American Criminal (2 page)

   
The baton strike sent Burnside into a semi-conscious state. He was dimly aware, as if it was happening to someone else far away, of the sensation of being carried across the floor on a stretcher. Periodically, he recovered from his daze to see the ceiling moving by above him. He tried to move his arms and discovered he was tied down securely with thick leather straps. He felt exhausted from the ordeal and the situation seemed too hopeless to bother fighting anymore.

    Falling asleep on the stretcher, he began to dream. His mind unconsciously returned to a better time before the horrific incident infected his life like a deadly disease.

    Images from the Police Academy played in his mind like a movie. He flashed back to the drill instructors yelling at him as he stood at attention in a line of recruits. The movement of the stretcher inspired images of running with a group of recruits up a hill with the ever-present drill instructors nipping at their heels shouting arcane motivational slogans. It was tough, but he made it.

    Burnside saw images from his graduation at the Police Academy. He re-experienced the pride he felt as he stood in a line of graduates standing on a wide stage next to a podium, listening to speeches of former police officer instructors. He felt his heart leap as he received his diploma from the head instructor.

    His mind returned to his first day alone in the cruiser, driving through the streets of New York City. After completing four weeks of on-the-job-training, he was considered competent enough to respond to calls alone. It was an incredible feeling to be trusted with the responsibility of protecting the public. He imagined all the potential crisis situations he could be called to at any given moment. He felt like he was on top of the world.

     His mind flashed to the first serious call he responded to. After being on the road alone for several weeks, he received a violent domestic call. He arrived at the housing project and searched for building #8. He eventually found it and screeched up to the front door. Exiting the cruiser, he sprinted to the front door - aware that he was the first officer on the scene.

   
I must have been the closest unit.

    He entered a decrepit front lobby and vaulted up a dirty stairwell toward apartment #413. Despite being in excellent shape, due to his recent Academy graduation, he found himself slightly winded when he reached the fourth floor. Burnside felt adrenaline pulsing through his system as he listened to loud shouts emanating from farther down the hallway. He pulled his radio from its holder with a trembling hand, pressed the switch, and spoke into it with a calm voice.

    "Seventeen forty-two to control," he said.

    "Control," a business-like female voice replied.

    "Arriving at 413 Webster Place."

    "Roger, seventeen forty-two. Seventeen forty-five, are you also heading in that direction?" the dispatcher asked another nearby unit.

    "I'm almost there," a gruff male voice he didn't recognize responded over the radio.

    
At least I have backup on the way. 

    Burnside proceeded down the hallway, trying to remain calm as his heart pounded in his chest like a jackhammer. He winced as he heard the shouting intensify and then a heavy thud like a large object being thrown against a wall. He hesitated at the door, wondering whether he should wait for backup to arrive. His body trembled slightly as he listened to the loud shouts emanating from the other side of the door.

    "You fucking bitch! You should have stayed out of my way! You just can't help yourself! It’s your fault I have to do this!" a male voice shouted from behind the door.

    "I’m sorry, I didn't mean to," a female voice replied through tremulous sobs.

    That decided it for him. He psyched himself up and knocked hard on the door four times with a closed fist, while placing his other hand on the butt of his holstered gun.

    Silence for a moment. And then, a response.

    "Fuck off! This is private property! I can do whatever I want in my own home! Get the fuck out of here!"

    "I don't think so, asshole!" Burnside shouted back, losing his professional demeanor in the heat of the moment. "Open the door now!"

   
Where the fuck is my backup?

    "Look what you did, you fucking bitch! You brought the cops on me! I'm gonna fucking kill you!"

    There was a sickening thud, a heavy object hitting the wall, and then a high-pitched wailing that sent shivers up his spine.

    Instinct kicked in. A feeling of outrage swept through his mind like a violent wind, displacing any thoughts of talking it out with this maniac.

   
That piece of shit is going to fucking kill his wife if I don't do something right now!

    Burnside drew his body back against the far wall for a strike. He used a combination of Academy training and sheer rage to kick in the door. He did it on the first try with the assistance of an adrenaline surge. The door flew open on a scene of carnage and disarray. Burnside stared at a living room that had been completely trashed. Every piece of furniture was smashed or overturned, with the exception of a large couch against the back wall and a television in the corner. A hulking man wearing a stereotypical tank-top style "wife beater” t-shirt stood over a woman cowering on the floor with her arms lifted over her head for protection.

    The psychopath did not turn to face the officer. He continued shouting at the woman on the floor while he pummeled her mercilessly with his fists.

    "Get away from her!" Burnside shouted.

    "Get the fuck out of my house!" the psycho shouted back as he turned and faced him.

    Burnside wasn't shocked to be staring into bloodshot eyes that were glazed over from using drugs or alcohol. The psychopath clenched his fists and charged toward him like an enraged bear.

    Burnside only had a split second to respond. In the Academy, they told him he would not have time to draw his baton if an individual was closing from fifteen feet away or less. Without time to think, he chose the option anyway. He pulled the baton from its holster and brought it back, as he was struck by the two-hundred-fifty pound body of his assailant. Burnside’s one hundred-eighty pounds was pushed across the floor and slammed into the back wall.

    Burnside reflexively dropped his baton as he felt sharp pain shooting through his lower back. The enraged psychopath recovered from his bull-like charge and pummeled his mid-section with closed fists. Burnside felt like he was going to cough up a kidney as vicious pain shot through his abdomen. He instinctively reached for his gun and was shocked to find that one of the psychopath's hands had already closed on the butt of it.

    Once again, Academy training kicked in. Burnside used both of his hands to clamp onto the psychopath's hand and began to violently twist his body back and forth. The psycho screamed as his wrist bent unnaturally from the abrupt movement, and he released his grip on the gun-butt. Burnside seized the opportunity to push the offender away with his left hand, while he drew his 9MM with his right. The psycho stepped back and clutched his sprained wrist - apparently surprised he had been stopped in his attempt to get the gun. Before he could react, Burnside brought the gun to bear on his right shoulder and pulled the trigger.

    A deafening, thunderous blast resounded in the confined space as sparks shot from the barrel of the pistol. A bloody wound opened in the psycho’s shoulder and he clutched at it as he collapsed from the force of the bullet. His heavy body hit the floor with an enormous thud, vibrating the wood panels under Burnside’s feet.

    Burnside continued to train his gun on the fallen psychopath as he cautiously skirted around him and moved toward the woman sitting on the floor against the far wall.

"You fucking shot me! You asshole!" the psychopath wailed, as he began blubbering like a baby.

   Burnside glared at him, contemptuously, as he approached the woman sitting on the floor.

    "Are you all right, ma'am?" he asked.

     She slowly lifted her face toward him and despite all that had happened, he was still shocked when he saw her injuries. She had a bulging purple cheek, cut lip, bruised forehead, and swollen right eye that he was sure she couldn’t see out of. She studied him for an instant with her good eye and glanced over at the hulking body rolling around on the floor.

    "Thank you, officer," she said, wiping tears from her eyes.

    "No problem, ma'am,” he replied.

    Burnside reached down, grabbed her hand, and lifted her to her feet. He couldn't remember feeling as triumphant as he did at that moment. He felt like an action hero from a movie as he helped the woman to her feet and led her toward the door. Then, just like a movie, he heard footsteps approaching in the hall and saw an older officer walk through the door. The second officer stared gape-mouthed at the carnage, as if he had never responded to a violent call in his career. He glanced down at the bulky body passed out on the floor and looked back at Burnside, who was still supporting the injured woman with his right arm.

    "I’ll call an ambulance," the older officer said.

    "Good idea," Burnside said, rolling his eyes.

    There was an investigation into the shooting. The injured woman's testimony, combined with the evidence at the scene, supported the legitimate use of self-defense. The fact that the psychopath outweighed him by almost eighty pounds didn't hurt his case either. The psycho also had enough cocaine in his system to power up a small third world country. Burnside was cleared of any wrongdoing and he gained a new respect from his colleagues. After that, they stopped treating him like a rookie and began inviting him to all the cop social events. He was once again on top of the world.

    Burnside actually smiled as he lay asleep, dreaming. He opened his eyes when he felt someone touching his arm. He was in a hospital room lying strapped-down on a cot. He looked up and saw a nurse strapping a blood pressure cuff on his right bicep. Glancing right, he saw a grim-faced police officer standing by the door with his arms folded across his chest. A second officer was standing in the hallway outside talking to another nurse. The reality of his situation came flooding back to him with surreal, nightmarish clarity. He went in an instant from feeling like he was on top of the world to falling into a deep chasm where no light or hope could reach.

Chapter 3

Brain-scan

    A second nurse entered the room to draw blood. Burnside wasn’t worried because he had never minded needles. He watched the sharp tip pierce his skin, felt the quick sting, and felt fully alive for the first time since waking up from his dream. He enjoyed the sensation of the viscous red liquid being sucked out of his arm. Blood was life. If he could bleed, he was alive. When he thought about prison, he felt half-alive like an animated corpse.

    When the nurse left, Burnside closed his eyes. Images from the courtroom brawl invaded his mind like a burglar in the night. He imagined the scene in complete detail from his reaction to the verdict to the court officer’s baton knocking him into oblivion. He opened his eyes and concentrated on the blank wall ahead, trying to block out everything else.

    Burnside heard footsteps and turned to see a pretty, young brunette EMT and an overweight male orderly enter the room. The orderly grabbed the end of the cot near Burnside’s feet and shoved it from the back while the female EMT guided it from the front. The cot’s wheels squeaked as they pushed him across the floor. Burnside glanced down and saw the ugly, hairy orderly with the crew-cut glaring down at him with apparent contempt. When he looked up, he saw the pretty EMT’s soft white chin.

    That’s a much better view.

    They wheeled him through an emergency room brimming with frenetic activity. He could see people moving around in his peripheral vision, but he couldn’t tell what they were doing. The noise from a dozen different conversations assailed him.

    Things quieted down as they led him out of the ER. He tried moving his arms again, but the leather straps were secure. Glancing left, he saw one of his police escorts walking alongside the stretcher. The cop was young and powerfully built with a shaved head and a perpetual scowl on his clean-shaven mug. Looking past the burly shoulders of the ugly male EMT, Burnside saw the other officer following behind. He was older, with gray hair and a mustache. He looked shorter and thinner than the younger cop.

   
Only two officers. I like the odds
, Burnside thought.

    He stared at the ceiling moving above him as they wheeled him down what appeared to be an endless labyrinth of corridors. Finally, they arrived in a white-walled room that looked a lot like the one he had just been in.

    “How long is this MRI going to take?” the younger cop asked.

    “Not long. Maybe ten minutes,” the female EMT replied.

     Burnside saw the officers eye each other nervously and then look down at him as if he was a volatile lab specimen.