The Red Cap Case File: Remixed

By L. Lane

It's a Monday, and Detective Christopher Coyle, a member of Chicago's finest, is back from suspension. He was woken up in the dead of night and given the most sinister case of his career. To make matters worse, he was attached to the often-mysterious and off-putting Constable Ignatius Abernathy.

As Abernathy and Coyle traverse through the Windy City, he learns that there is more to Chicago than he previously expected.

Needless to say, he regrets many things, and chief among them is the regret of getting out of bed and answering his phone. To make matters worse, he can't shake the feeling that there is someone following him. One thing is for certain, Coyle's meticulous documentation of his first encounter with the supernatural and uncanny will leave you questioning what's real and what's fantasy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781662459214

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cover.jpg

The Red Cap Case File

Remixed

L. Lane

Copyright © 2023 L. Lane

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 978-1-6624-5920-7 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-5921-4 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter 1

Date: July 23

Time: 0233

Location: Home (Taylor St.)

The day started off shitty. It was 2:33 a.m. on Sunday or Monday, depending on how you look at it. I hate Mondays. Not like the goofy cat in the newspapers. I mean, I truly dread Mondays. Nothing good ever happens on Mondays. As a rule of thumb, I usually have Mondays off. Well, I did before I got suspended. The lieutenant didn't like my attitude. Told me I was being insubordinate. I didn't give a fuck. I saved a little girl's life and put a monster in the ground, but that's not the story you're here for. I never should've answered my phone. I should've turned it off, but I didn't. Flight of the Valkyries blared from my cell phone and damn near gave me a heart attack. It woke my girlfriend, Brandy, up. She was pissed. Normally, I would've been, too, but she pissed me off earlier that night. Sunday night was happy night and Brandy wasn't feeling happy, so she went to bed early. She had an early day, she said. Then she quoted some bullshit Chinese proverb her granny Bai used to tell her. The early bird or some shit. I'm getting off the point.

I looked at my phone. It was some expensive touch screen LED-flashing gizmo. Brandy gave it to me for my birthday. I didn't like it, but what the hell, it was free. My mama always said, "Never turn down anything free." The screen was flashing and vibrating. Damn near gave me a seizure or was it a heart attack. It was Sergeant Phillip Edwards on the other line. If I was smart, I would've pushed ignore, hell, I should've pushed ignore, but something about this phone call drew me in. I mean, it felt like destiny was waiting on the other line.

"Are you gonna answer that?" Brandy half growled.

"No, I like this song," I snapped back.

"Dammit, Chris! Some of us have to work in the morning!" she yelled as she hit me with a goose down pillow.

I answered it. I wish I didn't but I did. The phone hissed, and static poured in from the other end. It was raining, or maybe he was standing underwater. Ace detective skills, right?

"Ray's Pizza Bus, home of the hot dog pizza. What can I do ya for? I should've known how bad it was when he didn't crack back. There was a moment of silence as the receiver hissed, then he spoke. Coyle, Twenty-Seventh and Polk." He started in with his grizzled voice.

"Jesus! That's like five blocks away!" I blurted it out.

"Yeah I know… You got an hour," he demanded.

"I thought I was suspended," I spat out.

The phone disconnected. Interesting, right? Normally, Sergeant Edwards calls to chew my ass for mistakes or give me cases. But it was going on nearly a month since he called me. I was a pariah; I was being blackballed for not playing ball like all the other second-grade detectives in my precinct. Hell, my career was only holding by a thread of my name, my father's name, Christopher William Coyle. It was the only thing Chuck left me before he walked out on me and my mom on a Monday. Go figure.

The crime scene was five blocks away, so I did what any reasonable adult male would do. I lay back down and rubbed my ol' lady's ass. I mean, what ass she had; don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about it. I mean, when you sign on to date a Chinese girl from Little China on the west side of Chicago, you shouldn't expect her to have an ass, but Brandy's ass was perfect to me. I love it, she was my lady, and so the way I rationalize it, her ass is mine, right? I'm getting off the point again.

"Chris, if you don't get your hand off my ass, you're gonna lose it," Brandy grumbled at me.

"C'mon, babe, how about one for the road?" I joked.

She didn't find it funny. She rolled over and glowered at me. God, it was hard to take her anger seriously when she looked at me. She was beautiful. Long silky black hair, high cheekbones, and full pouty lips I could kiss for the rest of my life. Light brown eyes, thin black horn-rimmed glasses from Dolce and Gabbana. She was 5 feet 5 with a rack that could turn heads with 120 pounds of solid muscle. She earned it the hard way from chasing criminals. See, like me, Brandy was in law enforcement, but she worked for the ATF or Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms Enforcement Agency. She was good, too, scary good. She was fast-tracking her way to a director's position sometime in the next few years. Yeah, she was something else, and she was wearing that thong I liked.

"Dammit, Chris! Would you just go to work! I don't wanna see your black ass skulking around here tomorrow talking about how you're bored. You've been on suspension for almost a month, and the bills aren't gonna pay themselves," she drawled.

"Why would I care? I said as I sat up. Hell, I got hot Asian sugar mama who buys me anything I want."

She laughed. I love the way she giggled and snorted lightly at the end.

"Hot Asian sugar mama, my ass! Go to work," she demanded.

What Brandy wants, Brandy gets. I got up and threw on a pair of jeans and black Batman T-shirt. It was dark, and I'm not gonna lie to you, my room, kind of like my life, was messy. I mean, Brandy was a neat freak, but she got tired cleaning up after me, so as long as I left her side unblemished with my mess, she left me alone. I tripped over something. I stumped my big toe. I swore something unintelligible and unimportant. I mean, seriously, it hurt like a mother.

"I told you to clean up," Brandy blurted out.

"Hush up, woman!" I snapped back. Then I was out the room.

I padded to my living room and plopped myself down on my expensive leather couch. I mean, seriously, who the fuck stills buys leather couches? What are we, the Rockefellers? I'm getting off the point again. My dog or mortal enemy, Jimmy, the Pomeranian pulverizer, was there sleeping with a huge bone tucked into his front paws, He has a dog bed, but he refuses to sleep on it. I hate that dog, but Brandy loves him. So I tolerate him because he barks when people show up uninvited. I searched the floor for a pair of shoes. I struck gold and grabbed a pair of vintage Air Jordans. You know? The red, black, and white ones with the fancy zigzag designs. I slid my foot in the left shoe and, damn, had another heart attack. My foot smashed into something that smelled vaguely like dog shit. I know it couldn't have been dog shit because that's just impossible. Needless to say, it was dog shit, a fresh turd, stewing in my Jays.

"I'm gonna kill this damn dog!" I roared at the top of my lungs.

"Jimmy, room now!" Brandy called back.

"I'll buy you another pair tomorrow. Love you lots. K thanks, bye!" she said in a singsong voice before slamming the door. Did I mention I hate Mondays?

Chapter 2

Time: 0301

Location: 27th and Polk St. (Crime Scene)

I arrived onto the twenty-seventh block of Polk on Chicago's west side. It was three o'clock in the morning, and people were walking around like it was six o'clock in the evening. Somebody should tell them to go to sleep, but it shouldn't be the police. The people in this neighborhood don't trust us. Hell, black people in general don't trust the police. I'm not sure if it's the authority figure or the years of oppression, but when they see the boys in blue, they either clam up or break out running. Hell, I should know, this is my uncle Vick's block. I grew up over here. They had yellow tape rolled out and the lights blaring. Aw, shit, whatever it is, it must've been bad. I just hope it wasn't a family member. My cousin Jamal's got a skewed view on how the world works, but he's a good guy. I'd hate for him to be caught up in this.

I sat in my truck for a moment. I needed to gather my thoughts because once I was back in the show there wouldn't be time for this, time for me to stop and think. I took in a deep whiff of my car's air freshener. Black magic, it went well with my 2002 black Chevy Tahoe. It was a thirteen-year-old monster that lumbered through the city like it was its owner, but I love 'em. I called him Stein, short for Frankenstein. I leaned over the mid compartment and reached into the glove compartment box for my sidearm, a Sigsauer P390. It was a fiberglass marvel, green and black. I had to pay extra for that. It wasn't company issue. I went all out for it. Sergeant Phillip gave me a ton a shit for it, but he let me carry it.

I got out of my truck and took in the first impression of the scene. The news was already on-site. All the main media outlets were here. It couldn't be that hard for them to reach the scene fast considering it was off 290. People were crowding the police line or yellow tape. They were muttering and chattering mostly stuff about how it was probably another cop shooting. That's the new craze these days. How many cops can you peg with the title of being crooked or firing their sidearms without just cause? It was bullshit, but it was a part of the job.

I rubbernecked for a little bit doing what jaded detectives do. I looked, listened, and took notes. The crime scene was an empty lot on the side of a redbrick apartment building across the street from a park. The neighborhood kids used it to play football, and occasionally the tenants of the building parked their cars there. The people all looked like herded cattle except for one random white guy. I took a mental note of his features. White guys don't just come to this side of town, well, not unless they're homeless and going to the homeless shelter two blocks over. This guy didn't look homeless. He looked like he was well-off. Smart white guys didn't cross viaducts unless they had business here. They all stayed on Taylor Street. I walked over to the police tape casually as to not attract attention to myself. But that was kind of hard when you're 6 feet 2 and built like a black tank. I wasn't ashamed of it either. I'm about 237 pounds of muscle and smart-ass. Some women call me handsome, but who's keeping track, looks aren't what I live for. So maybe it's a little hard not to stick out. I live with it. I reached the tape only to be met with Thing One and Thing Two, two freaking rookies fresh out of academy still wet behind the ears. They looked at me like I was one of the people from the area. Technically, I was one of the people from the area. I was an animal to them, one that needed to herded and locked up. Hell, a black man built like me walking around at 3:00 a.m., I needed to be put down to protect the safety of others. They didn't say that, they couldn't say that, but their eyes told me that. I don't like racist cops, and I damn sure don't like racist trigger-happy rookie cops. It's bad business.

"Sir, you're gonna have to stay behind the tape," Thing One on the left said.

He had a New York accent. Ah, crap, I hate New Yorkers. I stood at the tape and crossed my arms, then glowered at them. Thing Two placed his hand on the stock of his sidearm then glanced over to Thing One.

"You think you're gonna need that, Officer?" I asked casually.

Thing One repeated himself again, this time louder. He said it loud enough so that the superior could see him doing his job and to cover his ass. The CPD was all about covering our asses.

"Sir! You need to get behind the line like everyone else!" He repeated.

I raised my hands to protest a little more, and I guess Thing Two caught a glance at my sidearm, and all hell broke loose.

"Gun!" he yelped frantically.

With the reflexes of an academy trigger-happy officer, Thing One drew on his sidearm and pointed at me.

"Hands in the air now!" I obliged him.

When a trigger-happy racist cop points a gun at you, you do whatever the hell he tells you to.

"Easy there, Officer, you don't wanna make this kind of mistake a few weeks out of the academy."

He cocked his head to the side slightly in confusion.

"Sir, get down on the ground! Now," Thing One barked. He was gonna kill me.

I saw his finger was hovering over the trigger. He was looking for a reason to end me.

"What the fuck is going on over here!" Sergeant Edwards barked.

"He's got a gun!" Thing Two barked back.

"Officer, of course, he has a gun. He's a freaking cop!" the officer in charge noted.

"What? I didn't see a badge sir."

"That's because I have his badge!" Edwards swore.

"Put your damn weapons away. You're making a scene in front of the civilians and news. Jesus, we don't need more bad press."

Most of the time, the Sarge and I don't see eye to eye. He's 290 pounds of surly black man with a side order of balding pate and muscle pains. To top it all off, he was wearing a brown polyester suit, basically 10 pounds of shit in a 5-pound bag. He was my dad's old partner and he looks out for me, but most of the time, he's an asshole with a heart of gold. He'd have shaved his head today, but he was sporting a five o'clock shadow and his beard hair was speckled with flecks of gray and white. If you stood close to him, you could smell his aftershave, some kind of Brut.

"It's a real bloodbath over there," Sergeant Edwards mumbled as he pulled a pack of Marlboro reds out of his jacket pocket. He tapped the bottom three times then casually pulled a cigarette out with his lips. He lit the cigarette and took a drag so long, I thought he would finish it in one pull.

"That bad, huh?" I asked.

"Kid, you have no idea," he said as smoke poured out of his mouth like fog creeping over a bank on a cool summer morning.

"Listen, word came down from the top for you to be on this case. Honestly, I thought it was bullshit, just the boys upstairs looking for a person to railroad when this one goes south."

"I figured," I noted casually.

"Listen, Chris, whatever you do, remember to cover your ass. That was always Sergeant Edwards's motto. Cover ye ass! It was a commandment, and it was damn good one. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gold badge. Here, you got a new badge."

"Wait a minute… My badge is silver," I pointed out.

"This is your new badge. Congratulations, you just got promoted," the sarge joked. Then he tossed it to me. By now, I thought my life was taking a turn for the better, but the things that happened next would balance the scales.

Chapter 3

Time: 0323a

Location: 27th and Polk St. (Crime Scene)

"Hey, you! Yeah, you! Come here, rookie." I pointed at Thing One.

"Me?" he mouthed silently.

"Yeah, you! I said. Get your ass over here!" I insisted.

He shuffled over to me. "Yes, Detective."

He groveled, emphasizing the word detective hard as if he still couldn't believe it.

"New York, right?"

"Yeah, how'd you know," he asked.

"It's all over you like a bad stink," I snapped back.

"Listen, Detective, if you don't have anything useful to say…" His voice trailed off as he gestured for the yellow tape and his spot.

"What's your name, Officer?" I asked evenly.

"It's McGill, Roy McGill," he confessed.

"Well, Officer McGill, listen closely, I want you and Thing Two over there." I gestured over to the other officer who was holding the line steady with him.

"Who?" he asked with an honest-to-goodness look of confusion on his face. This guy was a prankster's wet dream.

"Listen, you and your partners are going to canvass the area and question people. Then I want you to detain that man over there." I craned my head in the direction of the white guy in the crowd.

"That guy? Why? He hasn't done anything."

"Jesus, McGill! Did you learn anything at the academy?" I drawled.

"Yeah, but that guy isn't breaking the law."

"Anything seem odd or off about that guy?" I asked him.

McGill paused for a moment, as he took quick glances at the guy without staring for too long.

"He's middle-aged, wearing a gold Rolex, it's a classic. He's wearing a polo shirt. He's recently been crying," McGill noted.

The kid was sharp, I mean, really sharp.

"Good… Now what else stands out about 'em?"

"He's tall."

"What else?"

"He's the only white guy standing in a crowd full of black people?" he said in a questioning voice.

"Exactly!" I concluded.

"Isn't that kind of racist?"

"Call it a hunch," I retorted.

"I don't think the state's attorney will like us detaining people based on hunches…sir."

"Then spin it and say he was drunk."

"Of all the bull crap I could've—" McGill started.

"What's that, Officer?" I said.

"Nothing… I didn't say nothing," he quipped.

"Make sure you do it all without shooting anyone!"

Now that was taken care off, I could check out the crime scene. It's my least favorite part of the job. Ridiculous, I know, but call me crazy, seeing dead bodies and it's kind of a buzzkill. I'm not trying to come off as an asshole or insensitive, but death is a scary thing. It's a nasty business, and anyone that tells you otherwise is lying or crazier than a hobo fighting over a half-smoked cigarette. I'm getting off point again. I walked over to the crime scene, flashing my badge casually to every officer I passed. Right away, it hit me. It was hard.

The putrid smell of bowels and copper hung in the air. You never get used to it, the smell of death, I mean. Tonight, it was heavy. As I drew closer, I noticed blood spatters all over the wall. Arterial spatter, most likely. Ugh…there was a shit ton of blood, about ten pints of blood to be exact. The human body holds about ten pints. It looks like someone lost their fair share tonight. I walked over to the crime scene unit's station and pulled a pair of blue latex gloves out of a box they had lying around, then put them on.

Officers were standing around and trampling my crime scene. If it's one thing I hate, it's people fucking up my first impressions of a scene. I needed to thin the herd out.

I raised my hands up in a placating gesture then used my outside voice. "All right…everyone who isn't a lead detective or CSU, please clear the area."

In a matter of moments, disgruntled officers were out of my way, and holy shit, I wish they hadn't left.

Approximately thirteen feet up on the wall was the body of a white woman. I still remember to this day the frozen look of terror in her glazed-over eyes. The poor girl died with her eyes open. She was literally crucified upside down. Fountains of scarlet blood were spewing from a long gash on her stomach. Gravity took effect, and her intestines were sliding out. I got a little closer. No, they were pulled out. The smell was terrible. She didn't die on an empty stomach. Her hands and legs had railroad spikes driven into them.

"This is by far the worst I've seen yet," I heard a guy with a Scottish accent telling a CSU tech. What the hell is a Scotsman doing on my crime scene?

"Hey, you! Sir," I started.

Who said the CPD doesn't have manners? The man turned around and faced me. First impression time, I scanned him quickly. He was 5 feet eleven or six even. I was standing uphill so I couldn't tell accurately. He was thin but fit, a runner's build, green eyes, clean-shaven, blond hair cut in a hipster, high and tight. It was windblown. If he wasn't wearing an Armani black suit with a matching vest, I'd swear the sonova bitch had just run a marathon…and liked it.

"Me? Are you referring to me?" he said as he pointed to himself.

"Yes, I am," I added as I got in his face.

"I am Constable Harper Ignatius Abernathy of the Scotland Yard and Interpol joint task force. Why are you on my crime scene, sir?" he asked with a puzzled expression on his face, aiming his words at me.

"Yeah, well, I'm Detective First Grade Christopher Coyle, and I was wondering the same thing." He was naming names and dropping titles, so I did the same thing.

"Ah, so you're Detective Coyle. Somehow, I expected him to be…white."

"Well, I thought everyone at the Yard wore handlebar mustaches and a monocle. Let me see your credentials."

He pulled out his badge and a bundle of papers. He was legit. Wasn't much I could do about Interpol, especially considering the first crimes took place in Scotland, according to his documents.

"So… Constable Abernathy, what can you tell me about the perp?" He looked at me, sized me up, then sighed.

"I assume you mean perpetrator?"

"Potatoes or potatos." I shrugged as I walked over to the body of the victim, taking casual steps to avoid the pools of blood.

He sighed. "This is the latest in a string of serial sexual assault murders," Abernathy said as he stood next to me. He reached inside his pocket and pulled out another crème folder, then handed it to me.

"How many times has this happened before?" I asked.

"In a span of four years, it's happened eighty-nine times."

"Are you serious right now?" I stammered.

"You still haven't caught this sonova bitch?"

"It's not for lack of trying," Abernathy swore.

"Every time we close in on him, he jumps to another area or country and lays low for nine months, then starts again."

"So is his MO always the same?" His eyes widened.

"I assume you mean modus operandi?" Abernathy corrected.

"Listen, Constable, if you need a translator or something, I can have the sergeant set up something so you can keep up," I drawled.

"That won't be necessary, I'm very familiar with American dialect, I just find it to be rudimentary."

"Well, I sure as hell ain't gonna slow the bus for you to catch up!" I prodded again.

He nodded then continued unperturbed. That's good. He has a thick skin, he's gonna need that to work a case in the Windy City.

"The perp, he started as he placed emphasis on the word, has been to ten countries so far. Scotland, Greece, Italy, Russia, North Africa, Egypt, Japan, Mongolia, Australia, and here. He has no preference in race. All of the victims are females between twenty-one to fifty-five years old. Healthy women all found like this—Abernathy gestured up to the girl hanging upside down—usually half-nude intestine strewn about with a look of terror on their faces."

"What do we know about this one right here?" I gestured with my head to the girl.

"So far, nothing. Your department's CSU couldn't find a purse or a wallet of any kind. Strange, I can't believe a woman, of her…stature would be walking around an area like this without identification or protection—"

"White," I interrupted.

"According to a couple of other officers, this mostly African American area," Abernathy continued as if I hadn't spoken.

"So what we see is what we get," I said evenly.

It was hard, but I took in her grisly appearance. I mean, her guts were a hard thing to overlook, but I had to. I kept telling myself it's a part of the process, the process for getting this girl justice. She deserved that much. Some man, no, some animal, carved her up like she was Thanksgiving turkey then stripped her down to her underwear and stapled her to the wall. No human could do this.

"So, what do you think?" Abernathy asked, but I answered him with a hand gesture for him to talk to it. It was time for me to do my thing. I think he got it because he backed off. I pulled out my notepad and began to take notes. I started with her eyes. They were ice blue, blue as an arctic spring in the twilights of morning in Alaska. Her hair was red, cut short in a bob, or at least I assume it was before she was hung upside down. Now gravity just had it hanging loosely. She was wearing a garnet brooch around her neck. Streaks of scarlet stained her chest, and more just kept on coming. Her bra and panties were some pearl white number out of the spring catalog from last year. Before anyone makes assumptions, I only knew that because Brandy wanted me to drop half a stack on the same pair. I, of course, did, but I'm digressing again.

Her hands we literally nailed into the red bricks. How in the hell did anyone do this without drawing attention to themselves? She was 110 to 120 pounds, great shape. I glanced over at her left hand. Tan line. Ah! Now we're getting somewhere. Either recently divorced or out on the town for extracurriculars. There was nothing else I could gather that seemed important.

Based on everything I saw, I began to make my first deductions. (1) This woman was middle-aged, business elite. I mean, she was wearing a garnet brooch and a silk undergarments. She was married at some point in time. That was good news. That meant someone would be looking for her. She hadn't died in this spot. There was no way anyone could scale thirteen feet up a wall with a woman, who was obviously in good enough shape, to put up a fight then nail her to the wall in one sweep. As bad as it sounded, it was a good thing she was white. It meant this would draw a lot of attention. If anyone saw anything, we'd know soon enough. I walked away from that crime scene, and as bad as it sounds, I didn't look back.

Abernathy jostled up beside me, trying to catch up.

"Well, Detective, it's obvious you saw something. Care to share?"

"Someone has to be looking for this woman. She's either married or recently divorced. I think I may have her significant other locked up."

What do you mean? How?

"I saw a guy standing in the crowd that I had the officers pull to the side for questioning."

"That was brilliant, Detective!" Abernathy rejoiced.

Before I could reach Officer McGill, I was bombarded by a swarm of cameras and news reporters. They were chattering and stumbling over themselves trying to get a statement out of me.

"Detective, what can you tell us about the case?" a female reporter asked. I stopped in my tracks. The sergeants got a strict no-talking-to-the press policy. What the hell, I'll throw them a bone.

"We have nothing to say at this time," I said as I stonewalled them.

"What can you tell us about the victim?" a male reporter called out. I couldn't put a face to it. The lights were too bright.

"Listen, all questions need to be submitted in writing to the human resources department of the Chicago Police Department. I can tell you this much, we are not allowed to provide information about an ongoing investigation. That is all." The horde of reporters went crazy. I always know what to say to drive 'em crazy. I went back home to get some sleep. This was gonna be one helluva case.

Chapter 4

Time: 0907a

Location: Home (Taylor St.)

I woke up at nine o'clock. Brandy was gone. Jimmy was chewing on something that I was 90 percent sure belonged to me. I mean, he was really making a show of it. It was almost like he wanted me to know he was destroying something. They say dogs are smarter than most people think. Jim wasn't an exception. He didn't like me, and he was systematically finding a new way to screw me over every day. Today his agenda consisted of… I leaned over to see what he was mangling. I wish I hadn't.

He was chomping down on the left boot of my favorite pair of black leather Timberland boots. My heart skipped a beat. Normally, I don't condone animal cruelty, but in this case, rules were made to be broken. Broken, as in I'm gonna snap his freaking little neck.

"Dog, I swear to God! I'm gonna end you then make sure they never find your doggy corpse!" I swore at Jimmy.

He responded with gusto and what I assumed was a lot of swearing and threats, but only in barks. I jumped up to wring his neck like a chicken, and Flight of Valkyries blared from my phone.

"Saved by the phone, you little sonuva bitch!" I swore.

He barked a few more times then promptly trotted out of the room. I really hate that dog.

I walked into the kitchen and grabbed my phone off the counter. It was Brandy; I missed her call, so she left voice mail, something about ordering out for dinner because she wouldn't be home in time. I got another message from the sarge. He wanted me to come to his office as soon as I got in. Well, looked like the day was shaping out. I chased the pulverizer into a room where he couldn't do any more damage then locked him in with food and water. I took a shower and was out the door. I made my way to the Fifteenth Precinct on Madison. Traffic was terrible as usual, so it took me an hour. When I arrived, I took the elevator up to major crimes and swiped my key card to be let in.

It was a madhouse. Crime in Chicago never takes a holiday, and when you're a cop, you don't get a moment until you're off the clock. This madhouse was the culmination of that, men and women working tirelessly to clean the streets up. I hate to say it, but fighting crime is always a losing battle. You stop a drug dealer over there, and a rapist springs up on the north side. I hate rapists. Don't judge me for looking at