Dirty Little Town: River City, #7

By Frank Zafiro

Times are tough for the River City Police Department. The city budget is collapsing, forcing an already understaffed department to contemplate laying off cops. The community is upset over the handling of recent events, and their anger is impacting the agency from the ground up. Negotiations with the police union are somehow both heated and stagnant at the same time. To "fix" the problem, the mayor appoints a new chief, but the cure may be worse than the disease.

 

Worse yet, a killer is stalking the streets of River City, targeting vulnerable women. Rookie detective Katie MacLeod is assigned to assist in the effort to stop him but the case is stymied.

Somehow, the men and women of RCPD have to put aside all of the distractions and focus on their jobs – to serve and to protect.

 

A River City Crime Novel #7 Takes place in 2003.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Code 4 Press
• Release date: Nov 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201293154

Frank Zafiro

Frank Zafiro was a police officer from 1993 to 2013. He is the author of more than two dozen crime novels. In addition to writing, Frank is an avid hockey fan and a tortured guitarist. He lives in Redmond, Oregon.  

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Dirty Little Town

Frank Zafiro

A River City Novel

Dirty Little Town (A River City novel)

Frank Zafiro

Copyright © Frank Scalise 2021

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without the prior written permission of the copyright owner(s), except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Code 4 Press, an imprint of Frank Zafiro, LLC

Redmond, Oregon USA

This is a work of fiction. While real locations may be used to add authenticity to the story, all characters appearing in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover Design by Eric Beetner

For Rosemary,

From your Nanu

A fish rots from the head down.

Ancient proverb, possibly Greek in origin

Part I:

Summer 2003

River City, Washington

When bad men combine, the good must associate;

else they will fall one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.

Edmund Burke (1729-1797),

Irish Statesman

ONE

Monday, August 25, 2003

0716 hrs

Day Shift

You’re being detailed.

What? Officer Katie MacLeod stared at Sergeant O’Sullivan from her driver’s seat. The two of them were parked car-side on the fringe of the River City Arena parking lot. A small cluster of cars near the Park and Ride were the only other vehicles to be seen.

You’re being re-assigned to the Investigative Division, Sully told her. You’ll be assisting Detective Browning on his case.

Katie blinked. He’s working the serial.

Sully nodded.

I thought they were putting together a task force for that.

Apparently not.

Why aren’t they?

Politics, I guess. I don’t know. Sully shifted in his seat and tugged at his bullet-resistant vest. "Or maybe you’re the task force."

Very funny.  She considered for a moment, then another thought struck her. Why me? I’m not a detective.

That’s the other thing, Sully said. You’re getting a provisional promotion.

A slew of emotions washed through Katie at once. Exhilaration at the promotion. Guilt for leaving patrol when the division was so short-handed. And confusion at the unfamiliar term.

Confusion won out. I’ve been here for over twelve years and I’ve never heard of a provisional promotion.

Neither had I, Sully told her. I had to pull out the contract and look it up.

And? What’s it mean?

It means a few things. For one, you’re promoted to the vacant detective position but not necessarily reassigned.

I’ve seen that before. Officers get promoted but don’t move right away. They get the stripe and the pay bump but keep working patrol until the rookie that’s taking their place gets through training. But—

"But this is the opposite. You’re not staying in patrol. You’re being detailed to Major Crimes. And…"

She stared at him. And what?

And you’re not getting the pay bump yet.

Katie shook her head. You’re sure that’s in the contract? It sounds shady.

It’s there. I mean, technically we’ve been working without a contract for the last year-and-a-half, but the terms of the expired contract continue during the negotiation period for the following one.

That sounds like something you learned for the sergeant’s exam.

It probably was. Imagine that – something on a civil service exam actually being useful in the real world. ‘Tis an odd t’ing, isn’t it? Sully lapsed into his signature faux Irish brogue.

In spite of everything – the strange news, how tired she was, all the turmoil going on around the police department – the rare appearance of the O’Sullivan lilt made her smile a little. It reminded her of their days together on graveyard patrol. She missed Sully since his transfer to Special Police Problems last year. He seemed happier, though, so that was good. And it wasn’t like she never saw him. With all of the staffing shortages, he’d worked day shift patrol three times this month to fill in.

Point is, Sully was saying, it’s legal. They can do it.

"But why?"

I’m sure it all comes down to budget. Or contract negotiations, somehow. He shrugged. It’s not all bad. The alternative is not to make the promotion at all. Then the promotional list eventually expires and you’re back to square one. This way, at least you’re locked into the position. It’s just a matter of time until it gets finalized.

She squinted, thinking. Do you think Captain Saylor had anything to do with this?

Maybe. The mayor hasn’t given command a whole lot of leash from what I heard, though. Saylor and Reott are just steering the ship until we get a new chief. He stroked his chin. Katie could see the slightest bit of stubble there. Though that does sound like something he’d try to do, doesn’t it? Take care of his people, I mean.

It sounded like it to her, too. But she wished the captain had thought to ask her about it. Abandoning patrol in the middle of a staffing shortage didn’t sit well with her.

"So, no extra pay, no stripe and I get reassigned? Katie shook her head. I don’t like it, Sully. Especially not when we’re so short out here. Even on day shift, we’re getting hammered."

I know.

Katie punched up the calls waiting on her Mobile Data Terminal (MDT). Eleven calls holding right now. She hit another key. And no other units clear.

Believe me, I know. But apparently, Investigations is even skinnier. That whole retirement protest stunt gutted them.

Katie nodded grimly. Less than a month ago, a large swath of RCPD officers at all ranks retired en masse. The move was rumored to have been engineered by the police union to put pressure on the city during contract negotiations. She didn’t know how successful that ploy had been. The city was already hinting at laying off cops to balance the budget. And she didn’t see how the retirement protest helped them with a public that was already more than a little pissed off at the department, either.

Part of that is my fault, she thought, but pushed the idea aside. Now was not the time.

Regardless of the politics of it or its strength as a negotiating strategy, the immediate result that she experienced first-hand from the retirements was an already overtaxed patrol division suddenly thrust into a staffing crisis. Mandatory overtime and vacation cancellations were only the beginning, as sergeants scrambled to keep patrol shifts above the minimum staffing level. Concerns were initially about maintaining the same level of service delivery but reality quickly set in. The situation devolved into simply having enough cops on duty to answer the highest priority calls and for those working to be safe.

And now they want me to leave my platoon in the lurch?

Do I have a say? she asked.

I suppose you could turn down the promotion.

Katie hesitated. Maybe she should.

No, Sully said. You’re not doing that.

I…

No, he repeated. You’ve earned this promotion, MacLeod. And it’s not your responsibility to clean up this mess. It’s up to the people that created it.

Who’s that, exactly? The mayor?

Yeah. And the last chief. City council. The citizens of River City. The union. Whoever. But not you.

Katie took a deep breath and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. This is not how I imagined getting promoted to detective.

You were thinking there’d be a cake and punch ceremony?

No, that’s for retirements. But… I didn’t think it’d be like this.

I hear you. But this comes down from on high. So saddle up, MacLeod. You report to Lieutenant Crawford tomorrow morning at zero-seven. Congratulations.

Thanks, Sarge.

Good luck in the world of soft clothes, Sully said. Don’t get too fat for your uniform.

Look who’s talking. SPP is doing a number on you, chubs.

Sully grinned at her. Ouch, lass, he said, affecting the Irish brogue again. Ye go straight fer the heart, now, don’t ye?

Katie rolled her eyes. Some things never changed. She took some small comfort in that.

Sully’s voice lowered slightly. Seriously, though, watch yourself in Major Crimes. The dix office is already an old boys’ club. And Major Crimes is the circle within the circle. You’ll be the only woman.

So? It’s 2003, Sully. And I’ve been here twelve years.

He gave her a knowing look. Just saying. You haven’t been a rookie for a long time, and now you’re going to be playing in a league that thinks it’s the highest one that exists. There’s bound to be egos.

Katie stared at him. Is this what they taught you at sergeant school? How to deliver good news?

How’s this, then? Sully grinned slightly as he put his car in gear. Enjoy your last day on patrol, he said. Then he goosed the accelerator and swept away.

Katie watched his unmarked patrol car zip through the lot and pull out onto Boone Avenue.

Last day, she mused quietly. Last day in paradise.

Then she turned to the MDT. It was time to start carving into the calls that were stacking up like cord wood.

0730 hrs

What an effete snob.

Captain Robert Saylor wasn’t impressed with Richard Sammael. The rail-thin man sat next to the mayor with his legs crossed in an attempt to appear urbane but only succeeded in coming across as arrogant. Despite the slight hunching of his shoulders, the way he cocked his head back ever so slightly gave the appearance that he was quite literally looking down his nose at them.

It was the man’s eyes, however, that told Saylor everything he needed to know. They brimmed with contrived sincerity, but he could see the cunning lurking behind that false front. It didn’t help that Sammael’s resting expression was a barely perceptible sneer.

As I was saying, the mayor continued. He’d been droning for the past several minutes, meandering through what Saylor could have said in two pithy sentences.

Thanks for minding the store, boys.

Now meet the new boss.

But the mayor was a politician. Any chance to talk meant a chance to talk a lot. So, Saylor sat and feigned an acceptable level of attention, waiting to see if either the mayor or Sammael himself had any bombs to drop in the midst of all this rhetoric.

He could feel Sammael’s eyes on him while the mayor spoke. More than that, he sensed the judgment, the appraisal, that came with that stare. It rankled him. Who was Sammael to judge him, or Reott, for that matter? The two of them had put in more than twenty years of service at RCPD. Sammael wasn’t even in uniform yet, opting instead for an expensive suit that Saylor highly doubted came off the rack. He didn’t deserve to pass judgment.

Saylor realized his face had tightened while the mayor spoke. He forced himself to relax. Deserve had nothing to do with it. Deserve was for poets and historians. He was a cop. He had to deal with what was. It was that simple. It is what it is, as the saying went.

What it was, though, was a jumbled mess.

Saylor glanced over at Sammael. The new Chief of Police had turned to watch the mayor blather. Saylor wondered if he’d only imagined the man’s stare a few moments before.

It is what it is, he groused inwardly. What a trite, useless phrase.  Saylor wouldn’t call himself an intellectual, but another sentiment came to mind that was far more appropriate to the situation.

How quickly the tide turns.

Less than eighteen months ago, he’d met with the chief of staff for the then-mayor. Over lunch, the chief of staff laid out a simple plan to Saylor. The chief at the time, a retired military officer who had just managed to make it to his four-year anniversary in that position, had bungled his last crisis. The mayor planned to fire him, insert Saylor as acting chief, and bring in an outsider to set things aright. Their preferred candidate was a woman who was a deputy chief in Houston.

Saylor knew that any chief was a roll of the dice, and doubly so an outside chief. He had never heard of her before that day. But his subsequent research left him optimistic.

He realized he was staring at Sammael while these thoughts went through his head. He glanced down at his watch before turning his gaze back to the mayor, who, to no one’s surprise, was still talking.

Another saying tickled the back of his mind.

Man plans and God laughs.

All of the then-mayor’s plans hinged on the belief that re-election was a foregone conclusion. Fire the chief, get re-elected, hire a new chief from Houston to heal the department. Instead, all that mayor managed to accomplish was the first step before either the tide turned or God laughed.

Saylor did his part, stepping in to steward the department through the brief interregnum that was supposed to last less than ninety days. Instead, the mayor’s upstart opponent capitalized on the growing dissatisfaction within the community toward the police, highlighted those failed crises, and pounded the drum so hard that the mayor actually lost the election.

The man who accomplished that feat finally stopped talking now to give Saylor and Reott a contrived, meaningful look. I want to thank both of you for shepherding this department through the last fifteen months or so. I know I kept an active hand in things, but I was always confident in your ability to handle the day-to-day operations.

Saylor almost laughed at that. The mayor had been a micro-manager from day one. He mistakenly thought he knew how to run a police department because he’d run a business, failing to see where the two did not overlap. Saylor had been tempted to flat out ask him if he’d been elected to mayor or chief of police but knew that would have done nothing but strip himself of any influence he might have with the man. When the mayor announced his long search for a new chief was narrowing, Saylor had been relieved. That was, until the mayor’s choice was announced.

The mayor turned to Sammael. You can rely on these two captains, Chief. They’re good soldiers.

Sammael’s lip twitched upward. I’m certain.

All right, the mayor said, I’ve probably talked enough. Let’s get down to brass tacks. He motioned toward Sammael. Chief Sammael’s appointment is effective as of this morning. I’ll let him tell you what he expects from each of you, and this department.

The mayor leaned back and folded his hands in front of his chest, looking pointedly at Sammael. The admiration on his face was plain.

Thank you, Mr. Mayor. Sammael spoke in velvety tones. He fixed his eyes on Saylor and Reott and affected a stern expression. Captains, let’s be clear about a few things, right from the get. There are two kinds of chiefs in the policing world. There are healing chiefs, brought in to mend a department that’s been through hell. And there are wrecking ball chiefs, brought in to a disaster department to smash apart and then rebuild it.

His lip twitched upward again.

Make no mistake. I am the latter.

Saylor’s jaw tightened.

Sammael noticed the reaction. You don’t like that characterization, Captain Saylor?

Frankly, no.

Why not?

Because RCPD is a good department with good people.

Are you sure that’s why? Or is there another reason? Maybe something to do with your inability to turn things around during your time as acting chief?

Saylor narrowed his eyes. I was only acting for a few weeks. After the election, the mayor changed that. He took a more active role. Mike and I carried out the mission.

And yet, here we are, with a broken police department.

We’re not broken, Saylor growled.

Sammael arched an eyebrow. No? That’s not how it appears to the outside world. He uncrossed his legs and re-crossed them with the other leg on top. Let me tell you what the outside world sees. They see a police department full of cops who won’t sign a fair contract, who want more money despite doing a poor job over the past several years. They see a police department that shot two kids not very long ago, one completely on accident and one that could have been stopped through other means. They see a department that is failing to meet a community’s basic expectations for police service. Do you want me to go on? Because that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

That’s completely unfair. Saylor looked at Captain Michael Reott, who sat next to him, for support. Reott stared straight ahead, remaining silent.

Who ever said life was fair? Sammael shook his head in disappointment. What matters is results. Outcomes. And here in River City, those have been pretty poor over the past several years. Longer, if you want the truth.

Saylor knew he should cut bait. He’d spoken up with the last chief frequently and it resulted in a long, hard ride. Sammael seemed even worse. But he couldn’t remain silent. To him, leadership meant speaking up. When people didn’t speak, greater problems evolved than his own uncomfortable daily existence on mahogany row.

As for meeting community expectations, he said, we are grossly understaffed at the moment. We’re struggling to respond to emergency calls during peak hours. Officers are being drafted on their days off to meet minimum staffing requirements for safety. We need to hire more police officers, but the budget—

Don’t swap cause and effect, Captain, Sammael interrupted briskly. The budget is what it is because of the poor job this department has done. Nobody wants to continue to pay for substandard service. And the staffing shortage is a direct result of that little retirement temper tantrum that the union orchestrated as a bargaining ploy.

The chief wasn’t wrong but Saylor wanted to point out that the mayor was still considering layoffs, too. He bit his tongue and didn’t reply.

There is one thing that this police department has done well over the past several years, however, Sammael continued. You’ve become very adept at making excuses. Every time something happens, every time you fail somehow, there’s always an excuse to trot out. Well, guess what, Captain? The public doesn’t care about your puny, pathetic excuses. The public cares about results. And so that is what I care about.

He leaned forward, his teeth bared slightly in a hard sneer.

Play time is over, gentlemen. The men and women of this department will perform in their assigned roles or suffer the consequences. No more free passes. No more excuses. He leveled a finger at them but his eyes were on Saylor. Starting with you.

Saylor looked over at the mayor. You can’t possibly agree with all of this, do you?

The mayor only studied him in response.

Don’t look to mommy for safety, Captain. Sammael’s sneer melted into a thin, humorless smile. Daddy’s here now.

2338 hrs

Adam-418, foot pursuit.

Officer Thomas Chisolm pulled forward into the intersection, activating his overhead lights and flipping a U-turn. Traffic was light so he left his siren off. While he drove toward the location of Officer Charles Dawes, he cocked his head and waited for the next transmission. The voice of the young officer had been surprisingly calm, given the nature of the event. Short of a fight of some kind or a vehicle pursuit, chasing someone was one of the most adrenaline-inducing situations a police officer might face. So why did Dawes sound almost bored? With just three years on the job, something like this should still excite him.

The dispatcher seemed to be waiting for the next transmission as well. Rather than come on and start sending units to back Dawes, Janice wisely kept the channel clear for the officer in pursuit. Chisolm approved of this. Every cop should know what his platoon mates were doing at any given time, so they didn’t need Janice to give them directions on how to get to Dawes.

West on Spofford, Dawes said a moment later. Toward the park.

Chisolm heard the jostle in Dawes’s voice that indicated the officer was running. He kept his vehicle speed right in the sweet spot he’d learned to use over his career for most police calls that weren’t already life and death – fast enough to make good time but slow enough to safely navigate the nighttime streets of River City.

Adam-419, I’m coming on scene. Officer Chris Mason, the other rookie on the platoon, sounded more excited than Dawes.

Except neither were rookies anymore, Chisolm realized. They went through the academy together, and had been out on the street more than long enough to be competent patrol officers. But to Chisolm, it seemed like they were only out of the training car last week.

I’m getting old.

Adam-418, turning north on Elm, Dawes reported blandly.

The lack of excitement puzzled Chisolm. Despite his thin but athletic build, Dawes had yet to catch a suspect in a foot pursuit. He was notoriously oh-for-seven, something Mason didn’t let him forget. Dawes took it well. But Chisolm could tell his losing streak bothered him.

Chisolm reached Birch, crossed the northbound one-way quickly, and turned left onto Ash. The wider arterial was a one-way southbound so Chisolm accelerated. He’d be on scene in less than thirty seconds. Even if Dawes somehow lost his suspect again, there’d be enough cops flooding the area that they’d eventually find him.

You can have units disregard, Dawes transmitted. Chisolm could tell from the evenness of his voice that he was no longer running. He crashed at Elm and Augusta. I’m code four.

Crashed?

Chisolm slowed marginally, frowning. How does someone crash in a foot chase? Had the suspect fled on a bike or a scooter? Or did Dawes mean that he’d tripped and fell?

No, he decided. Dawes was a precise person. He wouldn’t say crash to mean fall down.

Four-nineteen, I’m on scene. Chisolm heard the laughter at the edges of Mason’s voice. His curiosity piqued further.

Copy, Janice said. Adam-419 on scene. All other units can disregard.

Chisolm’s MDT beeped and flashed a message for him. He slowed down, absently clicking through them. He saw that Janice had dispatched him on a report call up near Franklin High School. He hit the En Route button but decided that he’d check on the rookies first.

When he pulled up to the corner of Elm and Augusta, he grinned. Dawes and Mason were struggling to right a wheelchair that was on its side. The occupant flailed and struck at them ineffectively. Mason let go of the chair and tried to control the man’s hands. Dawes hung onto the chair but didn’t have sufficient leverage to lift it from the side he was on.

Chisolm exited his patrol car without checking out with radio. As he approached, Mason managed to grab onto one of the man’s arms for a moment but then it twisted like a snake and was free.

Hey! Chisolm boomed.

All three of them stopped and stared at him.

Knock it off, he growled at the suspect.

Dawes recovered first, straining to lift the fallen wheelchair. Mason joined him a moment later. Without the man slapping at Mason, the officers were able to lift it upright. Then, before the man could start swinging again, Dawes took control of his wrist and slapped a handcuff on it. Mason held the other wrist for him. They secured the man’s hands in front. The sound of ratcheting cuffs seemed to break whatever spell Chisolm had cast over him.

Assholes! the man yelled at the rookies. His forehead had a red scuff from the fall, and a few small bits of gravel stuck to it. Pick on the crippled guy. Great!

Pipe down, Mason said.

Pipe up your ass! the man snapped back.

Hey! Chisolm yelled again.

Everyone stopped and turned to look at him, just like before.

In a slightly easier tone, Chisolm said, Knock. It. Off. You’re not helping yourself here.

Are you their boss? the man demanded.

Mason snickered at the suggestion, but the man ignored him.

I want to file a complaint for assault, the man said. He pointed to Dawes. "Against him."

How did he assault you? Chisolm asked.

He chased me. He made me crash.

Chisolm eyed the wheelchair and the street next to it. Sounds more like I should file reckless driving charges against you.

Oh, you’re funny.

Once in a while. He glanced at Dawes. What happened?

Dawes rubbed his mouth before answering. Unwanted guest. I got there and she said it was a theft, too, but that he’d already left. Then he came back while I was talking to her. I told him to stop, and he took off.

Foot pursuit, Mason mimicked, barely keeping his laughter under control.

What’d he steal? Chisolm asked.

A bottle of rum.

Chisolm looked at the man in the chair but saw no bottle. Lift your arms, he directed.

The man gave him an exasperated look but complied.

Chisolm saw nothing. Is it in a bag or something?

Is what? I don’t have anything.

He threw it, Dawes said. While I was chasing him.

Show me. He nodded to Mason. You stay here with him.

Mason stared flatly back at him but said nothing.

Chisolm and Dawes retraced the route of the foot pursuit. Half a block away, Dawes found a three-quarters-full bottle of Captain Morgan’s on the grass in a front yard. The automatic sprinkler system was on, so the young officer skipped and hopped quickly through the spray to retrieve the evidence.

That’s not mine! screamed the man from up the block.

Chisolm held the bottle for Dawes while he shook off the water and stamped his feet. Sounds like an admission of guilt, he said.

How so? Dawes gave him a curious look.

He said it wasn’t his. And since you saw him with it in his hands and he admitted it wasn’t his, sounds like you’ve got a strong case for theft to me. He mimed writing with a pen. It’s all in how you present the facts.

A slow grin spread over Dawes’s face. Thanks, sir. He reached out for the bottle. Then he frowned. You ever book anyone into jail in a wheelchair before?

I have. It’s a pain. But you don’t need to book him. Just cite and release him for the theft. And warn him that if he comes back, he’ll get booked for trespass. He won’t be back, at least not tonight. He’s angry but doesn’t seem stupid.

When they returned to Mason and the suspect, Chisolm stepped back and watched the familiar dance. Dawes accused, the suspect denied. Dawes wrote him the citation and warned him not to return. Then the man snatched the citation from the officer’s hand, wheeled around and rolled off in the opposite direction, firing his middle finger at them as he headed away.

"He is kind of fast," Mason murmured after him.

Shut up, said Dawes.

I mean, not NASCAR fast.

I said—

But riding lawn mower fast.

—shut up. Dawes shook his head. It doesn’t matter how fast he is. That ends my streak.

What? Mason gaped at him. You’re counting this as a foot pursuit?

It was.

No way.

I even called it out on the air that way.

I could call the dementia walkaway from last week as a foot pursuit, too, but that doesn’t mean it was one.

I’m on foot. He ran, I chased. That’s a foot pursuit.

He rolled.

Doesn’t matter, Dawes said emphatically.

Mason glanced over at Chisolm like he might ask the veteran to weigh in but decided better of it. Let me get this straight, he said to Dawes. You’re taking a win for chasing after a guy who crashed his own wheelchair?

A catch is a catch.

Mason lifted his hands in surrender. Okay, Carl Lewis. You win.

Chisolm cringed slightly at the joke. He doubted Mason meant anything by it, but still, he wouldn’t have made the reference.

It didn’t seem to bother Dawes, who struck a pose of a man running. No way. I’m the black Flash.

Congratulations, black Flash. You’re now one-for-eight.

Nice work, Chisolm said. I gotta go. Calls holding.

He turned and headed back to his car. Behind him, he heard Dawes say, Now that I’m on the board, I don’t think we need to do that thing where we keep track anymore.

Notch another one and we’ll see.

Like you’re catching them by the bagful.

"I’m not losing ‘em that way."

The banter was like music to Chisolm’s ears. He’d have liked to have been part of it, sure. But that it existed at all was a good sign for the platoon. He could tell Mason resented him a little for some reason, and suspected they’d have to hash that out at some point. But Dawes listened to him, and both of them were turning out to be good cops so far.

As he swung open the car door to his cruiser, his MDT beeped again. A second later, the radio chirped.

Adam-412 and units to back.

Chisolm reached for the mic. Adam-412. Saying the new callsign still felt strange in his mouth. He’d been Adam-112 for over a decade. With the coming change of shift configuration and a new computer dispatch system came a new unit numbering scheme, starting tonight. Graveyard was no longer first shift. It was now fourth.

Or last, depending on how you looked at it.

Four-twelve and units to back, possible domestic with a firearm. Chisolm’s senses sharpened as Janice recited an address on Greenwood Boulevard. Child caller is describing a violent argument between her parents and says her father has a pistol. Operator can hear a male adult shouting in the background.

Twelve, copy. Chisolm replaced the mic and swung a tight circle. He roared northward on Elm, zipping past the man in the wheelchair, who gaped at him in surprise and then gave him the finger again.

Tuesday, August 26,