Under a Raging Moon (8 page)

Travis nodded his head, smiling.

“See,” Kopriva continued, “some officers act like traffic enforcement is beneath them. But traffic is one of our best tools. Just because you stop someone doesn’t mean you have to write them. I let people off all the time. Decent people. Sometimes even shitheads. But look what happened tonight. We stopped Rousse on a piddly traffic stop for defective equipment. Now we have a misdemeanor, a warrant, and two felonies. Plus about three misdemeanors we threw away, if you count the pipe and obstructing charges.”

“Great,” Travis said. “This is great.” He nodded his head to the music and grinned.

The two were quiet the rest of the way to jail. Kopriva thought about how he would like to catch Morris again. Cream’s
Sunshine of Your Love
came on the radio. Kopriva turned it up.

“I’ve been waiting so long...”

Maxwell leaned forward and yelled over the din. “At least you guys got good tunes.”

“To be where I’m going…”

“Rock-n-roll,” Kopriva yelled back and flashed a grin at Travis. Pete Maxwell might be a doper maggot but now he thought they were buddies. You never knew when that might come in handy.

“In the sunshine of your luuhh-uuuhhve!”

They drove into the sally port at jail and secured their weapons in the lock-box outside the door. Kopriva walked Maxwell into the officer’s booking area and O’Sullivan handed him a booking slip.

“Rousse is all done, except for the report number.”

“Thanks, Sully.”

Battaglia nudged Kopriva. “You better check his work. Sometimes he forgets and he writes shit in Gae
l
ic.”

“Better than Italian,” O’Sullivan fired back. He shook his head at Kopriva. “I can’t tell you how many times we’ve come in here to book someone named Mamma Mia.”

“Hey!” Battaglia said. “Leave alone my mother.”

O’Sullivan smiled. “Italian boys and their mothers.”

“Irish boys and their dresses.”

“They’re kilts, not dresses.”

Battaglia rolled his eyes and clapped Kopriva on the shoulder. “Good pinch, Stef.”

The two officers left, tossing insults at each other on the way out the door.

Kopriva filled out the booking slip for Maxwell and completed Rousse’s. A jailer brought out Maxwell’s warrant. Kopriva told Travis to read it to Maxwell.

Officer James Kahn stood in the corner of the small booking area. He looked up from his paperwork at Kopriva. “What’d you get, hotshot?”

“Warrant. Some meth.” Kahn was a hard-charger and Kopriva respected that. On the few calls he’d been on with him, though, Kahn had exhibited almost zero compassion. “What are you here for?”

Kahn cocked an eyebrow at him. “You know what’s a bad day? It’s a bad day when a policeman shows up at your doorstep at midnight with two Child Protective Services workers. He takes your kids and places them with CPS, then arrests you and your wife for warrants right out of your living room. That’s a bad day, man.”

Kopriva waited, knowing there was more to come.

“You know what’s a good day?” Kahn asked. “It’s a good day when you’re a cop and CPS calls you to go to some meth maggot’s house to place his kids in foster care. You go there and turn his kids over to CPS and then you arrest him and his skanky wife right out of their living room on some drug warrants. That is a good day.”

Kopriva laughed. “A very good day.”

Kahn returned to writing his report. Kopriva gathered up his own paperwork. The jailers returned their handcuffs, they retrieved their weapons and left jail. Even though Kopriva had a report to do, it was still early enough to get into some more action.

FOUR

Thursday August 18th

2309 hours

Pyotr Ifganovich thanked the customer for his business as he handed over the change. He preferred to go by the English version of his name, Peter. At varying times, depending on the government in power, it had been a popular name in Russia.

Here in America, he’d discovered with some surprise that Peter had also once been a popular name. He had not been so foolish as to believe all the lies the Soviet government told the Russian people regarding this n
a
tion, once his enemy. Neither had he been naïve enough to believe the myths of unsurpassed riches whispered out of KGB earshot.

When he arrived in River City, he found some of both. Of course, it was the riches he noticed first. He r
e
called the first time he stood in a Safeway store and struggled not to weep at the shelves bulging with food, coffee, and toilet paper. America was wealthy indeed.

He quickly enrolled in English classes and studied for his citizenship along with Olga, his wife. Their son, four-year-old Pavel (they called him Paul now), didn’t remember Minsk and as he grew older, his appreciation for America obviously did not mirror that of his parents. Now ten years old, Paul spoke English better than both his parents and without an accent.

America was good to him and his family. He could apply for any job he wanted and the best applicant usually got the job. His work as farmer in Minsk didn’t qualify him for many jobs here in America. The conve
n
ience store provided a great opportunity for him. More importantly, his son could go to an American school, learn English and become an American. Yes, America was good to him.

Of course, Peter saw some of the evils, too. Six years in this country and this was the best job he had been able to get so far. It paid just above minimum wage, with a few extra cents an hour for working the evening shift. Peter got off at eleven, in time to meet Olga at the bus stop and ride home. She worked cleaning rooms at a local motel.

Crime. That was the biggest difference he noticed between the two countries. Not language, philosophy, or government. Crime. In Minsk, crime existed but as a subtle presence, if not outright rare. KGB and local police made sure of that. Penalties were severe. People still disappeared, even as of six years ago. Here in America, the justice system seemed almost wort
h
less. People shoplifted all the time from the store where he worked, or did gas drive-offs, and nothing happened. Nothing could be done. He felt sorry for the police, who had to deal with the same criminals again and again. Even if they caught them, the judges set them free. It was shameful. America was wealthy, but she had too much freedom.

Peter cleaned the counters around the register for the fifteenth or twentieth time that night. He took pride in his work. He hoped the store manager, a gaunt man with a red nose that reminded Peter of his Uncle Ivan, would notice and promote him to night manager. They could use the money.

He considered going to the supply closet to get the broom and sweep the floor when a customer entered. The man appeared shaken. Peter wondered if he had been involved in a car accident or something. Even though it was against the rules, he allowed people to use the business telephone for such things.

The customer’s long black hair fluttered in the artificial breeze created by the closing door.

Peter started to smile a greeting, when the man shoved a dark gun in his face, touching him on the end of the nose. Peter’s hands flew up i
n
stinctively.

“Give me the fucking money in the register. Now!”

Not taking his eyes off the man’s face, his fingers fumbled with the register. The drawer slid open.

“All of it, in a bag. Let’s go.”

What a terrible scar,
Peter thought absently, shoving bills into a plastic bag. Flat eyes, like those of a shark, peered out from beneath thick eyebrows. The lids beneath them twitched rapidly.

Cold realization knotted his gut.

This man wants to kill me.

“The money, asshole. Let’s go!” The robber pressed the gun against his forehead.

It was then Peter remembered something from the newspaper.
This is Scarface
. He’d robbed almost a dozen stores.

Peter’s heart raced and his thoughts turned dark.
Is he going to shoot me now? I can’t afford a bed at the hospital
.

The man snatched the bag from his hand. He glared at Peter with the eyes of a predator. Peter wanted to close his eyes and pray, but he couldn’t move.

I have come all the way from Russia to die in River City, Washington
.
How tragic. Dosteovsky would a
p
pr
e
ciate the irony.

The man removed the barrel of the gun from Peter’s forehead and pressed it roughly against his chin. A single, stoic tear slid down Peter’s face as he waited. He now had the presence of mind to ask God silently to care for Olga and Paul.

The man paused half a breath, then pushed the barrel into Peter’s chin again. He could see the man’s fi
n
ger twitch as it pressed against the tri
g
ger. He repeated his prayer quickly, hoping that God would hear it before he was killed.

Please, God. Care for my wife and child. Please, God—

In a rush, the man lowered the gun and ran from the store. The bell dinged to signal his parting.

Peter stood stock-still, wondering that he was alive and thanking God over and over again. He looked at the clock. 11:10 PM. Every moment from now on was a gift from God.

His gift was already two minutes old when he thought to push the ro
b
bery alarm button located under the register drawer.

2310 hours

Threes and sevens. Coffee breaks and meal breaks in police radio speak. Some days you lived for them.

Katie MacLeod sat with Matt Westboard, gingerly picking at her sub sandwich. Westboard devoured half of his in two large bites. Their dinner so far had been a quiet one, radio chatter at a minimum on a slow graveyard shift. She commented on that.

Westboard nodded as he took a long sip on his soda.

“Nothing like last week,” she said. “Scarface. And E
l
liot.”

He continued to nod and sip.

Jesus,
Katie thought.
Is he ever going to breathe?
She picked at an olive and popped it in her mouth.

With a sigh, Westboard came up for air. “That call was intense. That idiot had serious problems with women.”

“Yeah. Especially me.” Katie tried to be casual. “I thought I was going to have to shoot him.”

“Might’ve had to,” Westboard agreed. “He was all jacked up. Meth would be my bet. You found some on him, right?”

Katie nodded.

“You should have seen the girlfriend. He stabbed her three times.” Westboard pointed at his own body, pantomiming the injuries. “Once in the arm and twice in the belly. She had some defensive wounds, too, on her hands.”

“I never did figure out what the fight was about,” Katie said.

“Who knows?” Westboard said with a shrug. “You know what she told me on the way to the hospital?”

“No. What?”

“That he didn’t do it. She came up with some crazy story about a burglar.” He shook his head in disgust and took another long draught of his soda.

Katie frowned.
Stupid woman
. Then she asked, “Did you think you were going to have to shoot?”

Westboard met her eyes. She wondered if he could sense her inner doubt.

“It was a fifty-fifty chance,” he said. “Either he had a problem with anybody there or he had a problem with you in partic
u
lar. Given his attitude about women and the names he was calling you, I kinda figured he might listen to me.”

“What if he hadn’t?”

Westboard smiled, but kept his eyes on hers. He formed a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pointed it at her. “Little red dot.” He dropped his thumb like a hammer. “Bang. Big red dot.”

Katie gave him a small smile, but his antics didn’t ease her doubt.

Westboard took a huge bite of his sub sandwich. “Yu evah heah abow Huk?” he asked with his mouth full.

“What?!”

Westboard grinned while he chewed. She recognized his poor table manners were an act intended to lighten her mood.

He swallowed. “I said, did you ever hear about the guy they called Hulk?”

“No, not really. Wasn’t he some guy that quit a year or so before I was hired?”

“Yeah. His name was Joe Grushko. Everyone called him Hulk because he went about six-four and easily two-fifty. Solid muscle. He still holds the bench-press record at the station gym. Anyway, you ever hear why he quit?”

Katie shook her head, not really interested. She picked a
b
sently at a piece of shredded lettuce.

Westboard went on. “Hulk was not afraid of anything that I could see. Getting into a fight around him was like being front row at a WWF bout. Guys and furniture flying
e
verywhere
.
” He waved his arms for emph
a
sis. “So one night, he goes on a suicidal with a gun call. They get to the house and there is this little five-foot, ninety-pound woman waving a Beretta nine-em-em around. Hulk had a dead drop on her when she pointed the gun at him, but he didn’t fire. He said later that he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t shoot a woman, even though she had a gun.”

“What happened?” Katie asked, her interest piqued.

“She capped off a round at him and missed. He still didn’t return fire. You know Tom Chisolm, right?”

“Of course.”

“Chisolm did her with the shotgun. One shot. Nearly ripped her in half.” Westboard leaned back in his chair. “Just
i
fied shooting, case closed. But Hulk turned in his badge.”

Katie nodded but sighed inwardly. This did not exactly make her feel any better.

“You would have done it, Katie,” Westboard said, his voice quiet but firm. “I saw your finger on the tri
g
ger, and I saw the steel in your eyes. I never doubted for a second that you would have dropped him.”

Katie felt a tear well up and turned her head, wiping it away and composing herself. “I didn’t want to,” she muttered. She felt momentarily stupid for crying in front of Westboard. It was so…female. But it was better than talking to her boyfriend Kevin about it. At least Westboard understood the job. And he listened. Kevin didn’t do either one.

“No one
wants
to,” Westboard told her. “But you would have. Don’t feel bad. Everyone wonders a little bit. Everyone. I wondered that day with Elliot. Hulk wondered. I’m sure Tom Chisolm wondered right before he blasted apart that woman who was shooting at another officer.”

Katie turned back to face him, composed. She looked around the sandwich shop to see if anyone had n
o
ticed her moment of weakness.

“Don’t second-guess yourself, Katie,” Westboard told her. “You’re a good cop. You’ll always do what you have to do.”

Katie took a deep breath and let it out, wanting to believe him. Kno
w
ing she should. Only time would tell. “It’s just been a bad couple of days, is all.” She shrugged. “First the deal with the robber and then that meth freak Elliot.”

Westboard nodded, his eyes sympathetic. “When it rains, it pours.”

The unmistakable sound of an alarm tone came across both radios.

2312 hours

Lieutenant Alan Hart sat in his office, idly twirling his gold pen in his fingers. He’d worked late, ostens
i
bly to catch up on FTO reports, but found himself lost in thought more often than not. After reading Payne’s first weekly report since the transfer to Officer Glen Bates, he was pleased to see that the recruit’s marks had increased over those Chisolm had given him. They weren’t stellar, but improved.

Chisolm
.
What a burnout.
Hart hated the way the man was so condescending toward him.
I’m a lieute
n
ant
. Chisolm only had one stripe on his sleeve, making him a Patrolman First Class, an automatic promotion and basically just a pay raise over a slick-sleeved patrolman. No authority or extra duties.
What a loser
. Chisolm hadn’t tested for promotion in fourteen years on the job. Yet he sauntered around, acting like the cat’s meow.

Hart snorted. Well, he put that cat’s meow in his place last week, hadn’t he? And when Payne made pr
o
bation, Hart’s judgment over Chisolm’s would be vindicated.

Some men were just not born to lead other men
.