The Code

By Daniel V. Schrager

The Code is the story of a Chicago cop, Jake Harmon, who stumbles across an unidentified man carrying $250,000. While struggling to adhere to the "Cop Code of Behavior," he attempts to uncover the source of the money. Aided by his girlfriend and fellow officer, Aranda Gonzalez, he makes a shocking discovery that pushes him to the limits of the Code.

Written by a real cop, this book delves into the everyday workings of a police department and explores how real police think and act, hemmed in by the code of behavior, when the rest of you aren't around.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 1, 2001
• ISBN: 9781418489748

Daniel V. Schrager

Daniel Schrager was a member of the Chicago Police Department for twenty-eight years, retiring at the rank of Lieutenant in 1998. During his career, he worked as a patrol officer in the Cabrini-Green housing project, spent eight years as a vice officer in the Rush Street entertainment area, three years as a sergeant in a special unit created by then-mayor Jane Byrne to investigate misconduct in the Chicago Transit Authority, and several years as a patrol sergeant. During his last five years on the Department, he was the Acting Watch Commander in the 24th Patrol District. For eighteen months, in an unofficial capacity, he assisted as a bodyguard and driver for a mayoral candidate during a re-election bid. Prior to joining the Chicago Police Department, he served fourteen months in Vietnam assigned to the First Infantry Division, including the period of the Tet offensive in 1968. He currently resides in Prescott, Arizona where he is working on his latest book.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

1 January 1995, 0930 Hours

I’m not allowed to cry. None of us are, not even the female officers. Sometimes that’s the hardest part. It’s the fucking Code, that cop code of behavior, or part of it anyway. You can’t cry unless it’s your mother or another cop who died, and even then the rest of them that aren’t crying look at you funny. Like you’re an aberration, a weakling, not fit to be a real cop. Your own kid. If your own kid buys it, then it’s probably okay to cry.

Jake Harmon set his pen down next to the journal and scrubbed his face with both hands. The ten hour growth of beard was rough against his palms, but the burning in his eyes eased as he squeezed them shut against the sunlight that flooded the corner of his bedroom. The first wave of fatigue washed over him, but he fought it off with a shake of his head.

When he’d hurried through the door of his apartment that morning he hadn’t even stopped to take off his coat; he’d gone straight for the journal and begun writing. Now, the morning’s ration of heat clanking through the radiators made him pause to shrug off the ski jacket he’d worn to ward off the cold as common to a Chicago’s New Year’s Eve as a brightly colored party balloon. He picked up the black matte Cross pen he saved for the journal and rolled it between his fingers for a moment before resuming.

Your own kid, but not the one last night. He was only some ten year old black kid who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

When the older ones decided to rob a cabbie, he went along, probably to show them how tough he was, how ready to be part of the gang. According to the witness, all he did was stand on the passenger side of the cab. Probably never said a word; probably scared shitless all the time. I’ll bet he never saw the gun get stuck upside the cabbie’s head, never saw the cabbie grab the other kid’s arm, never saw the fucking gun go off.

The witness stated that the other kids ran and the cabbie just drove away. Only thing left was this ten year old black kid, dead in the parking lot.

The paramedics took him to Henrotin Hospital, and by the time we arrived, the doctors were all done. It doesn’t take long to figure out someone is dead. Even now, my only clear recollection of him is how small he was and how yellow the bottoms of his bare feet looked where they stuck out from under the sheet.

Normally, that would have been the end of it for us. But last night, being New Year’s Eve and all, there were no detectives available to make the death notification, and we got stuck doing it. Two o’clock in the morning and we’re waking everyone up and telling them their ten year old son-brother-nephew is fucking dead. They ask questions; we try to answer.

How? A witness says he was with some boys trying to rob a cab.

Who? We don’t know; some other kid. It sounds like it was an accident.

Why? We can’t even begin to answer that one.

They cry; then they get mad-at the cabbie, at the witness, at us. It doesn’t matter; we know they have to blame someone. We get cold, get tough and leave. Happy New Year.

Tossing the pen onto the desk, Jake stood and stretched. Some of the pressure trapped inside had been released as he wrote, blown off with a hiss like steam through the radiator, and he peeled off his clothes, dropping them into a heap. The reflection in the mirror leaning against one wall caught his eye and he stared at it.

The face was haggard, more lined than it should be for his age. Forty: no longer young, but not old. The eyes were washed out-like blue jeans ready for the rag drawer; and the hair wasn’t as thick or blond as it once had been. The body below the face seemed to match-no great comfort.

Looking away, Jake tilted his head back and rotated it in slow circles around his shoulders, listening to the soft crackling of his neck. Bending, he tried to touch his toes, but the tips of his fingers stopped short and his belly felt like the middle of a tube of toothpaste being squeezed from both ends. Blood surged to his head, and he stood up.

A rush of vertigo forced him back two steps to the bed, and the mattress groaned as he dropped to it. He sat with his arms at forty-five degree angles to the side and his head bent toward the floor; and when the dizziness passed, he raised his eyes to the mirror. The reflection spoke to him: Where the fuck did you come from?

Pushing himself up, Jake shuffled into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The pickings were meager, and he settled on a half-full quart of milk; but when he tilted the carton to his mouth, the lumpy mixture stuck in his throat. Gagging, he spit the sour milk into the sink, then cupped his hand under the faucet and filled his mouth, swishing the water around until the scummy coating dissolved. He checked the date on the carton: 7 Nov 94. Two months old? No wonder.

Sighing, Jake poured the remainder down the drain, threw the carton into the trash and padded through the apartment, a small one bedroom on the third floor of a standard Chicago six-flat.

Even my partner didn’t really give a shit; I could tell. All she was interested in was getting out of that house before the kid’s relatives really turned on us. Whatever happened to the maternal instinct? What would she have done if it was her own kid? Would she have cried?

I don’t really know her. She was only my partner in the sense that she was the one I worked with last night. Not my real partner, not like that. He took the night off, invited to a party. Pat likes parties; it’s probably the Irish in him. Even though he’s not a big drinker, he’s a great bullshit artist, and that makes him the center of attention most of the time. That suits me fine; I get left alone when he’s around.

Pat always says my problem is that I’m too quiet-a wallflower he calls me. That’s what real partners are for: to tell you what’s wrong with you.

Jake stared down at the journal as the waves of fatigue surged over him. He started to close the book, then paused and added a final line to his morning’s entry.

Only a ten year old kid. Why can’t I get that taste out of my mouth?

CHAPTER TWO

With the heavy drapes drawn across the two windows and the hallway door closed, the bedroom was nearly as dark as it would have been at night. There was no discernible noise in the apartment, from the neighbors or outside; and Jake had only been asleep for slightly more than three hours. He woke up anyway.

Staring blearily at the red numbers of the alarm clock, he wondered for the thousandth time why, no matter how tired he was after working a midnight-to-eight shift, he could count on no more than a few hours of unbroken sleep. When he’d been married and the kids had been little, it was understandable: Three-and four-year-olds aren’t made to operate noiselessly. Now, though, listening to the absence of sound that echoed through the empty apartment, Jake Harmon realized that ten years of silence hadn’t cured the problem.

Pushing the blanket aside, he levered his legs over the side and pushed himself into a sitting position. His brain was fogged with the layer of vagueness that accompanies REM-less sleep, and for a minute all he could do was breathe shallowly and wait for it to pass. For eighteen years the shifts had followed one another like drops of rain skidding down a windowpane, collecting in a puddle in which no single one could be distinguished from any other. Midnight-to-eight, four-to-midnight, eight-to-four: Midnights, Afternoons, Days. M.A.D.; that was the rotation. And it had nearly driven him mad.

A year ago the Department had switched to straight shifts chosen by seniority, and Jake thought that would be the end of working midnights for him-until he talked to his partner. He was stunned when Pat refused to work either days, saying his brother needed help on his used car lot, or afternoons, the shift he’d always claimed to prefer.

When Jake continued to question his partner’s choice, Pat had fallen back on his bullshit-Irish-brogue. The Missus has gone and got her Irish up over this, and there’s not to be any argument with her. It’s the midnights for me.

Left with the choice of finding a new partner or bidding to work midnights, Jake had chosen midnights. A regular partner was hard to give up, not only for all the obvious reasons, but also because it was easier to put up with old bad habits than to adjust to new, unknown ones. Now, with his stomach roiling and his eyelids encrusted with sand, he wondered if he’d made the right choice.

A stack of mail on the desk-several envelopes still unopened after more than a week-caught his attention. The pile of unpaid bills was like a tumor with a life of its own. One envelope, though, he had opened as soon as it had been delivered. He picked it up for perhaps the tenth time.

In it was a greeting card from his ex-wife: Dear Jake, Merry Christmas. Where’s my fucking money? Not a word about the gifts he’d mailed for his son and daughter, as many of the items from their wishlists as he could manage. Just, Where’s my fucking money?

Tossing the card to the side, Jake propped up his left elbow and rested his head against the heel of his hand. With the index finger of his right hand, he flipped through the stack of bills: electric-a month overdue; gas-two months; Sears-revolved up to his credit limit; credit union-his loan up to date but his savings empty; Master Card-current but filled with Christmas toys he couldn’t afford, either to buy or not to send.

His blue eyes closed, and he felt the first throbs of what he knew from experience would soon be a vicious headache. The decision was easy; he’d send his ex-wife the money. If he didn’t, she’d push the one button that would hurt more than the headache: the pride deflater. His other bills still had a margin of dunning letters and threatening phone calls before they became truly personal, but his wife-ex-wife-would drag him into court, accused of being a deadbeat father, and she’d bring his kids with her to see what a bum he was. Even from a thousand miles away she knew him all too well.

Opening the journal, he stared at it for a moment, then closed it. He was restless. Too little sleep, too many thoughts running around in his head, too practical to look for reasons. He kept a scratch pad handy so that he could keep the pen moving even when he had nothing to say, and invariably the geometric patterns he produced were slowly filled in until nothing but blackened shapes remained. When he’d read that this was a sign of depression, he’d only become more depressed.

There were two dozen thin volumes filled with his experiences and thoughts from nearly twenty years as a cop. Six or seven different styles of books-he could never get the same one for more than a few years, and he had always been too short of cash to buy more than one at a time-kept it from being an impressive-looking collection. But that wasn’t their purpose.

At first it had been the raw excitement, the different smells and sounds and colors that assaulted his senses every day or night he went to work in those strange streets and neighborhoods where even the six-year-olds could sniff out a cop a block away. It had been seeing people stabbed or shot, spending their most private moment dying right out on the street for everyone-including Jake Harmon-to see. Death can be a great motivator, and the adrenaline had burned his stomach and pounded in his head, leaving him breathless yet strangely alive.

Sometime later, maybe five years into his tour, the excitement began to fade. His partner, Pat, never afraid to wear his bombast like a gaudy boutonniere, offered his own theory.

You see, it all metastasizes into little lumps of shit that clog the pipes of life, and it’s our job to flush them away. All the talk about the ‘thin blue line,’ it’s all bullroar. We’re nothing but society’s plumbers, and they only call upon us when absolutely necessary; then the bastards berate us for exacting too great a price for fixing what’s broke. Nevertheless, we leap into the mire with our giant sucking plunger of authority and rocket those pieces of shit to the sewers of despair for terms of five to ten, no time off for good behavior, and good riddance to the lot of them.

That phase lasted for maybe another five years; then Jake had come to understand what it was all about. It was a matter of practicality. Forget the magic wands: the wars on whatever was being blamed for crime that year, the reformers providing education to inmates a hundred times smarter than they could ever hope to be, the police and politicians and priests trying to make a difference. Just be practical. Go out and do your job every day and don’t worry about what it all means or what the results will be. The gods out on the streets were the pimps and gang bangers and drug dealers; justice was whoever was left standing at the end of the day.

At least writing in the journals filled otherwise empty evenings for Jake and kept him from showing up early for work. When that happened there was nothing to do but hang around the station avoiding the sympathetic looks of the desk crew. One night a well meaning rookie had even suggested Jake use the workout room, then blushed crimson as he took in the pudgy forty-year-old figure slumping in front of him. Jake had graciously withheld any comment, allowing the rookie to escape to his weights without further embarrassment.

Actually, Jake had gone into the workout room on one of the nights he’d arrived early, but the glaring lights and wrap-around mirrors left too little to the imagination of his ego. Feeling like Dracula trapped in the first rays of morning light, he’d turned around and around looking for a respite from the pain of exposure only to find that, unlike the vampire, he could see himself only too well in the cold glass that held no magic image of the fairest of them all.

He remembered thinking, on his way out the door without having touched any of the chromium equipment, that there should be a room for beginners-one without four walls of mirrors to remind you that you were five years too late, one where your fairy tales and nightmares didn’t get all mixed up.

*       *       *

When Jake came up from the basement locker room of the old police station after changing into his uniform that night, the desk sergeant waved him over.

Harmon, your partner took a D.O.D.; you’re working alone tonight.

Jake spun the clipboard with the night’s worksheets around to face him and saw that Pat’s name had been scratched. Maybe too much football, but I doubt it’s a day off drunk. You know Pat’s not like the rest of you Irish slobs.

Go fuck yourself, Harmon, the sergeant replied, grinning.

Happy New Year to you too, Sarge. As he ambled off toward the roll call room, Jake decided it wouldn’t be all that bad working alone. It should be slow-the night of a holiday usually was-and he’d probably be assigned one of the busywork details that were saved for one-officer cars.

Dropping onto the first row of benches screwed to the floor of the roll call room, he listened to the story in progress.

Fuckin’ asshole last night is stinking drunk, puts his hand through a window and we get stuck transporting him to the hospital. Blood all over the backseat of the squad, he won’t shut up and Henrotin’s emergency room looks like they’re giving away free toasters. We can’t leave the motherfucker because he’s too drunk to sit up, and on top of everything, when they’re ready to take him he pukes on his shoes and shits in his pants.

The cop shakes his head and grimaces. Worst part of it was I’m wearing a brand new pair of wool pants that end up with everything on ‘em but tomorrow. I had to undress on the back porch, it’s gonna cost me three bucks at the cleaners and my dog wouldn’t come near me.

The cop talked fast while telling his story. He knew if he didn’t, someone else would interrupt. He’d barely finished when another cop took up the refrain.

That ain’t nothin’. About 0400 we get a call of a woman screaming for help. Bust ass getting over there and this mope meets us outside his own apartment. Claims he picked up some winner in a bar, then fell asleep drunk on the couch before he could do anything about it. Now the broad’s screaming in his bedroom and he’s afraid to go look, so he calls us. We all go in and it turns out she sucked a couple a’ ten year old blotter Plutos and now she’s on one fuck of a bad acid trip. Gotta admit though, it did sound pretty bloody in there.

What about you, Harmon? Anything juicy?

Jake looked around at the others, and the Code kicked in. Nah. We got stuck with the dead kid from the attempted robbery, but it was all pretty much routine.

Hey, yeah! That’ll teach the little prick. I guess he won’t be stickin’ up any more cabbies for awhile.

No, not likely. Jake was saved having to say anything more when the sergeant stalked through the door followed closely by the captain.

Fall in for inspection, the sergeant boomed. Come on, get up off your asses.

Ah, Sarge, a cop complained; It’s a holiday.

It’s always a holiday the way you work.

The two lines of cops shuffled into position as the captain strode up to the podium, and the sergeant cracked, Squad, ten-hut! Close interval, dress right dress. A pause for more shuffling. Ready front. Attention to roll call.

The captain ran through the list of names-each punctuated by a sharp Here! from the officer-and their assignments. Stepping away from the podium, he strolled down the front rank of officers from left to right. When he reached the end, the sergeant snapped, One pace forward, march! and the captain continued between the two ranks checking the officers from the rear. The entire process was repeated with the second rank. Satisfied that all the troops were sober and probably able to perform the rote functions expected of them, the captain returned to the podium to complete the administrative details of the roll call.

Jake watched as the pro forma performance ran smoother than a politician at election time, adding a comfortable beginning to the tour of duty, an important factor when none of the cops had any idea what might occur during the next eight hours. No one intended it that way, no one consciously thought of it that way; nevertheless, that was the result.

The captain finished by handing out the busy work details. Jake Harmon drew the alternate parking that was