the side. He pushed his air horn and blasted through the intersection.

“Adam-114, one in custody, code four.”

“Copy. Code Four, one in custody at 2227 hours.”

Kopriva shut off his siren and let loose a long sigh. He continued on to the scene in case they needed any help.

As he drove, he flexed his fingers and his forearms, working out the tension.