Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (2 page)

Her plan backfires, opening floodgates of wrath. “You have no idea how I feel, bitch! You are
all
the same. You think you can do whatever you want and then cry your way out of it. You make excuses for all that you do.”

Sarah can sense an unadulterated evil mounting in his voice with every word, and she gets the sense he’s doing all he can to hold it back.

“I’ve given her every chance to tell the truth. She cannot tell the truth. She is a lying, cheating whore, and she
is
going to die!” The audio over the line changes. Sarah realizes he has put the call on speakerphone, and before she can respond, he begins screaming out his hatred in the background. “You fucking fantasy! You think you can fuck my friends and get away with it! You believe I do not have the
power
to do something!”

Then for the first time, Sarah can hear the woman in the room. “Mmm… mm…mm.”

“I have the power! I have all the power from God to make you suffer!”

Between his screams all kinds of other noises fill the studio: some Sarah can make out, like a chair being thrashed about and the strained sounds of struggling.

“Mmmrr…mmrrr…mrrraahh!”

More thrashing, and caller Unknown roaring, “Die, you fucking lying, disgraceful whore—die!”

“Mmmraghh! Mmmrr! Mmmrr!”

Then suddenly it all comes to a stop. There’s mostly silence on both ends of the line, only heavy breathing coming from caller Unknown.

“Caller, talk to me. Caller!” she shouts, panicked and disarrayed. Fear surrounds her, and she’s not even sure she wants his answer.

Before she can discern her thoughts, she hears him taking in a deep breath and exhaling the words, “She got what she deserved. They all did!”

The line goes dead.

.

Chapter Two

T
hirty-five minutes earlier.

“Eleven…”

“Okay.”

“Seventeen…”

“Uh-huh.”

“Twenty-four…”

“All right, come on baby.”

“Thirty-two…”

“Damn.”

“Thirty-seven…”

“Damn.”

“And the power ball number is forty-two…”

“Ah, to hell with it anyway!” he grumbles to himself, sitting alone at the breakfast table. It’s a small table, cramped for two, that’s placed in front of his apartment window with shades pulled. Staring back at him sits a glass jar full of change, a half-eaten plate of eggs covered in Tabasco, a gun, and a badge that reads, “Detective Cools.” Again he glances to the loser lottery ticket, lying crinkled and helpless atop the table, and flicks it away. For another brief moment, he counts his loss and then finishes the eggs while ignoring the mid-morning news playing in the adjacent room. Nothing of interest catches his ear, just the ordinary blah-blah-blah bullshit and the weather.

Today will be cold and rainy—characteristic of Seattle.

The sound of a two-cup coffee pot on the counter means his morning fix is brewed. He pours a cup and lights the second cigarette of the day.

By and large he’s a hostile man, but wasn’t always so. He began his life in a prominent, middle-class family, schooled and raised in the peaceful, mountain suburbs of Redding, California. There he benefited from a good, old-fashioned upbringing that catapulted him into a world ripe with opportunity and optimism. And optimistic he was. He set out to save the world—full of intentions to promote his youthful liberal approach to life.

But then he became a cop. And the years observing people at their worst have taken their toll. All of them—from petty thieves to diseased crack addicts, pedophiles to woman beaters—his job, his life is to take them off the streets only for them to be placed into a corrupt justice system where everyone spends their every breath lying. As a young child, Bradley Cools was taught to always tell the truth, and then into adulthood he took oaths to uphold his integrity. But it’s all been downhill from there.

Now his days teem with untruths from every player in the game. The criminals lie their way out of trouble; once that is accomplished, he and his coworkers lie them back in. Then in the courtrooms, the prosecutors and defense lawyers tell more lies. Enough to rival those told in the jailhouse full of snitches, or even the girlfriends who come during visiting hours.

He finishes his cigarette, drinks the last of the coffee, and rinses the cup in the sink before heading to the bathroom.

Passing the living room, decorated in functional boring, he steps into view of the bathroom mirror, where a smile is forced across his face. The glass reflects a hard, handsome man with strong features that serve as a foundation for frustrated age lines. Cools is, and always has been, good-looking. At six feet tall, sporting wavy black hair, light brown eyes, and a muscular build, he has never gone without attention from the opposite sex. Currently, and for the past two years, he has been dating Chelsea, a pretty woman who has a bit of an insatiable desire to be with him. Together they make the ideal fit. Being something of a wallflower, she thrives on his daring stories, while at the same time soothing his angry and sometimes sarcastic view of the world. And, although he doesn’t realize it, he needs her more than she needs him, and he is lucky to have her.

He finishes his daily grooming with an electric shave that leaves a hint of stubble. Then, already three hours late for work, he makes his way to the front door, checking things off his list: gun, badge, wallet, and so forth. Little does he know that the events soon to take place will offer him two paths, either saving him or plunging him alone into a final downward spiral where even the notion of escape is clouded.

.

Chapter Three

A
t the Seattle Police Department’s downtown precinct, Michelle Robertson, Brad Cools’s partner, sits properly just inside an open cubicle, doing her nails while occasionally glancing at her fellow policemen as they come into view. Everything about a man in uniform keeps her warm and safe inside. Her desk/office for the most part is out in the open for all to see upon entering the station; only one wall separates, and her glamour-magazine look contrasts with the pale, cement-walled ambiance. As viewed by others, she is overaccessorized (even were it the ’80s), wearing multiple earrings and thick makeup over tanned skin. If taken all away, what would be left is a beautiful, married woman with brown highlighted hair, a curvy shape, and metallic-blue eyes, metallic not only for their shimmering blue-gray tint but also for their steadiness.

Today, as the clock is nearing noon, the police station hums lightly with all the usual–boosters in search of their sunrise fix and daytime prostitutes coming in. Going out are the line of last night’s highly inebriated problems that will soon return. Michelle studies them, looking for the ones she’s busted before while her computer grinds away, crunching the new data entered concerning a cold case file assigned to her: one of those all-too-common cases where everyone knows who did it but failed to find enough evidence to prove it in a courtroom. She could care less anyways—it is only a theft, albeit a large one; still, not the kind of case she became a detective to solve. Then annoyingly her desktop phone rings. “Detective Robertson,” she answers. Right away she can tell the 911 operator is rattled. Stating in a lightning-fast pitch that someone has just killed his wife on a live radio broadcast. Michelle drops her nail polish and springs into action, listening intently to the nervous operator, who recounts that KDEX 103.7 FM’s
The Sarah Michaels Show
has traced the call, and reports the local number to her. Quickly, while holding a pen in a handful of wet finger nails, she writes down the number then types it into the computer. Immediately her P.C. comes up with a name: Joshua Siconolfi. The police station now becomes still, leaving only the sounds of the keyboard clicking away as she punches the name into the department’s data-base. The name seems somehow familiar; she’s heard it before but cannot place it. And after a few moments, the screen unfolds his lengthy history.

Joshua P. Siconolfi Height: 6’ 1”

Weight: 185 lbs.

Age: 27

Date of birth: 05/07/1985

Eye color: Hazel

Last known address: 2018 Crestwood Ln., Seattle, WA 92443

Marital status: Married; Kimberly Siconolfi

Then his picture pops up. It’s a six-month-old mug shot of a bronzed and very fit
GQ
type. “Oh, you are a handsome boy,” she says softly. But who are you? she wonders. Then the page begins to fill.

Convicted Felon—Violent Criminal—Gun Restricted

05/20/2012: First Degree Arson, St. Luke’s Parish: dismissed due to lack of evidence

06/16/2011: Disorderly Conduct: thirty days in jail

04/02/2006: Violation of No-Contact Order, Sherry Hill: charges dropped

06/22/2005: Third Degree Vehicular Assault, Sherry Hill: plea bargain, one year

11/12/2003: Domestic Violence, Sherry Hill: trial/not guilty

04/04/2003: DUI: deferred program, completed

01/27/2003: Domestic Violence, Sherry Hill: dismissed

09/15/2002: DUI: dropped to reckless driving/probation

08/29/2001: DUI: dismissed

Now Michelle remembers Joshua, and it doesn’t have anything to do with three DUI’s, rather everything to do with Sherry Hill. Suddenly the picture of the good looking man on the screen morphs into a monster. A cold chill enters her and runs its course through her veins; her palms dampen. She whips in her chair to check anything or anyone creeping from behind. Then leaving the 911 operator on hold, she dials her partner. She holds the phone away as not to smear her sweating make-up and speaks loudly into the handset. “Brad, listen…Joshua Siconolfi…do you remember him?”

“Of course I do,” he replies, with a hint of exhilaration in his voice.

“Well, someone just called a radio show from his residence, and the situation seems to be that he’s killed his wife.”

Cools, driving down a busy street, can tell her voice is shaking but doesn’t comment. “Give me an address.”

She relays the information.

“I’m on my way!” he yells. Then, using his years of experience, he skillfully cranks the wheel and taps the brake pedal, spinning the cruiser one hundred eighty degrees, in heavy traffic. His cell phone slides across the seat, dropping to the floor mat. And soon he is speeding, shouting to the windshield, “I always said this creep would kill somebody someday!” I should have set him up years ago.

“Brad…Brad, are you there?” Her worried voice bounces around the floorboard amid sounds of her partner’s car being pushed to its limits and his screaming in the background. “Brad…Brad!” she shrieks, now concerned as to what he might do. Giving up, she calls in other responding officers over the radio. Moving pictures flood her mind of him recklessly steering through busy downtown streets, yelling for shoppers to clear the way. She says a quick prayer and finds a moment of relief to hear other units are on the way. Then noticing the 911 operator line still flashing, she picks it up for more information, only to hear the previously recorded
Sarah Michaels Horror Show
.

On the other side of the city, the late-morning traffic travels along at 55 mph, bearing unhappy faces that curse the assholes they follow. Most of them almost spill their coffees—startled by a cop-car speeding by at nearly 95 mph. Joshua has eluded his grip before, but today opens a new page. Today he’ll receive the justice he deserves.

Taking a hard right, his phone slides back within a reachable distance. He picks it up and snaps it shut just as it rings again.

Michelle’s voice shakes over the air like an early-morning bed wetter discovered by an abusive father. “Brad…oh…Brad, you need to listen to this!” She plays the recording.

At first, even he is held frozen in disbelief. “That’s fucking it!” he shouts. He’s heard all he needs to hear, stood by more than he should have, and he knows what must be done. Today someone who’s had it coming for a long time is going to get what they deserve; today Brad Cools is going to kill an evil. His reasoning is simple: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and a life for a wife!

And wanting to know what his chances are of pulling off a successful, well-executed accident, he asks, “Michelle, are there any other officers on the scene?”

“Brad, don’t!”

He slides the cruiser sideways around a tight left turn. “Tell me now. Are there other officers on the scene?”

She replies in haste, “Fine then…how far away are you?”

“I’m about ten minutes away.”

She leans close to her desk, covering the phone to speak privately to him. “Be careful, Brad. Don’t do anything you don’t have to, okay?”

“I won’t,” he replies, not assuring her. “Now tell me, are there any other officers?”

A short, uncertain silence follows. Michelle lets out a frustrated sigh. Then she hears some news from dispatch. “Well, it sounds like there are a few closer than you,” she says, sensing relief.

Not getting the answer he wanted, he snaps his cell phone shut, cutting her off. Then he switches his radio over to dispatch and, in a calm voice, says, “This is Detective Cools. I need to have immediate contact with all officers en route to the Siconolfi residence.”

“Give me a second,” dispatch replies. There’s a pause. “Okay, Detective Cools, I have you connected to the lead officer closest to the scene.”

“Who am I speaking to?” Cools asks forcefully.

“Officer Renker. And I’m four blocks from the Siconolfi residence, on Applewood Street, waiting for backup.”

“Don’t move! I need you to hold back. The suspect is armed and dangerous, and is
not
to know you are there until I arrive. Do you understand?”

“Affirmative. And I know this neighborhood well. I can set up in the alley to protect against any escape from the rear.”

“Okay,” Cools agrees, “but take another car with you, and remember, he’s to be considered extremely dangerous; be fully prepared to take him out if you have to!”

His cruiser angles the corner onto Applewood, where he finds two other squad cars waiting and another coming in from the opposite direction. Attempting to keep a low profile, it’s his first turn without squealing tires in the past seven minutes. He switches off the overhead lights and exits the car expediently. The other men do the same, and without any words, and as if trained for this specific scenario, they assemble into a football huddle in the middle of the street. The officer to his left is a short man; to his right, a young pale rookie—probably on his first call—and in front of him, a bony redhead donning a frightened smile. It’s a motley crew, but the only thing Cools cares about is that they all seem eager to be involved.