Sketches in the Night
I The Cop
He left Homicide a little after midnight, turned east on 51
st
and headed towards the lake, for his apartment off South University. He rubbed his eyes, tried to wipe away the burn that had come with working thirty hours straight, then he yawned, pinched away a lacrimal tear as he pulled up to the red light at Cottage Grove. He yawned again, shook his head, saw something moving beyond the shadowy pools of light ahead, moving off to the right through heavy snow -- "Drexel Square, at this time of night? In this weather?" -- he said aloud, and he squinted, tried to see through the fat, heavy flakes now drifting on the roadway .
Then...
...he picked up the radio's mic and switched to the main department frequency...
"4120."
"4120, go ahead.
"4120, show me back in service at 51
st
and Cottage Grove, four male-blacks attacking another subject, no description at this time."
"4120, at zero-zero-twenty-two hours. 4120, will you need back-up?"
"4120, 10-4. Could you also roll paramedics at this time?"
"4120, at zero-zero-twenty-three hours." Several units checked en route, but none were close.
Captain of Detectives Burt Redmaine punched the accelerator and jumped the curb, drove up onto the slippery grass and chased the group down, and he put his reds and blues on as he neared the four assailants. They had a small, light complected boy pinned to the snowy turf, and one of the kids, a black kid about 18 years old, had a knife out. Redmaine bailed out of the Ford Explorer with his Sig P-220 drawn, yelled "Hands where I can see 'em!"
The kids laughed, and one of the teens reached in his jacket; he went from focusing on four suspects to one, flinched when brightness flared, then Redmaine squeezed off a round; the Remington 45ACP SJHP hitting the armed kid center mass. The boy crumpled, fell to the snow -- while the three remaining kids looked stunned, hesitated, then took off to the south. He ran up to the suspect and checked carotids for a pulse, felt nothing and scuttled across the snow to the victim, now writhing just a few feet away. He found deep cuts on the kid's forearms and hands -- classic defensive wounds -- as well as a deep laceration across the boy's gut -- but he stood, his senses suddenly on full alert.
One of the other kids, the kid with the knife, was running for him, the knife in his hand cocked overhead, and Redmaine coiled into a Weaver stance, quickly aimed then shouted: "Stop, or I'm putting you down!"
The kid seemed to slow, but Redmaine saw bloodlust in the kid's eyes, a pulsing, grim determination, the eagerness to kill, and at five yards he fired once. The heavy, slow moving bullet hit the kid in the neck, and at such close range the impact was devastating. As the boy staggered backwards under the impact, his all but severed head kept moving forward -- then let go and flew through the air, landing just a few feet from the writhing kid's body.
Pistol still up and at the ready, he turned and swept the scene, then jogged back to the Explorer's radio. "4120, signal thirty three, repeat three-three, shots fired, two suspects down, two fleeing on foot down Bowen, for Drexel. Both male, black, approximately 18, six feet, one fifty, Suspect One wearing red sweatpants and a gold hooded sweatshirt, Suspect Two solid navy or black sweats, white stripes down the arms and legs. Victim on the scene with multiple stab wounds, expedite EMS Code 3." He grabbed the first aid kit from the back of the Ford and ran back to the victim, checked the kid's pulse, made a rough count of heartbeats, guessed it was over one-fifty so knew he was bleeding out. He ripped open a pouch of coagulant and dumped it on the belly wound, then dug out a surgical pad and covered the laceration, applied as much pressure as he dared.
He looked up, swept his horizon again, checked the shadows, cocked his head -- but all he heard now was an avalanche of sirens headed down 51
st
and in from the lake.
"Did you get 'em?" the boy asked, his voice almost lost in the darkness.
He turned, looked down at the kid. "Howya doin', sport?" Redmaine said, trying not to sound alarmed, then: "Yeah, I got 'em."
"I think they got me, too," the boy sighed, then he just stopped breathing. Redmaine ripped open the kid's shirt and placed his hands over the sternum and began compressions, then rescue breathing, alternating as best he could in the howling wind and driving snow. A patrol car jumped the curb a moment later, and two officers joined him by the boy's side, helped administer CPR as a steady stream of back-up arrived. Within minutes paramedics had the kid in the box and they rolled down Cottage Grove for the ER at the University of Chicago Medicine, leaving Redmaine almost breathless as the adrenaline rush began to fade...
"Burt? Where's all that blood coming from?"
"What? What blood?"
"Blood, on your arm? Are you bleeding, man?"
He felt light headed, fumbled with his jacket. He'd never seen, let alone felt the single round the first kid fired at him, and he pushed at the the pulpy wound now, the wet mass coming as a complete surprise to him. It was suddenly very bright out, and he felt dizzy, then he too lost consciousness and fell to the snow.
II The Librarian
Hector Ramirez opened the door for her, as he did almost every night, and let her in as the snow swirled around their feet, then he pulled the heavy door shut and followed her up the stairs. They lived on the same floor, worked the same shift downtown so took the same bus home every night -- and they had for years -- yet he still didn't know her name. And it almost didn't matter anymore.
He only knew she was beautiful, and there were times when he -- simply -- lusted over her. She was, perhaps, three steps ahead of him on the stairs, yet all he was aware of was her legs. Trim yet muscular and perfectly shaped, he looked forward to these few moments on the stairs more than anything else in his day -- simply because of her legs. Some nights he wanted to reach out and touch their perfect skin -- and he could see himself in his mind's eye holding them, kissing them, running his hands up their glorious nakedness.
But not tonight.
No, something was different tonight. She had always been aloof for days, but tonight something was off. Now, tonight, she was glacial, all slow-moving ice, crumbling before his eyes under the onslaught of time and slow, grinding pressure. Her movements were light, too light, yet slower than slow, and at first he thought she was giving him more time to admire her legs, but her hands, reaching for the cold metal railing, seemed unsteady, grasping, almost lost in time.
"Are you alright, Ma'am?" he said at one point, and his voice seemed to snap her out of it; she quickly finished walking up to the third floor and disappeared down the corridor to her apartment, and he watched after her for a moment, suddenly feeling anything but lust.
No, now he felt concern. Concern for her, for her wellbeing, and the realization struck him as -- almost -- funny. 'Why should I?' he said to himself. 'She's never said a word to me, in almost fifteen years! Why should I care about that lonely woman's life?'
She went in the door and shut it behind her, turned on the light-switch.
