Chapter 3
It was dark by now, the late autumn sky pitch black. Even the stars and the moon were taking the night off. Smitty's attitude toward me softened after his stunt with the Camaro. He even grinned a few times and answered my questions openly, although briefly. Kleinschmidt was about to request a dinner break when the radio chirped to life.
"Twenty-one Brian. In pursuit of a red Mazda, headed west at Merriman. Traveling in excess of ninety miles per hour. Possible 54-2. Request assistance."
Smitty snagged the mike from the holder and keyed the button. "Twenty-one David two, responding E.T.A. thirty seconds."
"Roger, David two."
"What's a 54-2?" I asked as we roared off.
"Drunk driver. Better than seventy percent of all shootings involve alcohol. It's a priority to assist another officer when that code is called."
I stopped talking and braced my feet against the floorboards. Smitty mashed down the accelerator. The Chevy raced along the road, sliding easily between the cars, blue lights twirling from the rooftop. My heart pounded frantically as if I were jogging alongside the car. My senses vibrated with excitement. I tried to absorb everything. The air in the Chevy no longer contained enough oxygen to suit me. In a flash, we had joined the high-speed chase.
I watched in amazement as three other patrol cars converged on the same spot. Somehow, one unit managed to get in front of the car while two others closed in from the sides. Smitty took the position directly behind the Mazda. The little red car swerved recklessly in an attempt to outmaneuver the police cars, but the troopers held their ground. With the speeder boxed in, they gradually reduced their speed until it was safe to force the car onto the shoulder of the freeway. My heart still thundered as if I'd run ten miles and my entire body was drenched with sweat.
"Wait here!" Smitty jumped out, the car not quite at a stop.
"Like hell," I muttered, scrambling out my door. He didn't look back, his attention focused on the sporty car. We had remained the unit directly behind the speeder and he had parked within a foot of the rear bumper. The other troopers moved in quickly.
To my surprise, and probably theirs, a young girl stepped from the driver's seat and promptly tumbled to the ground. She laughed and waved her arms about. "I surrender. Take me to your leader!" she shouted amid her giggles. It was hard to hear clearly with traffic whizzing by.
"Christ! She's wasted," one of the other troopers said.
Two of them moved to her sides and helped her stand. I got my first real good look at her. She was slender with an hourglass figure. Black hair cut in a ragged style, with bangs dangling in her eyes. She was wearing jeans, a short, tight leather jacket and a pair of leather boots that stopped just below her knee. The jacket was open. Judging by the size of her chest, I doubted if she could even zip it shut. The question of ‘silicone or saline’ jumped to mind.
"Who wants to party? I’ll be the dancing girl!” She swayed to some unheard tune, rocking back and forth between the two cops.
Trooper Billings, the first officer on the scene, took charge. He brought out a portable Breathalyzer unit and administered the test. Legally drunk in this state is .08 percent. She blew .175 percent. Billings conferred with Kleinschmidt and one of the other officers before taking her by the arm.
"My dear, you have been driving under the influence of alcohol. I'm placing you under arrest," Billings said.
"Whazza big deal? Just let me go home, and I'll make you a happy cop!" She giggled at the sound of her own voice and slid an arm around his neck.
"Don't think my wife would appreciate that. C'mon, let's go for a nice little ride in the patrol car."
"What about my car? You can't just leave it here. That's my baby!" The girl cried as Billings snapped handcuffs around her wrists.
"A tow truck will haul your car to the impound yard. One of the guys will stay until the truck shows up to make sure nothing happens to it," Billings answered as he locked her in the back seat of the car. He turned and studied the faces of the other troopers. “Volunteers?”
"I'll wait," an older man named North answered.
"Thanks, Kenny. See you at the post. You'd better check her car for any other personal effects. "
"Looks like you got your hands full, Leo."
Billings glanced in the window at the girl who was struggling to open the door with her hands clasped behind her back. "No doubt," he said grimly. As Billings drove away, we could still see the girl in the back seat, squirming around. I wondered when reality would penetrate her intoxication. I also wondered if she had previous experience with handcuffs.
Kleinschmidt returned to his car and forced an opening in traffic by using his emergency lights. He didn't comment on my not following orders, but he didn't say anything else either. He drove to a family restaurant near the freeway and radioed for clearance to take a meal break. The place was decorated like a fifties style soda shop, with booths along the big glass window and a service counter with twenty vinyl covered stools. I expected the waitresses to wear saddle shoes and poodle skirts, but they opted for jeans, bobby sox, penny loafers and monogrammed blouses. Smitty was treated like a regular. After we ordered, he went to make a phone call. He came back quickly, and we discussed the girl who'd been arrested.
"According to what she told Billings, she's a dancer down at the Launch Pad. It's a strip club near the airport," Smitty explained.
I nodded. "I've heard of it. She seems too young to be dancing."
Kleinschmidt shrugged. "Nineteen. That’s old enough to dance, but not old enough to drink. Claims she got off work at four and had one drink with her boss. There was a wad of cash in her purse and a pay stub from the place."
"What happens now?"
"She'll be tested again at the post. The level of intoxication will be reflected on the test. The more alcohol in her system, the longer she'll remain in custody. So much booze equals so many hours." He gave another shrug as the waitress brought our food.
I was working my way into a chicken salad when Smitty left to use the phone again. He came back shortly and proceeded to swallow half of his burger in two bites.
"Trouble?" I asked.
"I’m just hungry."
"I never would have guessed."
We didn't talk after that while we finished our meal. Kleinschmidt went to the phone twice more before we left. He was quiet. I was preoccupied, thinking about the events I'd witnessed so far. It was possible I had offended him somehow by not following his instructions about remaining with the car. I filled in my notes using the glare from the occasional passing headlights while the details were still fresh in my mind. It was a slow, silent ride into the darkness. Based on his mood, I expected the rest of the evening would be quiet.
We patrolled some of the surface streets for a while, delaying our return to the interstate. Kleinschmidt seemed restless. Maybe dinner hadn't agreed with him. If I bolted my meals that fast, my stomach would certainly revolt. We turned toward the approach ramp for the freeway and a pickup truck zoomed out of the dark, narrowly missing our front fender.
"What the hell was that?" Smitty snapped on the lights and the siren. The pickup was bathed in the red twirling light. The truck's color was a faded white, dotted along the fenders. Gradually it veered across the bridge for the interstate and eased over to the shoulder.
"Drunk driver?" I asked.
"It could be. Wait here." He glanced at me as he started to get out of the vehicle. "And I mean it this time."
"Okay, okay."
Smitty radioed in his location and climbed out of the patrol car. The spotlight mounted on his door was trained on the truck. Shadows filled the cab.
Kleinschmidt headed straight for the truck as the driver’s door swung open. There was no one else on the road. No traffic of any kind. This section of the city didn’t even have streetlights burning. This wasn’t a residential area. It was more commercial, with little factories, probably the type that supported the auto industry. Around metropolitan Detroit, a majority of the businesses relate to the automotive industry in one form or another. Casually, I let my eyes drift over to the right, where the outline of a warehouse could just be seen beyond the cruiser’s spotlight. I was wondering if Smitty would give this person a warning or if his indigestion would result in a ticket.
Suddenly, I saw a flash of light and heard a muffled bang. Smitty pitched onto his back, his right hand clawing feebly at his holster as a loud roar reached my ears. The door of the truck was still open, a brown arm extended beyond the edge of the spotlight. A gun was clutched in the gloved hand. I watched in horror as the trigger was pulled back for another shot.
Everything that happened next must have been instinct. Or maybe it was merely a reaction. Or dumb luck. Or the Force. Yeah, maybe it was the Force. I don’t think I’ll ever know for sure.
I reached across and pounded on the horn with one hand, flipping the buttons Smitty had used to activate the siren with the other. The sudden noise startled the driver. His arm jerked back into the cab and the door slammed. Spraying stones and dust behind, the truck lurched onto the road and raced away.
Fumbling the microphone off the dash, I thumbed the button. "Kleinschmidt has been shot! Send an ambulance!" I dropped the microphone and managed to get my door open. The frame around the window clipped my forehead and knocked me back a step.
I'd forgotten to turn off the siren and its wail was splitting my eardrums. “Idiot,” I muttered, “stay calm.” This was easier to say than it ever was to do.
Reaching back inside, I switched the siren off then rushed around to the front of the car. Smitty was lying on his back on the edge of the road. Blood soaked the gravel beneath him. His eyes were closed, but I could see his chest moving.
I dropped to my knees beside him. "You're going to be okay, Smitty. I called for help."
"Shot by a dog," he whispered. Kleinschmidt opened his eyes weakly. "First aid kit in the trunk. Stop the bleeding." His voice was fading so fast I had to press my ear above his mouth. I got a whiff of grilled onions.
What if the truck came back? What if they were waiting right now, just beyond the reach of the spotlight, waiting for me to get close so they could kill Smitty? And kill the witness too? I cringed. They wouldn’t need to shoot us, just drive right over us with that truck. My imagination was running away with possibilities.
With a shake of my head, I chased such thoughts away. I ran back to the car. I dropped the keys three times after getting them out of the ignition before finally jamming the right one into the trunk lock. There was a white metal box with a red cross on it. I lugged it back to Smitty and knelt beside him. Where the hell was that ambulance?
There were latex gloves inside the kit on top of all the equipment. I pulled them on and rummaged through the contents. I found some large sterile gauze pads and some medical tape. Somehow I managed to crudely tape the gauze to each side of his shoulder. The bullet had entered through a small hole just beneath the collarbone on his right side. The exit wound looked bigger than a golf ball.
"You're going to be all right, Smitty." I don't know if I said this for his benefit or mine.
He groaned and closed his eyes again.
I didn’t know what else to do. I’d called for help. I’d patched him up. There was no way I could move him. But I didn’t think I was supposed to anyway. I thought he was still breathing, but I wasn’t sure. Closed eyes meant death. I was sure of it.
I rocked forward and slapped his cheek. Hard. "Don't you die on me!" I screamed.
His eyes fluttered open.
My limited medical knowledge flashed through my mind—coma, shock, heart attack, trauma, tonsillitis. I had no idea what else to do for him. Where were the professionals? They should have been here already!
My eyes kept flicking from Smitty’s face, to his wound, to the direction the truck had taken. Suddenly I heard the sound of a siren. Then another joined in. I swiveled my head, trying to find them. Another groan escaped Smitty’s lips. My eyes searched his body for signs of life. I thought it was too late.
The siren sounded close now. I glanced up as the ambulance and another patrol car arrived.
"What the hell took you guys so long?" I shouted as they rushed to us. The paramedics rudely pushed me aside and bent over Smitty. I was about to kick one guy squarely in the ass when someone grabbed me from behind and lifted me off the ground. I was carried back to Smitty's car, struggling all the way. Finally, they sat me down on the hood. My eyes focused and I recognized Sergeant Malone.
"Relax, Jamie. Let the paramedics do their job."
I was exasperated. How could he be so calm when one of his own men lay there wounded? "He could be dead by now, Malone. He's been lying there bleeding for over an hour."
"It hasn't been an hour. It's only been three minutes." Malone tried to smile but it never reached his eyes.
"Three minutes?"
"Three minutes. Your call came in two minutes after Smitty radioed in his position. His report was logged in at ten-fourteen. Your call was at ten-sixteen. It's now ten-nineteen."
"Three minutes?" I repeated.
"That's all, Jamie." Malone pointed over my shoulder to the ambulance. They were already loading Smitty into the back of the wagon. One of the medics waved at Malone, flashing a thumbs up signal. Malone returned the gesture.
"He's okay?"
"He's not going to die. Kleinschmidt's damn lucky you were riding with him tonight. Help might not have gotten here so quickly if it weren't for you." We watched the ambulance race away, sirens wailing. The hospital was two miles up the road.
"It all happened so fast."
After giving me a few more minutes to calm down, Malone got behind the wheel of Smitty's car and drove us to the hospital. Trooper North had brought him from the station and rushed to the scene. Several times during the ride, he asked me to go over the details of the shooting.
"It was an old pickup truck, maybe a Ford. Kleinschmidt pulled it over when the truck almost hit us, as we were about to enter the freeway. The pickup didn't have any lights on. I remember the cab was dark, even when Smitty turned the spotlight on it. I couldn't see inside."
"Don't suppose you caught the license number?" Malone asked.
"CJ 1134."
He looked surprised. "You're sure about that?"
"Positive. I wrote it down in my notebook when Kleinschmidt pulled it over. I'd been making notes all night long." Even now I clutched a pen in one hand, my book in the other.
Malone called the station with the information. The dispatcher would relay it on the air, alerting the other units to search for it. Approach with caution, suspect wanted in the assault on Trooper Kleinschmidt.
At the hospital, we talked to the emergency room physician. Smitty was stable going into surgery. The doctor suspected a number of tears to the blood vessels and ligaments in his shoulder. Unlike the movies, it was going to take a lot more than two aspirin and a Sesame Street bandage to put Kleinschmidt back together again.
Bert Nowalski arrived a few minutes later and pulled Malone over for a briefing. Then Bert approached me. There was no friendly smile this time.
"Malone will escort you back to your vehicle, Jamie. You did a great job calling it in when Kleinschmidt got hit. Now go home.”
“I'd rather wait and make sure Smitty's okay."
"That won't be necessary. Sergeant Malone will cover the rest of Trooper Kleinschmidt's patrol. I'll remain here, to confer with the doctors when he comes out of surgery. He won't be allowed visitors right away."
"Then let me finish the shift with Malone." I didn't like being dismissed so easily.
Bert ignored me. "We had a deal. Take her back to the station, Malone. I think you've had enough excitement for one night, Jamie.”
My temper was rising. "It’s not fair. If I hadn’t..."
"C'mon, Jamie," Malone said as he lightly tugged at my arm. "There's nothing else you can do here."
I put the heels of my hands against my forehead and pressed hard. It was a trick my mother had taught me to control my temper. Sometimes it worked, but not tonight. I forced out a breath. "What the hell! Take me back to my car, Malone."
* * * *
Saturday, I called the hospital as soon as I awoke. Kleinschmidt was resting comfortably and out of danger. The doctors didn't know yet if he'd regain full use of his arm. I picked up some candy (he didn't strike me as the type of guy who'd like flowers) and a few hunting magazines and went to visit him. Several off-duty cops were hanging around his bed when I poked my head in the door. Malone was among them.
"Hi, Jamie, thanks for coming by," Smitty said.
"No problem." I handed over the goodies and glanced at his wound. His shoulder was heavily taped and his right arm was in a sling across his chest.
“What some guys won't do to get out of a Saturday night patrol," Malone joked.
The cops bantered back and forth, exchanging remarks about last night. “Tell Kleinschmidt what happened, Sarge,” Kenny North urged.
Malone glanced at me then began the story. “When Billings brought in Nicole, she was still flying. She blew .165 percent on the scale. It was going to be at least eight hours before she came back to earth. Robin was downstairs, helping the dispatcher.”
“Robin’s a female trooper,” Billings said for my benefit.
“Anyway, Robin comes in to pat her down. While Nicole is up against the wall, she closes her eyes and starts doing her routine.”
“No way!” Smitty said.
“Way. All she’s got on is the jacket, jeans and boots and one of those camisoles under the jacket. Robin turns her around and the kid keeps on dancing.”
“Tell them what Robin did,” North said.
“She goes about her business. Robin checks the girl’s arms, legs and pockets for a weapon. Nicole drops her jacket and thrusts her breasts at Robin.”
I was caught up in the image of the young dancer, drunkenly performing. “What did she do?”
“Nicole asks Robin if she likes her breasts,” Malone, obviously an experienced storyteller, paused making certain he had everyone’s attention. “Rob says, ‘Nah, I’ve got better. And mine are real.’ Shut the kid right up.”
Billings picked up the story. “We put her in holding for a few minutes while I process the paperwork. She’s cuffed to the wall. Routine is to transfer her to a city jail if she has to be in for more than a few hours. While I’m finishing up, Rothman puts a guy in with her. When I get ready to run her over to Livonia’s, she’s trying to get the guy to pay her to dance. She said she still has to make payments on her enhancements.”
“Told you those weren’t real,” North said.
Old stories about high-speed chases and strange arrests followed. I got the feeling these were more for my benefit than Kleinschmidt's. He'd probably heard them many times before.
The conversation eventually touched on the governor's plan. I watched Smitty's eyes when someone mentioned the pending cutbacks for the troopers.
"Tough break, Smitty. Looks like you're going to be on the wrong side of Axman's list when it rolls through next month," Leo Billings said.
"Guess you and me will be hitting the unemployment line with the greenies," another trooper chuckled.
"Forget it, Madison. I don't take charity," Smitty said sternly.
"You won't have much to worry about," Malone said, "you'll be drawing regular pay until that shoulder wound heals."
A young Hispanic nurse came in to give Kleinschmidt a shot and shooed us all out. Malone pulled me aside as the rest of the cops headed out to the parking lot.
"Herman backed up your version about the truck, even down to the license number."
"Herman?"
He smiled. "Now you know why he goes by Smitty. But he never got a good look at the driver. Did you?"
"No. All I saw was an arm sticking out of the cab. Have you found the truck?"
Malone shook his head. "The plates are registered to a guy in Milford. Turns out he reported them stolen, about two weeks ago. And they belonged to his Chevy van, not a pickup truck."
"So what do you do now?"
"Keep digging. If whoever shot Smitty doesn't dump the truck, it might still have the plates on it. We could find prints inside, too. The captain sent a crime scene team out last night. They found the slug stuck in a road sign. They also checked the area for tire treads. We may be able to match the treads with a specific pattern, and trace the vehicle that way."
"Is it permissible to say this case doesn't sound very promising?" I didn't want him to leave yet.
"Let's just say I've seen better odds. Something will turn up." He guided me to a waiting room with a vending machine, some of those uncomfortable plastic formed chairs and a television set bolted to the wall. Saturday morning cartoon characters ran around zapping each other with lasers. Good clean fun. No one ever gets seriously injured in the cartoon world. "Buy you a coffee?"
"Sure."
We were the only ones in the room. I found the button and silenced the cartoons. We sat by the window, sipping the scalding bitter brew. If there is anything worse than vending machine coffee, I haven’t found it yet.
"Hope this doesn't ruin your idea for a story," Malone said.
"Not at all. It was very informative, even before the shooting."
"I get the feeling Nowalski wouldn't jump to let you observe again, no matter who you know."
I wondered if Malone knew of my relationship with Bert. Probably not. Bert always said he kept his personal life personal and his professional life professional. I shrugged and did my best to keep the conversation going. "Can't say I blame him. But I wish he had let me finish the shift with you last night. Or at least hang out at the hospital."
Malone shrugged. "Wasn't much to see. By the time I dropped you off, it was almost time for Kleinschmidt's tour to end. All I did was park his unit and file the reports. You didn't miss anything, Jamie. All the action was over by that point."
I batted my lashes at him. "I didn't even get to see the locker room."
"Some things are better left to your imagination." Malone finished his coffee and crumpled the cardboard cup. With a flick of his wrist he sent it across the room and into a small garbage can. Two points.
"I have a very vivid imagination, Malone." I imitated his shot. My cup went soaring out into the hallway.
Malone’s eyes had drifted from my face for a moment. I realized his gaze was smoothly moving down my body. "I'll bet you do."
I blushed. Where had my sassy comment come from? Twelve hours after witnessing a shooting, I’m flirting up a storm. I looked away from Malone and made a show of digging in my purse for my keys. He watched me without comment, his eyes on my face now. Malone seemed to be enjoying my discomfort.
He walked me out to my car and held the door for me as I wiggled inside.
"Feel free to call me if you have any questions, Jamie."
"I might just do that. Will you let me know if you learn anything about Smitty's assailant?"
He gave me that soft smile. One of my butterflies came back to tickle my stomach. Or maybe it was the coffee. "Sure."
"Good luck, Malone."
"Thanks, Jamie."
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