River City Series, Books 7-9: River City

By Frank Zafiro

This box set contains River City Books #7, #8, and #9.

 

(#7) Dirty Little Town

set in 2003-04

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.

 

(#8) Dead Even

set from 2004-10

River City short stories. Detectives and mobsters, missing mummies and a shootout with Gypsies—here are fifteen short stories featuring both major and minor characters from the River City novels, now given their own chance to shine in this fast-paced collection of theft, mystery, and murder.

 

(#9) Some Degree of Murder

set in 2005

A young woman has been murdered in River City. Police Detective John Tower is assigned to the case but there are few clues to go on. As he digs into the case, he's soon picking up hints that this murder may not be the killer's first ... or his last.

Virgil Kelly lives in the shadowy world of the criminal underground. He's just arrived in River City with a single-minded mission: find his daughter's killer and bury him.

In his search for a murderer, Tower uses his experience and training along with all the expertise of modern forensics.

In the hunt for his prey, Kelley uses intimidation and violence, tools which he wields with precision and anger.

Virgil Kelley and John Tower are on a collision course. Somebody is going to die.

River City will never be the same.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Code 4 Press
• Release date: Jan 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224126729

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.  

Book preview

River City Series:

Books 7-9

Frank Zafiro

River City Series, Books 7-9

Frank Zafiro

Copyright 2022 Frank Scalise

Published by Code 4 Press, an imprint of Frank Zafiro, LLC

Contains the following novels by Frank Zafiro:

Dirty Little Town (River City #7)

Copyright 2021 Frank Scalise

Cover Design by Eric Beetner

Dead Even (River City #8)

Copyright 2010 Frank Scalise

Cover Design by Eric Beetner

Some Degree of Murder (River City series #9)

Copyright 2011 Frank Scalise and Colin Conway

Cover Design by JT Lindroos

Dirty Little Town (#7)

Dead Even (#8)

Some Degree of Murder (#9)

About the Author

Other Books by Frank Zafiro

Dirty Little Town

(Book 7)

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, 2003

0041 hrs

Officer Paul Hiero stood with the other assembled members of the SWAT team, clustered near Lieutenant Zachary around the corner from the target address. Hiero took his standard position on the far left of the group, his sniper rifle cradled across the crook of his left arm, angled safely toward the ground.

Zachary briefed them on the situation. We’ve got a single barricaded suspect armed with a handgun holding his wife, daughter and another young girl hostage. It’s unclear who the other child is, though we’re guessing she’s a friend of the daughter, having a sleep-over. The suspect, Gregory Hyatt, has two robbery convictions and did three years in Walla Walla. He’s been acting erratically since patrol arrived, but there’s no way to be sure why. Drugs, mental issues, or just emotional – we don’t know at this point.

Zachary held up a portable white board with a sketch of the exterior of the house and what they knew of the interior. Current patrol positions on the inner perimeter were each marked with an O. Hiero knew that they’d become an X once a SWAT member relieved the patrol officer. Zachary handed out those assignments first, then put together a Ready Response Team (RRT).

Hiero watched the lieutenant as he chose personnel. He’d always admired the way Zachary handled call outs. Like a good coach who can tell which player is best suited to which role on any given day, he rotated duties while still seeming to put the right man in the right place at the right time. It was nothing short of masterful, and Hiero took pride in the fact that he was their commander.

Zachary turned to Hiero. Sniper on this porch here, he said, indicating a location on the white board sketch. Should give you an angle on both living room windows, which is where they seem to be spending most of their time.

Got it, Hiero said.

You’ll have a patrol spotter, Zachary said, indicating the uniformed officer on the fringes of the group. Hiero spotted Officer Anna Lee. He met her eyes, and they nodded to each other. They worked the same patrol team, so that made it easier.

Here’s our less-than-lethal option, Zachary said, pointing to two members of the Riot Control team. One held a shotgun with a bright blue stock. Hiero knew the shotgun was loaded with bean bag rounds. Next to him was another officer holding a 37mm launcher. The weapon had six long cylinders like a massive revolver. To Hiero, it looked like a grenade launcher and Dirty Harry’s .44 caliber handgun had a love child. Although it could fire bean bag munitions as well, Hiero guessed it was more likely loaded with knee-knockers – wooden doweling that were fired to skip along the ground in front of a suspect and knock him down.

They’ll have lethal back up. Zachary pointed to the patrol officer next to the two Riot squad members.

With everyone assigned, Zachary completed the briefing. Hostage negotiators are already set up, he said, motioning to the small motor home parked nearby. They’ve made contact with the suspect, but conversation so far has been sporadic. No further intelligence as of yet.

A couple of undisciplined groans filtered out from the assembled group. Hiero resisted smiling, but he knew the reason for the reaction. SWAT teams were action-oriented. Their detractors labeled them as having an action imperative. HNT members preached the value of time, and creating a rapport with suspects. Although the two teams worked together often, their competing philosophies inevitably led to some conflict. HNT thought SWAT was overly eager to play with their toys, while SWAT characterized HNT’s goal in any situation as hoping to talk the suspect to death.

Zachary let a moment pass. Then he asked if there were any questions. A couple of minor clarifications later, he ordered the team to action.

The Ready Response Team queued up and headed for the staging location. The other members started toward the patrol positions they would replace. Accompanied by Lieutenant Shen, the shift commander, Zachary headed to the HNT motor home, which would double as his command post (CP).

Hiero approached Officer Lee. You ready? he asked the slender Asian woman. Need to grab anything?

No, I’m set.

Then let’s go, he said.

They carefully made their way to the location Zachary had specified, directly across the street from the suspect house. Hiero could see why the lieutenant had chosen the location. The porch provided him with a clear view of the living room windows, as well as some of the other windows facing the street. The living room shades were drawn, but there was light behind them. In the brief moment he watched before settling in, Hiero saw shadows moving inside.

He quickly set up his position, ignoring the uneasy feeling in his stomach. The wide wooden porch railing provided him with a perfect platform on which to rest the tripod. The residents had turned off all of their exterior lighting at police request. Several lawn chairs were on the porch. Hiero grabbed one and pulled it close to the railing. He was pleasantly surprised when the dimensions married up perfectly. He was able to get a good sighting on both windows with a stable base while sitting in the lawn chair.

Grab one for yourself, he told Lee. We’re going to be a while.

Lee slid a lawn chair into position. How do you know?

Just playing the odds, Hiero said. If Hostage gets him on the line, we’ll be waiting forever while they chat him up.

Lee didn’t respond. She settled into the chair, her eyes on the house.

Hiero reached into his cargo pocket and handed her a pair of field glasses. You ever act as spotter before?

Lee shook her head.

It’s easy, he said. You’ve run with the K9 officers, right?

Yeah. I did a track with Gomez and Čert last week.

It’s the same concept. Your number one job is to watch my back while I focus on the target, just like you watched Gomez’s back while he focused on his dog. Plus, you run our radio traffic, just like with a K9 track.

Got it, Lee said, her tone confident.

Since we’re in a fixed location instead of moving into unknown areas like the K9, you get a third job, too. He pointed at the field glasses. You help me keep the target area scoped out. All right?

Lee nodded. Understood.

Good. Hiero settled in and adjusted the scope. He didn’t bother explaining to her that having a spotter watching the target area during lulls or down time kept the primary sniper from scope exhaustion. Lee now knew enough to do the job Zachary had assigned her.

Hiero made sure his earpiece was seated well so he could hear transmissions. He listened as SWAT members reported relieving patrol officers on the inner perimeter. Although his view of the front of the house was clear, the drawn shades made his job considerably more difficult, especially if he was put in a position to fire at a silhouette. Did they know for certain there was only one man in the house? Were the body shapes of the man and the woman sufficiently different for him to be sure of his target? It was less than ideal, but that was often the hand that SWAT was dealt. If the situation were ideal, patrol would have handled it.

The uneasiness in his gut had grown. He made an effort to sweep it aside. This was just another call, another tactical situation. He needed to perform. People were counting on it.

"RRT in position on the two side," came a muffled transmission.

Lee leaned toward him slightly. What’s RRT?

Ready Response Team, Hiero said. If things go to shit, they storm the house. He kept his aim on the large living room window. Look to the left of the front of the house. You should see them stacking up there.

Lee shifted the field glasses. A moment later, she said, I can sort of see them. It’s dark on that side of the house.

That’s why the El-Tee picked it. They’re close but concealed. If things go sideways, they can take the front door in seconds.

They called it the two side?

Front is the one side, then it goes clockwise around the house.

Lee took in the information. Then she peered through the glasses again. I see shadows inside but it’s hard to make out – wait, do you see that?

Hiero did. The shadow of what appeared to be a large framed man passed in front of the window his sights were trained upon. It was hard to judge exactly how big the subject was since he didn’t know the position of the light source or the target’s relative position to that and the window. But the shadow was clearly male.

Ask the CP to confirm number of subjects and their gender, Hiero said.

Lee reached for her radio.

And use the call sign Sierra-One.

She nodded and made the request. A moment later, Zachary responded with a terse, "Stand by."

Hiero swept the scope across the windows on the house front. In addition to the two living room windows, there were smaller ones that appeared to be a kitchen window, a small, high up bathroom window and a bedroom window on the far right. The latter three probably had glass that would be unlikely to impede a bullet, but he wondered how thick the glass was on the living room windows. Larger windows routinely used plate glass, which was heavier, and could impact the trajectory of his shot. One more challenge to deal with.

His stomach twinged.

"Sierra-One," Zachary called.

Lee acknowledged the transmission.

"One male, Zachary confirmed. According to the physicals listed in previous reports, female is much smaller. Both children are nine. All hostages are lying on the living room floor."

Hiero settled in, and Lee did the same next to him. Everything seemed to slow, as it always did in these situations. To Hiero, it seemed like time was curling itself up like a watch spring during these long moments, waiting for that burst of frenetic action that would mark an end to the standoff.

Unless HNT talks him out, he thought hopefully.

That seemed to become less and less likely as the first hour passed. The occasional updates Zachary put out described a man becoming more and more agitated. It didn’t seem as if the negotiator had connected with him. Hiero suspected they would switch negotiators as soon as that became clear, so at this point they were probably on negotiator number two. If the guy still wasn’t calming down, it didn’t bode well.

Every so often, the hulking shadow would pass in front of the living room window, his dark silhouette splashed across the shades. Hiero told Lee he had a shot on those occasions, which she dutifully reported to the CP.

On the trigger, it was impossible for his mind not to drift back to the school shooting. It had been almost two years ago, but time had not diminished the impact. Every night, he thought about that moment when Gary Palouse, a kid of just seventeen, burst out of the classroom and pointed a chrome .357 at him and the rest of the assembled officers up the hallway. His response had been automatic. He’d fired and recharged the weapon before any of the other officers shot. And though the rattle of MP5s around him should have seemed like commiseration, it hadn’t worked out that way. A lot of officers shot that day. But he knew whose bullet had killed that kid.

And it hadn’t stopped bothering him since.

After almost ninety minutes of tense waiting, Hiero tried to push his thoughts aside and remain focused on the task at hand. This wasn’t his first SWAT callout since the shooting at Franklin High. There’d been five or six between that and tonight. Thankfully, he never came close to having to shoot in any of those.

He glanced over at Lee. She was peering through the field glasses at the house. He asked her, How are you holding up?

She nodded. I’m good.

Yeah?

She hesitated. I mean, I have to pee.

He looked around their location. The porch they were on was dark. The same was true of the next-door houses on either side of them, thanks to dispatch calling in and asking the neighbors to switch their lights off. Go between the houses, he said.

She wrinkled her nose. I can’t.

Your call, he said. But patrol is pretty thin. I don’t know when we’ll get relief.

Lee hesitated.

Go, Hiero suggested. But be fast.

After another moment, Lee handed him the field glasses and stood. She made her way down the steps and between the houses quickly. Hiero heard her feet scraping through the grass, then fall silent. He focused on the front of the house, but a few moments later, he heard the rustle of clothing and equipment, followed by the splatter of liquid hitting the thick grass.

Welcome to the real world of policing, he muttered. Where you do what you gotta do.

When Lee returned, he didn’t look at her right away. He just held out the field glasses for her. Lee took them and resumed watching the front of the house.

You don’t have to go? she asked.

Nope. I was on a coffee break when they activated the team. He adjusted the focus on the scope. Besides, I’d never pee in someone’s yard. I’m not a barbarian.

He sensed Lee stiffen slightly. He smiled but didn’t look her way. The light teasing felt good, pushing back against the long tension of the situation, and camouflaging the ache in his gut.

Lee didn’t respond to his jibe, but he could tell from their occasional exchanges over the next half hour that she’d taken it well.

His relief was short-lived. Before long, Hiero felt a familiar twinge from his stomach. He pulled his right hand away from the indexed position near the trigger guard and lifted his eye away from the scope. Shaking his hand loosely, he glanced over at Lee. She was dutifully watching the front of the house. Hiero glanced down at his hand. His fingers trembled, and he snapped them into a fist, then released them.

Focus, he thought. Just focus and do your job.

Ten minutes later, Chris Mason, the red-headed officer on their platoon, crept onto the porch with a backpack. He handed Lee two bottles of water and a couple of McDonald’s cheeseburgers wrapped in yellow paper. She thanked him by name, and he scurried away to supply the next position.

Hiero put the water down near his feet. He tore into the burger, devouring it in three bites. Then he wiped his fingers dry on his pant leg and returned to a ready position.

Wow, Lee said. You ate that like you were worried it wasn’t paid for.

Hiero grunted. Right now, food was fuel, so getting it in him was all about efficiency. He would have preferred a protein bar, but on callouts, you took what you could get.

Lee took more time with her burger, holding it in one hand and nibbling away at it while watching the house through field glasses she held in her other hand.

"Subject is probably in the bathroom right now. He’s becoming more agitated, Zachary transmitted. He’s threatening to kill the hostages."

Lee set aside her food. I saw the bathroom light go out a second ago. Do you think he –

"Negotiators are calling no joy, Zachary said. He’s ramped up his threats to shoot the hostages. If he returns to the living room, Sierra-One has a green light. Repeat, green light if he enters the living room. Ready team, stand by for a go order."

Holy shit, that happened fast, Lee said.

Hiero didn’t answer. He trained his scope on the two living room windows, waiting. The tension in his stomach had turned into a twisting, searing pain that he tried to ignore. His index finger rested along the trigger guard, twitching slightly. Hiero willed it to stop. He had a green light. If he got a clear shot at the suspect, he had to take it.

That was his job.

That was his mission.

So why was that goddamn kid in the school hallway the only thing he could think of?

There he is! Lee said. The window on the right.

Hiero swung his rifle that direction. A shaky but looming shadow filled his field of vision. It was the male, no question. He centered his aim. Shifted his finger onto the trigger.

"Sierra-One, do you have a shot?" Zachary asked.

Hiero could feel Lee staring at him. Sweat popped out on his forehead. He watched as the man moved across the living room. No shot, he said, pulling his finger away from the trigger. Moving to the west window.

Lee relayed the information.

"Sierra-One has the ball, Zachary repeated. Ready team, stand by."

Hiero acquired the target in the left window. His heart was beating madly. He put the crosshairs at center mass and moved his sweaty finger back to the trigger. Some rational part of him recognized the shot was a flat trajectory. Even plate glass was unlikely to affect the course of the bullet enough to make him miss. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger.

Shoot.

Fire.

Take out the target.

Sweat trickled into his eyes, stinging them.

Save the hostages.

That was his mission, what he had to do.

Hiero felt his breath shuddering, going in and out in short bursts.

Do it!

Shoot, shoot, shoot.

He pulled his eye away from the scope. I’ve got no shot, he said.

Lee snapped her gaze over to him. What?

No shot! he said forcefully.

Shocked, Lee keyed her mic. Sierra-One has no shot, she said flatly.

Across the street, the living room lights went out.

"Go! Zachary ordered. Ready Team, go!"

Hiero saw the team launch forward from the one/two corner of the house on Zachary’s first word. By the time the SWAT commander finished the order, the lead operator was preparing to swing the battering ram at the front door.

A flash came from the living room. A moment later, there was a sharp report. Then the ram crunched into the front door. The entry team slipped through the doorway. Hiero heard the sharp barking of orders, and then saw more flashes of light. The telltale clatter of the MP5 reached his ears a moment later.

It was over in a matter of seconds. The team leader reported one suspect down while the team swept through the remainder of the house. Shouts of clear echoed out of the open doorway, eventually to be repeated over the air, followed by a request for medics. A short time later, team members escorted out first one young girl and then another.

Hiero watched on, frozen in place. Beside him, Lee did the same. He knew he should pack up his position and return to the CP for reassignment, or the debrief. He should at least direct Lee to ask Zachary for orders. But he couldn’t. All he could do was stare at the front door of the house, waiting and hoping that one of the SWAT operators would come through it, helping the wife to safety.

A full minute passed. Then Lee asked him, Where’s the mother?

He couldn’t look at her. All he could do was mumble, I didn’t have a shot.

Lee didn’t reply.

0315 hrs

Detective Finch pulled to the curb in front of the house beside the target residence. Crime scene tape was strung across the front yard of that address, and a pair of impossibly young patrol officers, one a red-haired white man and the other a slender black man, stood guard. He got out of his car and strode toward them. Both looked at him with a cross between uncertainty and dread.

Finch pushed up his jacket, exposing the detective’s badge on his belt. Finch, he said to the red-head. Has Browning showed up yet?

The red head just stared back at him, but the young officer next to him with the nametag Dawes spoke up. I think he’s inside, sir.

Finch nodded his thanks and slipped under the crime scene tape. He noticed neither rookie was holding a log sheet, so he surmised that was the outer perimeter. He would have preferred it if patrol had set the outer perimeter a little wider and made the entire target property the inner perimeter, but it didn’t seem to matter how many times Investigations made that request. Patrol always seemed absolutely determined to make the inner and outer perimeter as tight as humanly possible. At least the media didn’t have a line of sight on the scene.

Thomas Chisolm waited at the front door, clipboard in hand.

"Perimeter duty and the log? Finch asked. While the youngsters just stand there holding up the sidewalk?"

Chisolm flashed a grin, the jagged white scar along the side of his face stretching as he did so. No task too humble, he said. Besides, we’ll rotate them in. Give them a taste of the glamour that is patrol work.

Send them inside, Finch said. Let them see how the all-stars do things.

Can’t perform without an audience, huh? Chisolm shook his head in mock disgust. Speaking of divas, your partner is already inside.

Elias? Finch squinted. Last he knew, Elias was still flying back from a vacation in Vegas.

"No, Browning. Your partner today."

Oh. Finch pointed to the log. Well, mark me going in now.

Chisolm jotted down Finch’s name, checked his watch, and noted the time. Happy detecting, he said, lifting the yellow tape strung across the doorway. Behind him, the front door stood open a crack, its doorjamb shattered. Though this one isn’t much of a whodunit.

Finch stepped under the tape and eased the door open. Homicide, coming in, he said, just to be safe.

Chisolm’s grin widened. Always with the grand entrance, you people.

Finch ignored him. He stepped through the doorway and eased it back to where it was nearly closed again. Through the archway into the living room, he could see the primary crime scene. A woman’s form lay face down on the carpet. He immediately saw the entrance wound in the back of her head.

Sprawled against the far wall was a large man. He’d obviously fallen backward. His shoulders pressed against the wall and his head hung at a crooked angle. A semi-automatic pistol lay a couple feet away on his right side.

Watch for brass, Detective Ray Browning called to Finch from where he stood near the man’s body.

Finch looked around, but didn’t see any high-ranking officials. He knew Lieutenant Crawford was on his way, and it was always possible that a captain or the chief might show up, but they usually didn’t come into the scene until…

"No, not brass. Brass. Browning used two hands to mime an automatic rifle firing and then wiggled his fingers off to the side. SWAT fired MP5s as they came through the door."

Finch looked down. Numerous expended casings littered the entryway. He stepped carefully past them. Once he was fully in the room, he spotted a crime scene forensics technician taking photographs of the deceased woman. The tech wore a full body bio-suit, complete with cap and mask. Finch wondered how long before detectives would be required to do the same.

Based on her frame and the confident manner in which she snapped photos, Finch made an educated guess as to her identity. Hey, Diane.

Hey, Finchie, she said, her voice slightly muffled behind the mask.

Browning’s eyes went up at her use of his nickname. Crinkles appeared at the corners of his mouth as if he were fighting off a smile.

Finch shook his head. Don’t even try it. Her and Elias. No one else.

Not even Nadine? Browning asked. She doesn’t get wife rights?

She has other names for me. What do we have?

Browning spread his hands. Domestic homicide. Husband, he pointed at the man crumpled against the wall, takes wife hostage, he gestured toward the slain woman, along with daughter and daughter’s sleepover friend. He is upset about something, we’re still not sure what. Daughter manages to call police on the bedroom phone, and we end up with a barricaded subject.

Finch nodded. That explained SWAT and the MP5s.

Patrol sets up, Browning continued. SWAT arrives and takes over. Hostage attempts to talk to the guy, but he is all over the place and amped up.

Drugs?

Sandi thought it was more a mental issue.

Finch was glad to hear that it had been a veteran negotiator. The situation may not have ended well, but he knew with Sandi on the line, the man had been given the best opportunity for a good outcome.

He peered at the dead suspect again. The large-framed man didn’t bear any of the telltale signs of meth addiction. Finch suspected that Sandi had the right of it. When they looked into the man’s past, he wouldn’t be surprised if they found a history of mental health issues. Of course, that didn’t rule out some kind of cataclysmic life event that made him snap.

Browning waited until Finch seemed to be finished with his inspection. Then he said, Sandi talked to him until it was clear she wasn’t going to get anywhere. They switched up, put Scott on the line with him, but it didn’t make a difference. He kept amping up. They managed to get him to talk to them away from the hostages, Browning pointed down the short hallway to the bathroom, in the hopes they might be able to send in SWAT, secure the hostages, and pin him alone in a back bedroom or something. But he hung too close to the hostages for that.

So, what prompted SWAT’s entry?

He told Hostage that he was going to kill everyone. Scott believed him. The SWAT commander told the sniper he had a green light. Suspect left the bathroom… Browning changed location to the hallway and moved slowly, pantomiming each action as he spoke. …and came back to the living room.

Sniper?

No shot, Browning said. So, suspect kills the light… Browning pointed to the standing lamp that was now burning. …steps up and shoots the wife. Browning pointed his forefinger and dropped his thumb. SWAT comes in before he can shoot either kid... Browning motioned behind them, toward the door. They give him some orders, but realistically, it’s a done deal. They light him up… Browning held his hands out to his side and stepped backward, making a couple of jerking motions as if being struck by bullets, then swept his hand to point at the suspect against the wall. …and there he lies.

Finch nodded slowly, seeing the events play out in his mind’s eye. He knew Browning was basing his description on preliminary interviews and a cursory examination of the physical evidence, but he thought the detective had a pretty good picture of events.

Then another thought occurred to him.

No Tower on this one?

Browning watched Diane photograph, making notes. Off for a bit. Nephew is getting surgery. Where’s Elias?

Vacation till tomorrow.

Good, he can help you with this.

"Help me?"

Crawford said you’re catching.

Again? What about Billings?

He got the last one.

That was a suicide.

Case is a case, I guess.

And I don’t suppose you…?

Browning shook his head. I’m on the serial thing. They’re not sending it to a task force just yet.

Why not?

You see any stars or bars on my collar? How am I supposed to know? Politics of some kind, my guess.

So, you’re just out of the rotation, then?

"Catching the serial is my rotation. Besides, I’m helping you out here. And when exactly did you get to be such a whiner, Finch?"

Finch sighed. Browning was right. Taking up slack for Elias, I suppose, he said. Since he’s gone and all.

Browning grunted.

Finch turned toward the fallen woman. We got a name on her?

Carol Hyatt, Browning said.

Finch let the name sink in for a moment. That was important, to know who you were working for. It was easy to forget in the day-to-day grind.

Then he said, All right, let’s get to work.

0645 hrs

Katie MacLeod felt like it was the first day of school. Nervous butterflies flitted around her stomach from the time she woke up. She changed her clothes three times before settling on her first choice again. Although most detectives wore business casual attire, she knew Major Crimes leaned toward more formal wear. She hoped the dark slacks and ivory blouse she’d chosen fit the norm.

She arrived at the station, parked, and then by habit, almost walked up to the women’s locker room to change into her patrol uniform. She caught herself at the door, however, and headed down the hall to Investigations. Major Crimes had a small sign hanging from the ceiling. As opposed to the open bullpen in the property crimes division, Major Crimes desks were all squirreled away into their own partnered cubicles.

Katie stood in the small foyer, near the coffee pot and the open mail slots along the wall. The lieutenant’s door was closed and no light shone from underneath. However, the light on the coffee pot gleamed red and she could smell freshly brewed