Under A Raging Moon

"So what do you want from me, doc?"

"I want you to tell me how you feel about what happened."

The police officer snorted. "It doesn't really matter what I say."

The doctor leaned back in his chair before answering. He studied the man across from him. The officer sat in a relaxed position, his feet crossed at the ankles. Both hands lay across his lap. The doctor saw the bandaged arm and shoulder and a leg brace, as well as the cane leaning next to the officer, all evidence of the injuries he had sustained. He noticed none of the defensive body language he usually encountered in interviews such as this one. The officer appeared physically fit, his muscles well-formed even in a relaxed state. He met the doctor's gaze with a frank, even stare. No challenge resided in his eyes, but none of his inner thoughts were betrayed, either.

"Officer, please understand. I do not work directly for the Department. I am contracted to do an evaluation after a critical incident and render a professional opinion. You are required—"

"Required to cooperate fully as a condition of employment. Failure to do so may result in suspension or termination." The officer smiled without humor.

The doctor tried a different tactic. "It may help you to talk about it."

The officer shrugged but said nothing.

The doctor suppressed a sigh, leaned back in his chair, and opened the officer's personnel file. He had already reviewed it, of course. He always made a point to know as much as possible about his patients before he sat down with them. Nothing in the file indicated the man was any different from any other cop he'd interviewed. Still, he found police officers to be a pleasant distraction from his regular practice of rich and whiny men and women. Some cops were uncultured ex-jocks, but many had a combination of intelligence and culture blended with a blue-collar worker's outlook that fascinated him. The effect of power on the individual also made these interviews well worth his time. He only charged the City forty percent of what he charged his civilian clientele. It only seemed fair, since these interviews were fueling a paper he was writing for a psychiatric journal.

"What do they say about me in there?" The officer asked, nodding toward the personnel file.

"Lots of things," the doctor replied, unsure if he had detected sarcasm in the officer's voice or not. "It says you graduated third in your class at the academy. You have been a police officer for just three years and during that time you've had no sustained internal affairs investigations. There have been seven unsustained complaints, however. Other than that, your last performance review was very complimentary."

"Company man," the officer said. This time the sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable.

The doctor looked up again and caught the officer's eye. He saw a flicker of emotion. It disappeared quickly and he wondered if he had seen it at all.

"I am required to fill out a general report regarding your mental and emotional fitness for duty. A satisfactory response is as important as your physical recovery with regards to your return to full duty."

At the words 'full duty,' the officer winced slightly.

The doctor pressed on. "However, everything you say within the confines of this office is entirely confidential. By law, I cannot reveal it to anyone, nor can I be compelled to by any court." The doctor watched as the officer processed the information.

The officer, silent for several moments, finally said, "Doc. . .you wanna know the truth?"

The doctor nodded.

"The truth is. . .it felt good. I did what I had to do and I don't feel bad for that." He chewed his lip a moment, then continued. "That's the problem. I feel bad because I don't feel bad about that. I feel good about it. I'd do it again."

The doctor nodded slowly. Now the session had truly begun.

Crack!

The flashlight hit the pavement. Thomas Chisolm looked up from his note pad to see his rookie, Maurice Payne, looking sheepish. Payne grabbed the light and checked it. Relief flooded his face when it still worked.

Chisolm struggled not to shake his head in disgust. Payne had already spent three times longer than he should have putting the police car through its pre-flight check. To make matters worse, he'd managed to forget half the procedures.

How in the hell had this kid made it through his first two Field Training Officers? Chisolm wondered. Christ, how had he made it through the Police Academy?

Payne finally settled into the seat and started the engine. He carefully turned on and off every emergency light, including the yelp and wail sirens. Satisfied, he started to put the car into gear.

"Forget something?" Chisolm asked in as neutral a voice as he could muster.

Payne looked worried and confused.

Jesus, this kid flusters easy, Chisolm thought. He'd acted the same way earlier when Chisolm pointed out that he forgot to check the back seat.

Payne's worried look grew almost frantic. He looked to Chisolm for the answer. The veteran put his hand on the shotgun, which sat right beside the radio, its barrel pointing upward.

"Oh." Payne put the car in park and released the shotgun.

"Do it outside," Chisolm instructed in a gentle voice. For the fifteenth time, he groused inwardly.

Payne unloaded the shotgun, cleared it and reloaded it. In his attempt to do it faster than his abilities allowed, it took him nearly twice as long.

"Easy, son," Chisolm told him. "Take your time and do it right."

Payne finished clumsily and replaced the shotgun in its rack. He picked up the radio and checked them into service. Chisolm winced at the rookie's voice. It sounded weak and mush-mouth, carrying no authority at all.

Reflecting briefly, Chisolm knew why Payne had made it through two Field Training Officers. He had been on a couple of calls where compassion had been the order of the day and he had to admit the kid did a superb job. A rape victim is not an easy person to communicate with, especially for a male officer. Some victims demanded a female officer for that very reason, but Payne had been able to establish an excellent rapport with the victim, kept her emotions in check and took a good report.

Still, there was more to the job than being compassionate. Chisolm had long ago learned to save his compassion for those who deserved it. A cop had to be strong enough to be gentle, but he had to remain strong.

Chisolm recalled the incident right before the weekend, when a gang member had come close to assaulting Payne. Chisolm had seen it coming, but let Payne go with it as far as he safely could. The nice-guy routine doesn't always work, especially when a street-wise gang banger is yelling, "Kiss my black ass, you white pig!"

A cop had to wear many hats, Chisolm knew: counselor, confessor, friend, philosopher, detective, hard-ass, just to name a few. Those who failed to understand this were weak officers, even if they excelled in one area. Like Payne. Or like Kahn, who was a hard-ass all the time and got complaints by the trunk load.

The night passed slowly, giving Chisolm plenty of time for reflection. Payne took way too long to accomplish even the simplest of tasks. A traffic stop became a major ordeal for him, which Chisolm considered ridiculous this far into his training. His officer safety bordered on critically poor, something Chisolm found unforgivable. Not only did that endanger Payne, but anyone who worked around him.

Chisolm let out a sigh as he stood safely behind the curtain of light at the front tire of the patrol car. Payne patiently explained to the woman in the mini-van what constituted running a red light. "Jesus, lady," Chisolm muttered to himself, "if you knew how long and hard he worked on that, you'd just sign it."

Payne eventually got her signature and concluded the stop. Once back in the car, he reached for the radio to clear when a shrill alert tone sounded.

"Dispatch to all units. Receiving an armed robbery alarm at 1527 N. Birch, 7-11 store." The dispatcher's voice intoned. "Hold-up alarm, 1527 N. Birch."

"Go!" shouted Chisolm and grabbed the mike. He listened in frustration as several units attempted to answer at once, covering each other with a harsh buzz.

"Coverage," stated the operator. "Receiving further. Suspect is a single, white male wearing black jeans, white shirt with long dark hair. Also has a scar down the left side of his face. Suspect displayed a black revolver. Fled westbound on foot."

"C'mon!" Chisolm yelled. Same damn guy, the one everyone called Scarface.

Payne approached the red light at Indiana and Post. His hand hovered over the emergency light controls as if he couldn't decide whether to use lights or both lights and siren.

"Just drive," Chisolm told him, punching the lights. At two-thirty in the morning on a Monday night, not much traffic to worry about.

Chisolm recognized Katie MacLeod's steady voice.

"Baker-123, in the area to the south. Also." Chisolm recognized Stefan Kopriva's solid voice. Another good troop.

A pause. Then, "Negative. Do you want us to call one out?"

Good call, Chisolm thought. Maybe we'll catch the guy this time.

Payne drove right past the turn on Monroe Street. He realized it half a block later and started to slow.

"No," Chisolm instructed him. "Go up to Ash, we'll back Katie."

Chisolm shook his head. Adam-113, Cliff Simms, was always willing to take a report if it meant not getting in harm's way. Otherwise, forget it.

Ash was a one-way arterial southbound, but Payne still drove way too cautiously for Chisolm's liking. At Maxwell, he directed him to turn right as he saw Katie's lights.

The buzz of radio transmission coverage cut him off.

"Baker-123, copy," replied the dispatcher. "Other unit?"

Chisolm knew Katie was out of the car and running as soon as the transmission began.

Chisolm got on the air before the dispatcher could respond. "Adam-112, her vehicle is parked at Maxwell and Cannon. We'll swing around and come in from the southwest."

"Take Belt," Chisolm ordered sharply. He didn't care about training at this point. Katie was running around in the dark with an armed robber. She needed back up.

"This is L-123. All other units set-up a perimeter, four blocks in each direction," Sgt. Miyamoto Shen said, his voice calm and authoritative.

No one answered, leaving the radio clear for Adam-116.

At the corner of Belt and Sinto, Chisolm directed Payne to turn left. The rookie did so, still way too slow for his liking.

"Hit all your lights. Everything. Light up that yard." He pointed at the construction yard to the northeast. An eight-foot fence ran all along the south side of the yard. Good, thought Chisolm, already out of the car and scanning for movement. That should slow him down.

Payne clambered out of the car, knocking his side-handle baton out of its holder. It clattered onto the pavement. Chisolm ignored him, continuing to scan from behind the curtain of light created by the patrol vehicle's spotlight, high beams and takedown light located on the roof in the light bar.

Nothing. Fifteen seconds of nothing on the air from Katie. Then twenty. Radio should check on—

"Adam-116, an update," came the dispatcher's voice.

There was a terrible moment of silence. Chisolm's gun was drawn and at the low-ready position. He saw Payne in his peripheral vision and watched the rookie mimic his stance.

"I got him, he's running near the south fence." Katie's voice was labored and tense. "Westbound."

"I'm almost there," Stefan Kopriva replied.

Then where the hell were they? Chisolm thought.

He saw a figure, short and slender, running hard near the fence. The figure pulled up short, probably noticing the lights. Chisolm drew a bead on the figure, trying to see his hands but unable to at this distance.

"Adam-112, I see him about mid-block," Chisolm told radio.

There was a flash of light from the figure's hand and a loud bang.

"Shots fired!" called Katie.

Chisolm carefully aimed at the figure, but held his fire. The danger of cross-fire was too great. He would give Katie and Stef a few seconds to take cover, at least.

The suspect climbed the fence. He went over it military style with almost no effort, climbed rapidly up one side, swung over the top and then dropped to the ground in two quick, controlled movements. He landed in a crouch and immediately fired in Chisolm's direction. Chisolm heard the sound of shattering glass as he returned fire, squeezing off three quick rounds. The muzzle flash took away his already minimal night vision. He scanned for movement but saw none.

"Adam-112 to -14, do you see him?" Chisolm keyed the mike with his left hand while keeping his pistol pointed where he'd last seen the suspect.

"Copy. -12 to radio, he may have fled southbound."

Chisolm heard a moan from the driver's side and glanced over. Payne was gone. The spotlight was dark. Chisolm ran around the back end of the car and saw Payne collapsed on the ground holding his face. He could see dark blood next to him and seeping through his hands.

"Adam-112, officer down," Chisolm spoke into his portable radio. "I need medics to my location."

Radio copied his transmission as he knelt next to Payne, still keeping his weapon trained on the threat area. "Payne?" He asked gently.

Payne moaned. "It hurts."

Chisolm pulled Payne's hand away from his cheek and saw the cut. It was two inches long and had probably been caused by flying glass after the spotlight had been hit.

"You'll be okay," he said through gritted teeth, then keyed the mike. "Adam-112, injuries are a facial laceration, not life-threatening."

Chisolm stood by with Payne as a dog handler arrived on scene and began a track. He remained alert but at Payne's side for twenty minutes during the track until it was called off. The K-9 officer advised that it was likely that the suspect had gotten into a vehicle at Sharp and Elm.

Medics, who had been standing off until the area was declared secure, arrived and treated Payne, who seemed to be slipping into shock. Chisolm watched as they wiped the cut with iodine and put a gauze pad against it to stem the bleeding, which had slowed to a trickle. An ambulance transported Payne to Sacred Heart Hospital.

As the ambulance pulled away, Chisolm picked up Payne's gun and put it in his briefcase. The young officer had not asked about it once. Chisolm felt sorry for him. Not only because he'd been hurt but also because it was very apparent that he was shortly going to have to recommend that Payne be fired.

What the hell, Chisolm thought. I was his teacher, his doctor and now I am going to be the axe-man. Bad night for us all.

Thomas Chisolm, despite being a fourteen-year veteran of the police department and former Green Beret with two tours in Vietnam, could not shake the sinking feeling in his chest as he kicked the shards of glass from the spotlight to the curb of the street. He couldn't stop wondering how much worse it was going to get.