Crawford shook his head. “Damaged, yes. But burned? No. We just need a different decoy and we can keep moving forward. A guy like this won’t stop. We’ll catch him. We just have to stay the course.”
The Chief looked over at Reott. “Mike, do you agree with this?”
Reott looked uncomfortable. After a moment, he opened his mouth to speak. Before he could say anything, The Chief’s telephone rang.
He glanced down. The ringing line was his private number. Not many people had that, so he figured he should answer it.
“Excuse me,” he said to Reott and Crawford, then lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hello, Chief. This is Pam Lincoln.”
The Chief didn’t miss a beat. “Hello, Pam. What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to make you aware of something before I took it to my editors,” Pam said.
The Chief narrowed his eyes. That didn’t sound good. “I appreciate that,” he said. “Go ahead.”
“I got a call from a man about twenty minutes ago who claimed to be the Rainy Day Rapist,” Pam told him.
The Chief paused. “Really?” he asked.
“Really.”
He looked at the two men across from him. “Pam, let me put you on speaker phone,” he said. “I’m in a meeting right now with Captain Reott and Lieutenant Crawford.”
“I’m not surprised,” Pam said. “Go ahead and put me on the speaker phone.”
The Chief pushed the speaker button and rested the receiver back on the cradle. “Can you repeat what you just told me, please?”
“Certainly. I received a call about twenty minutes ago from a man who claimed to be the Rainy Day Rapist.”
The Chief watched as the eyebrows of both men flew upward.
Crawford withdrew a notepad from inside his ancient sport coat. “Do you know what number?” he asked.
“Yes, I do.” Pam recited the number slowly while Crawford scrawled it onto the notepad. “But I think it was a pay phone,” she added.
“What did he say?” The Chief asked her.
“He said that the police tried to catch him with a decoy,” Pam said. “He also said that he badly assaulted the decoy before escaping from the area. Is that true?”
No one answered her. The three men stared at each other during the long silence.
“I thought I was going to be kept up on this operation.” Pam Lincoln’s voice from the telephone speaker broke the silence. “I’m already aware of a foot pursuit and a K-9 track for a rapist up at Mona and Post last night. I also know that there was an ambulance dispatched to that same location.”
There was another silence.
Again, it was the reporter’s voice that broke the silence. “Are you still there, Chief?”
The Chief cleared his throat. “I am. Pam, thank you for calling me about this. We were just discussing the matter in this meeting. I’m sure the lieutenant would have updated you.”
“Okay,” Pam said, her voice neutral.
“Are you anticipating running this story?”
“I have to, Chief. If I don’t pass this onto my editor, I’m fired. It’s that simple.”
“I understand,” The Chief said. “If that’s the case, then please give Lieutenant Crawford a call at his office in five minutes. Do you have that number?”
“I do. What can I expect from him?”
“Everything,” The Chief told her.
“Nothing held back?”
“Not unless there are clear security concerns,” said The Chief.
“Or specific medical privacy issues,” Reott added quickly.
“Of course,” The Chief said.
“I understand,” Pam said. “I’ll call in five minutes.”
“Thank you,” said The Chief. He pressed the button to disconnect the call. Then he looked up at both men. “Well, I guess that settles whether the task force is burned or not.”
Crawford’s face bore a sour look. “I’ll let Tower know it’s over.”
The Chief nodded. “Good. And do right by Pam Lincoln. She didn’t have to call us. She could have gone straight to her editor. We might still be able to minimize looking like the Keystone Kops on this one.”
“I will,” Crawford said. He stood and left without another word. As he swung the door open, Lieutenant Alan Hart stood outside, his fist poised to knock. Crawford gave him a distasteful look and brushed past him without a word.
The Chief hid his own feelings toward the Internal Affairs Lieutenant. “Come in,” he told him, gesturing to the chair just vacated by Crawford.
Hart strode in, his back ramrod straight. He stood next to the chair, then paused and looked at The Chief.
“Please,” The Chief said. “Have a seat.”
Hart nodded briskly. He sat down, his posture remaining erect.
Before Hart could speak, Captain Reott stood. “Unless you need me, Chief, I have some things to attend to.”
The Chief nodded.
Reott glanced at Hart, his disgust plain. Then he left the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
The Chief turned his gaze upon Hart. “What can I do for you, Alan?”
“A couple of things, sir. First, I wanted to discuss your findings that you issued on my investigations of both Officers O’Sullivan and Battaglia, as well as Officer Chisolm.”
“Refresh my memory,” The Chief said. “The one with O’Sullivan and Battaglia was...?”
“A demeanor issue, sir. And an inadequate response. It was in regard to a stolen vehicle. Mr. Tad Elway was the complainant.”
“Ah, yes. I remember now. I think I decided on a letter of reprimand on that one?”
“Yes, sir.” Hart bobbed his head. “I just wanted to express that, with all due respect, I thought that was a little bit lenient.”
“Noted, Lieutenant,” The Chief said, his voice dropping into a growl. “Anything else?”
Hart seemed to catch the audible clue. “Uh, no, sir. I’m sure you made the right decision. Anyway, I was more concerned with the Chisolm matter.”
“The driving issue?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The one with the child molester complainant?”
“Well..uh, yes sir.”
“I dismissed it,” The Chief said.
“I know,” Lieutenant Hart said, then hastily added, “Sir.”
“Then what?”
“Well,” Hart said, “in light of last night’s events, I believe another investigation is in order. Clearly, Chisolm made some errors during last night’s operation.”
“Hard to say,” The Chief said, “since we weren’t there.”
Lieutenant Hart pressed his lips together, clearly in disagreement.
The Chief leaned back in his chair. “Tell me something, Alan. What’s your beef with Thomas Chisolm?”
Hart’s cheeks turned red. He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw. Finally, he answered, “He doesn’t think the rules apply to him, sir.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“Because,” Hart answered, “Thomas Chisolm thinks that it is his personal responsibility to save the world. If rules get in the way of that, he just disregards them.”
The Chief considered Hart’s words. After a few moments, he had to concede that despite being a pompous, self-serving boob, the man was correct on this count. Chisolm
did
think it was his job to save the world. Still, as Chief, he’d rather have one Thomas Chisolm than fifty Alan Harts. Then again, he realized that he could probably only afford to have one Thomas Chisolm around.
“My decision stands, Lieutenant,” The Chief finally said. “But I appreciate your input.”
Hart’s face took on a pinched look. His cheeks remained flushed, but he stood erect, nodded, said “Thank you, sir,” and turned to leave.
“Lieutenant?” The Chief said to him before he reached the door.
“Yes, sir?”
The Chief eyed the ambitious lieutenant. Then he gave him a short nod. “After this Rainy Day Rapist thing is put to bed, I’ll reconsider your request to look into the operation. But not until.”
Lieutenant Hart seemed to be suppressing a smile as he said, “Thank you, sir,” and strode from the office.
The Chief leaned back in his leather chair. Like it or not, his job was a political one. He needed someone like Hart to watch the troops. Not that most of his officers weren’t stand up cops, but having Hart lurking in the wings had much the same effect that a locked door did on an honest man. He viewed it as an insurance policy of sorts.
But all the same, it irked him to see how much Hart seemed to revel in potential mistakes by officers. It appeared as if the arrogant, self-righteous bastard felt like every one of those mistakes was his chance to show everyone how much smarter he was than everyone else.
Which, in the Chief’s opinion, he wasn’t. He was a useful tool. Maybe even a round peg in a round hole, but one that he viewed as a necessary evil. And there was no way Lieutenant Alan Hart was going to make Captain, at least not while he sat in the Big Chair at the Big Desk.
The Chief of the River City Police Department let out a long sigh. It was on days like this that he wished he drank before five o’clock.
1432 hours
Katie’s head throbbed while she listened to the doctor’s explanation.
“You definitely suffered a concussion,” he told her, “but based on the results from the tests we ran last night, there was no significant brain trauma beyond that. So, with the exception of the bruises, swelling and small cuts on your face, you came through this assault rather well.”
Then why do I feel like shit?
Katie wondered.
“There’s really no reason to keep you here in the hospital any longer,” the doctor continued. “I’ve already signed your discharge papers. The nurse will be along in a few minutes with your release instructions and a prescription for the pain you might encounter over the next few days.”
“What’s the prescription for?”
The doctor smiled. “Ibuprofen,” he answered. “What were you hoping for?”
“Magic juice,” Katie replied.
The doctor smiled at her. Katie tried to smile back, but the soreness on her cheek and the cut inside her mouth caused her to wince instead.
“I think you’ll find the ibuprofen will keep the pain under control.” Then he added, “Without the disorienting side effects.”
Katie nodded. Parts of the last twenty-four hours held a dream-like quality. Mostly, she remembered floating peacefully. The rest had already slipped away, just like dreams tend to do the morning after.
“If you feel spacey or have any other symptoms of disorientation, give your regular doctor a call. Same thing if you’re overly nauseous. That’s a sign that you haven’t come through the concussion yet.” The doctor glanced down at her chart. “Other than that, you’re good to go. Do you have any questions?”
“Just one. How long before I can go back to work?”
“That’s up to you, I suppose,” he said. “But I’d give it a couple of days, at least. After that, if you’re symptom free and feel up to it, there’s no medical reason not to.”
“Thanks, doctor.”
The doctor gave her a warm smile, replaced her chart and left the room. A few minutes later, the nurse arrived as promised. She went over the release paperwork in painstaking detail, causing Katie’s headache to get worse. Finally, after it seemed like she’d scratched out her initials enough times to buy a house or settle a peace treaty, the nurse told her they were finished.
“Do you want some help getting dressed?”
Katie shook her head no. “I’ll do it myself.”
“All right. Just buzz when you’re ready to go. We’ll need to escort you out to the police car.”
“Police car?”
The nurse gave her a confused look. “You’re the cop, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“Once the doctor discharged you, we called the police. It was in the instructions on your chart. They’ve sent a car to transport you home.”
“Oh.” Katie supposed it made sense. She had no other way home, anyway.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” the nurse said, and left.
Katie swung her feet off the bed and stood. The tile was cool, even through her hospital issue socks. She shuffled over to the mirror. Once there, she took a hesitant look at herself.
A large bruise was painted across the left side of her face, coating the entire cheek and under her eye. Even a day later, the noticeable swelling gave her the look of a boxer after a twelve-round slugfest. Another smaller bruise appeared like a shadow on her forehead, along with a narrow, red splash on her chin.
“Ugh,” she said back to the reflection.
She moved to the closet. The soreness and bruising throughout her limbs and torso punctuated each movement. When she reached for the closet door, it exposed her forearm, which was dotted with large splotches of dark bruising. And to top it all off, her leg was still tender from where the Russian kicked her.
“I should have been a firefighter,” she said, reciting a common police officer lament.
Inside the closet, the only clothing she saw was a neatly folded pair of dark green surgical scrubs and a pair of slippers. None of her own clothing was present.
Katie frowned. The expression made her wince, though not as badly as her earlier attempt at a smile. Where were her clothes?
A moment later, she realized that they had probably been seized as evidence. Someone, probably Tower, had taken possession of the clothes, bagged them, labeled them and logged them onto evidence at the Property Room.
For some reason, the thought bothered her. Maybe it was the idea of someone handling her undergarments. It gave her a feeling of vulnerability, almost as if her privacy had been violated.
Or it could be that victims had their clothing booked on as evidence. Not cops. And she was a cop, not a victim.
Katie shrugged away the thought. Instead, she focused on changing into the scrubs. The process was more painstaking than she expected, as every muscle she used to strip off the gown and slip on the clean hospital gear seemed to scream at her in protest.
Eventually, she managed to finish the job. She shuffled back to the bedside and pushed the call button for the nurse. A few moments later, the nurse appeared with a wheelchair. Before Katie could object, she raised up one of her hands.
“It’s hospital policy,” she said, “so don’t even think to argue.”
“Who’s arguing?” Katie answered.
“Most cops do,” the nurse told her, “so I figured I’d make things clear right up front.” She swung out the foot posts and gestured for Katie to sit down.