RCC03 - Beneath a Weeping Sky (6 page)

Katie waited until Shen glanced down at the clipboard and shot Battaglia the bird.

“Promises, promises,” Battaglia said with a grin.

“Nice comeback, Potsie,” Sully told him. He popped open the trunk and inventoried the contents.

Katie shook her head and headed to an empty car near the end of the line. She passed Westboard, who was busy inspecting the outside of the car with his flashlight for any damage.

“Forget Battaglia. I’ve got dibs on that shirt,” he kidded her. “What did the El-Tee want, anyway?”

“Nothing much,” Katie said, before breaking into a huge smile. “He just wanted to tell me I got that vacant FTO position.”

Westboard grinned and gave her a thumbs up. “Way to go! That’s great.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll buy you coffee later to celebrate,” he said.

“Sounds good.”

“See you then,” Westboard said and returned to inspecting the car.

Katie continued down the line of cars. The last in line turned out to be one of the newest ones in operation. The faintest hint of new car smell still hovered inside. Katie strapped her patrol bag into the passenger seat and checked the car into service. After a quick check in the trunk and the exterior for damage, she opened the back door and searched the back seat where the prisoners were transported. She found nothing and that was a good thing. Sometimes prisoners dumped items back there.

Katie cleared and reloaded the shotgun, tested the lights and then waited in line for her chance to head out the sally port. One by one, the police cars zipped out of the basement and onto the street. Their exit was punctuated by the chirp of tires and a quick siren test at the top of the sally port.

The cool night air streamed through the windows, the clean smell of earlier rainfall riding on it. Katie turned the heater on low. She took a deep breath of the fresh air and prepared for whatever River City had to throw at her.

2316 hours

“Adam-122?”

Officer Anthony Battaglia reached for the mike. “Twenty-two, go ahead.”

“Respond to the area of 400 West Cleveland. Complainant states she saw a man in dark clothing acting suspicious in the alley. Requested police response. 400 block of West Cleveland.”

“Copy,” Battaglia answered. “Is the complainant requesting contact?”

“Negative.”

Battaglia clicked the mike and hung it back on the holder.

“That’s right near Corbin Park,” Sully said, flipping a U-turn and heading that direction.

“Duh. So what?”

“So, Corbin Park is just a little south of Clemons Park.”

Battaglia clapped his hands together in slow, exaggerated applause. “Your orientation skills are impressive.”

Sully shook his head. “Clemons Park is where that rape happened.”

“What rape?”

“Tower’s rape. The one the lieutenant mentioned at roll call.”

“The lieutenant talks at roll call?”

Sully sighed. “Yeah. You probably missed it, dreaming about linguini or something.”

“Just like an Irishman,” Battaglia said. “Jealous because Italian food is good food.”

Sully turned onto Post and headed north. “What are you talking about? Irish food is good food.”

“Right.”

“It is.”

“Sure it is. That’s why there’s an Italian restaurant on every corner and there isn’t a single Irish restaurant in this city.”

“Just because Americans don’t go ga-ga over Irish food doesn’t mean it isn’t good.”

Battaglia began ticking off on his fingers. “Spaghetti, lasagna, chicken parmesan, baked ziti, pizza—”

“Shut up.” Sully took a right onto Cleveland.

Battaglia shrugged, looking out the window. “You’re just pissed because all you can offer up is haggis.”

“Haggis is Scottish,” Sully corrected.

“Same thing.”

“Not even close. The two countries are separated by the Irish Sea. That’s like me saying Italy and Greece are the same even though the Adriatic Sea—”

“Right there!” Battaglia said, pointing south.

Sully braked. “Where?”

“The alley there! Back up, quick!”

Sully threw the patrol car into reverse and backed up into the intersection. As he cranked the wheel, Battaglia grabbed the microphone.

“Adam-122 on scene,” he said. “Also.”

Sully goosed the accelerator and the patrol car leapt forward.

“The alley eastbound,” Battaglia said, pointing. “I saw a guy duck back into the darkness there.”

“Okay.”

“Adam-122, copy. Go ahead your also.”

Battaglia pressed the mike button. “We might have that suspicious male here in the south alley on the six hundred block of Cleveland.”

“Copy. Adam-112 to back?”

“Copy.”
Chisolm’s steady voice came through the radio.

Sully rolled slowly down the alley, activating the overhead lights, bright takedown lights and the alley lights on the sides of the light bar. He turned on the spotlight and used his left hand to search with it between the houses as the car crawled forward.

“What was he wearing?” Sully asked.

“I didn’t get much of a look. Just dark clothing.”

“White guy? Black?”

“Coulda been purple for all I know,” Battaglia answered. “I didn’t get a good look.”

Sully swung the spotlight past a parked car next to a chain link fence. The fence door stood open. He stopped and both officers exited the car.

“Adam-122,” Battaglia reported, “we’ve got an open back gate about mid-block on the north side of the alley.”

“Copy. The address?”

“I don’t know,” he answered and rolled his eyes at Sully. “The house numbers are usually on the front.”

There was a moment of radio silence while both officers approached the open gate. Then the dispatcher, Irina, came back.

“Adam-122, what is the color and description of the house?”

Battaglia glanced at the home. “Single-story, yellow with white trim. Mid-block.”

Radio copied.

Sully stepped through the gate and shone his powerful flashlight around the backyard. The well-maintained grass was wet from the recent rain. A few pinecones littered the yard, but it was otherwise clean.

Battaglia joined him in sweeping the back yard with beams of light.

“Hey,” Battaglia whispered.

Sully followed the beam of light from Battaglia’s Mag-Lite. It illuminated a doghouse in the corner of the yard. The tips of a pair of tennis shoes protruded from the doorway.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Sully whispered back. He drew his gun and covered the doghouse.

Battaglia grinned at him, then turned his attention back to the shoe tips.

“Attention in the doghouse!” he bellowed. “River City Police Department! Come out with your hands where we can see them!”

The shoes did not move.

“We can see your shoes,” Battaglia told him. “Now come out of there or we’ll have the K-9 come in and get you out.”

After a moment, the shoes moved outward, exposing a leg. Then the rest of a man’s body slid out, dressed in black jeans and a dark blue sweater.

“Hands where I can see them!” Sully ordered him, shining his light directly into the man’s face.

The suspect stood slowly, holding his hands above his shoulders, squinting and blinking into the bright flashlight beam.

“Turn around,” Sully barked. “Hands on your head. Don’t move.”

The suspect obeyed. Battaglia moved in and handcuffed him.

A window slid open from the house. “What’s going on?” a woman’s voice asked.

Sully held the flashlight up and directed the light down onto his own face and badge. “Police, ma’am. Everything all right in there?”

“Sure, but—”

Sully illuminated the suspect again. “Do you know this man?” he asked the homeowner.

“No. Who is he?”

“A fine question,” Sully quipped with a hint of brogue. “I assume he was trespassing then?”

“I guess so,” the woman answered. “I mean, I don’t know him, so...”

“Thanks, ma’am. We’ll figure it out and let you know if we need anything from you.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice still sounding confused by sleep.

“Where’s the dog?” Battaglia asked suddenly.

“Huh?”

“The doghouse,” he said, flashing his light on the suspect’s former hiding place. “Where’s the dog that goes with it?”

“Oh,” the woman said. “He died last summer.”

“I’m sorry,” Battaglia said.

“He was fourteen,” the woman told him.

Battaglia nodded. “Well, you might want to lock your gate. Or get a motion sensor light out here.”

“Or a new dog,” Sully suggested.

“Oh,” the woman said, still blinking sleepily. “Yes, that might be a good idea.”

“Thanks for your help tonight, ma’am.”

“Okay,” she said and slid the window shut.

“She’ll think this was all a dream in the morning,” Sully chuckled. He squatted down and flashed his own light into the interior of the doghouse. “Empty,” he reported.

Battaglia nodded and took the suspect by the shoulder. “Let’s go, Rover.” They lead him back to the car, where Battaglia removed the man’s wallet.

“Hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”

“Finding out who you are.” Battaglia removed the man’s driver’s license and dropped the wallet on the hood of the car. Then he reached for his shoulder mike. “Adam-122 to Adam-112.”

“Twelve, go ahead.”

“Tom, can you contact the complainant and ask her if she knows a guy by the name of Victor Preissing.”

“Affirm.”

Battaglia switched to the data channel and gave the dispatcher Preissing’s information for a warrant check.

“What’s your story?” Sully asked Preissing.

“No story,” Preissing told him. “I’m, uh, just out for a walk.”

“Just out for a walk?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why you ducked back in the alley when you saw our car, huh?”

“I didn’t duck into the alley. I was already headed this way.”

“Headed on your way to go hide in a dog house, were ya? I could probably work up a burglary charge on that.”

Preissing’s shoulders slumped. “I got scared when I saw the lights.”

“Why?”

He licked his lips. “I’m from L.A. The cops used to beat me up all the time for no reason. So I got scared.”

Sully snorted in disbelief.

“No shit,” Preissing said.

“No,” Sully answered. “Just shit. Where are you walking to tonight?”

“Just around. Taking a walk.”

Sully’s radio crackled as Chisolm checked out on scene at the complainant’s residence.

Battaglia read Sully the address on Preissing’s license.

“That’s clear on the other side of town,” Sully said. “Why are you way over here taking a walk?”

“It’s a free country.”

“That,” Sully told him, “is known in police parlance as a non-answer. It indicates deception.”

Preissing shrugged and swallowed nervously.

“I’ll ask again. Why are you taking a walk at eleven-thirty at night clear across town from where you live?”

Preissing’s eyes darted back and forth between the two officers. “I like Corbin Park. It’s a nice place to walk.”

“Oh, that’s believable,” Sully said. “Do you have any warrants, Mr. Preissing?”

“I’ve never been arrested.”

“Guess what?” Sully said. “That wasn’t my question. You can still have a warrant out for your arrest whether or not you’ve ever been arrested before.”

“So what?”

Sully turned toward Battaglia. “He’s starting to sound like you. I’m definitely arresting him.”

Before Battaglia could answer, Chisolm’s voice came over the radio.
“Adam-112, that would be a negative on the complainant knowing Preissing.”

Sully copied.

“Put him the car,” he said to Battaglia. “Then we’ll figure this out.”

Battaglia patted down Preissing, checking for any weapons.

“You can’t hold me,” Preissing said.

“Sure we can.”

“On what probable cause?”

“You’re acting suspicious.”

“That’s not a crime. I want my lawyer.”

“Trespassing is a crime,” Sully told him. “Just because Rover’s dead doesn’t mean you can move into his dog house.”

Preissing stared at Sully. “Is everything funny to you?”

Sully grinned at him. “No, but your situation here sure is.”

“What’s your badge number?” he demanded.

“Get in the car,” Battaglia said and slid Preissing into the back seat of the patrol car.

“Why do you have to fuzz them up like that?” he asked after he’d slammed the back door and stepped away from the car.

“That’s my job. Just like it’s
your
job when
I’m
searching them. It’s called cooperation. You know, teamwork?”

“Whatever. What do you think about this guy?”

“Data channel come back yet?”

Battaglia shook his head. “Not yet. You think he’s a peeping tom?”

Sully frowned. “Sorta feels a little like that, don’t it?”

“Sorta. But not quite. He’s too confident.”

“I agree. Not milquetoast enough. But definitely suspicious.”

“Definitely.”

“No question the guy was up to something.”

“Definitely.”

“He looks too old to be out prowling cars,” Sully observed.

“No backpack, either.”

“And no burglar tools of any kind.”

“Nope.”

“Big goddamn mystery.” Sully sighed. “So we’ll do a field interview report for Tower on him.”

“Definitely.”

“Who knows? Maybe he’s the rapist.”

Battaglia shrugged. “And maybe I’m Vito Corleone.”

“You wish.”

Thomas Chisolm pulled into the alley. He parked behind their patrol car and got out. On his way past their car, he peered into the back seat at Preissing.

“You recognize him, Tom?” Sully asked.

Chisolm shook his head. “What’s this guy’s story?” he asked them.

“We were just discussing that.”

“You come up with any answers?”

“Not really,” Sully said. “He almost acts like a peeping tom, but not quite. He’s got no backpack for prowling cars or burglar tools on him.”

“Maybe he dumped them after he spotted you guys,” Chisolm suggested.