Broken Badges: Cases from Police Internal Affairs Files Read online

  “Anita, what do you have planned for the weekend?” Mrs. Patel asked in passing.

  “Rachel and me are going into Chicago to some clubs. You know, dancing and listening to the bands.”

  “Aren’t you scared? Don’t it cost lot of money to park your car in the big city?”

  “I drive to the L stop at Pulaski. You can park in the shopping center lot just across the street. Nobody gonna steal my old rusty car. We go up the Pink Line and take that to the Pilsen neighborhood. There are lots of good clubs there. We go in a group and don’t feel scared. Saturday night everybody out to have fun, have a good time, spend their paychecks. Like Rachel and me. Most of the time guys buy us drinks, like beer.”

  Anita walked home after they closed the cleaners for the day. She had time on her hands until she and her roommate would leave for Chicago. She decided to straighten up the apartment and pick out what she would wear that night.

  It was going to be a warm evening. Anita was a slight woman barely over five feet tall. She had cocoa brown skin and thick black hair. Her eyes were large, dark brown, and her irises glistened with specks of gold. Anita chose a single strap baby blue blouse that hung in a flounce just above her waist. Then she tried to struggle into a pair of jeans, but frowned when she saw how the tight-fitting Calvins accentuated the little roll of flesh peeking above her waist. Next she tried on her favorite short, but tight, leather skirt. Anita danced a few salsa steps and decided the skirt wasn’t what she was feeling on this beautiful spring afternoon. She searched through her closet, a box so small most clothes were crammed together with no room to breathe.

  Ah, she thought, and settled on a pleated peasant skirt teased with accents of blue. The skirt went well with her three-inch clogs. Anita danced a few more salsa steps and liked the way the skirt swayed with her body.

  Her roommate was decked in her usual jeans and halter top. Rachel was much taller than Anita and her four-inch heels accented the difference between the two women to almost ridiculous proportions. Rachel’s jeans were the platform to highlight her able and ample rear. Most of the men clubbing seemed to be enamored with women owning big butts. Anita and Rachel would attract many glances and stares tonight.

  It was a 30-minute drive to the Pulaski CTA station. Before either knew it, they had made the transfer to the Pink Line and were descending the steps at 18th Street. Pilsen was just coming awake at nine that night. The sidewalks were filling fast as the crowd jockeyed for positions. Anita loved to look up and see the brightly painted murals and mosaics representing the newest inhabitants of Pilsen—Mexicans. The original residents were Irish and Germans immigrants, eventually giving way to the Czechs and Poles. Now Pilsen was a vibrant Latin community with a small pocket of Italians cloistered in the southeastern part of the neighborhood. Latin beats of salsa and merengue blared from the steady stream of cars cruising the avenue. Most cars hung so low that their chassis almost scored the pavement. Some had neon lights beaming from inside spinning wheel wells. Mexican flag banners dangled from rearview mirrors and bounced up and down, keeping rhythm with the jerky gyrations of hydraulic lifts manipulating under belly shocks.

  The club bands wouldn’t be cranking up until after ten. Anita loved the smell of carnitas wafting from the colorful street wagons. The pungent odor of cumin teased the air. The Pilsen area seemed much like her home in Guatemala, but not nearly as dirty. Tonight would be fun, Anita thought, as she surveyed the growing springtime crowd.

  By the time they entered the third club, Anita and Rachel were immersed in music, dancing, body odors, and beer. Men were gracious and generous with their supply of beer. Most were satisfied with a brush of a thigh or a hand on a lady’s back, slipping down casually to cup firm buttocks. Several men took time to look down Anita’s blouse to catch a glimpse of her small, but perky breasts. In general, Latin men were respectful in their playfulness.

  “Anita,” Rachel whispered, “I’ve hooked up with Raul and we’re going to his place. Is that okay with you?” Rachel tipped her head sideways indicating the slight man in a red leather vest standing behind her.

  “That’s good with me. He seems nice.” Anita glanced at her watch and asked, “See if Raul can drive me to my car. The trains don’t start up again until four.”

  The ride to Anita’s car took less than fifteen minutes as Raul skillfully cut between the girders slicing the Pink and Orange Lines of Chicago’s famous CTA system. Rachel and her date stayed until Anita’s car started and she waved at them to go on.

  *****

  Marcus Reynolds was a cop in Greenwood Village, the town adjacent to Rialto. Marcus was 37 years old and had been a cop nearly his entire adult life. The Village was his third agency. Previously he had worked in Missouri for a small sheriff’s department. He didn’t like that work or the sheriff, but the position got him started in law enforcement.

  Marcus moved to Illinois and worked two years for a 10-man police department, with zero female officers on the roster. He didn’t get along with the chief there either. Marcus felt his boss micromanaged him and the other eight cops. The chief wanted paper documenting everything a cop saw or did. This posed an inconvenience for Marcus since it got in the way of things he wanted to do on duty that didn’t necessarily involve police work. He thought his chief was probably scared of his own image in the mirror when he shaved each morning. So Marcus searched out a new place to land, hopefully away from excessive scrutiny.

  The cop shop at Greenwood Village felt different. It was a bigger operation with forty cops working the town. The chief stayed in his office, went to lunch, attended a few civic functions, and never missed a City Council meeting. Obviously the Chief of Police wanted to make sure he still had a job after each council meeting. Nobody minded that Marcus wanted to commandeer the graveyard shift, that period of time after midnight. Marcus liked the time slot because the sergeant-in-charge was either off doing who knows what or at the station and wasn’t around to bug him. Those hours gave him off-duty flexibility to support his kids’ activities, whether it was T-ball, Pop Warner football, or gymnastics. Marcus liked being a dad, but didn’t like being a husband.

  Marcus really didn’t want to be a cop at first. He had been a high school football star and met his wife, Sharon, when they were elected Prom King and Queen. Now he had three kids. The family regularly attended the First Congregational Church in Harvest Moon, the town the Reynolds family called home. It was located about 20 miles west of Greenwood Village. Marcus, like many cops in small towns around Chicago, didn’t live in the town he patrolled. Most cops didn’t want to meet someone in the local market who they had booked the night before.

  Marcus tried college, but couldn’t make the football team, even as a walk-on. He was over 200 pounds and six feet tall. That was okay for high school, but even linemen on community college teams weighed in at close to 300 pounds. He tried working fast food restaurants and hated it. Hated the snotty nosed kids younger than he was telling him what to do. He tried to get into construction, but his family didn’t have connections with the right unions.

  Marcus fell into his first cop job. By chance, he helped a family on vacation change a tire on their Chevy Tahoe. Turned out the guy he helped was a sheriff coming back from Disney World. The sheriff said if Marcus was ever looking for a job, he could come to Missouri and would have one on his force, no question about it. Since it was a small department, the sheriff assured Marcus wouldn’t have to attend the police academy right away. He had eighteen months to complete that required training.

  What the hell, Marcus thought. He ventured across the state line into Missouri and the thankful sheriff gave him a badge, gun, and car. Away Officer Reynolds went to be a lawman.

  Marcus found he liked being a cop. People looked up to him. He was somebody. His badge commanded respect. His gun made him feel like he was stronger and more powerful than anyone else. He hadn’t fired it in earnest yet, but was pretty good at the range, nearly maxing out the qualification course. He figur
ed he wouldn’t have any problem shooting if the right situation showed itself. Marcus learned a lot on that first job, but knew he had to move on. The sheriff was a real goody-two-shoes and that bugged Marcus.

  Greenwood Village cops were represented by the Fraternal Order of Police. The union bargained for the cops and gave them a new contract every three years. Marcus looked at the FOP as another means to keep his chief and supervisors off his back. He could do police work his way without someone looking over his shoulder. He filed a grievance once when an assignment officer tried to change his graveyard duty shift and make him go on day watch. Marcus would have none of that. Marcus knew his rights.

  This particular night was like any other night, but it was a Saturday. His shift started at 10:00 p.m. and he’d be off duty by eight in the morning, unless shit hit the fan. But, most Saturday night action took place before two when the bars closed; later things would be deadly quiet. Sweeping up a few drunks was the usual wee Sunday morning hours’ routine.

  Greenwood Village was much like the other towns around it. It had its Main Street lined with older stores, little shops, and small restaurants. The town had been uplifted in the last ten years after gays had moved in en masse. As a group, they seemed to have that special touch to make things brighter and more attractive. Two gay guys transformed the local cafe. They hung art on the walls, which had been painted varying shades of God-awful purple. That’s not the color the gays called it, but it was definitely purple to Marcus. The old café offered monotonous music which the boys said was “chill.” It sure gave Marcus a chill, so he guessed it worked. The boys touted fresh vegetables direct from local farms. But their bacon still tasted like big pig to Marcus.

  The Village had a main thoroughfare leading directly into Chicago. People used it instead of being taxed on the toll highways. The main intersections of the thoroughfare had an accumulation of big box stores, gas stations, and so-called trendy chain restaurants. Greenwood Village encompassed only four square miles, so the two or three police units assigned to the graveyard shift didn’t have designated patrol areas.

  Marcus arrived at the station a few minutes before ten. He was still in the locker room when Sergeant Cravens, a lazy asshole, poked his head in and told him to hurry. Hurry for what? Marcus thought. It’s just the briefing with the other two guys on shift. Marcus was forced to suck in his gut in to fasten his equipment belt; this wasn’t good—too many donuts he figured. He was still putting clips on his equipment belt as he walked into the briefing room that also served as the officers’ report room.

  “Sarge, what’s the fuckin’ rush? We got all night. Nights overlaps us anyways,” Marcus grumbled.

  “Marcus, sit your ass down. Got some new shit to pass on to you guys,” Sgt. Cravens responded with a scowl. For the next ten minutes Cravens read through the crime reports filed on Friday and Saturday, instructed the three officers about a few new home vacation checks added to patrols, and finished his litany with yet another reminder from the chief about complaints received from the city fathers saying Village cops were racing up and down the highway.

  “Sarge? How the fuck does the chief expect us to get to the calls? If we go the speed limit, the citizen bitches why it took so long for us to get there,” Luke Cantrell argued.

  The second officer on shift, Butch Smith, sat there checking his iPhone. Nobody paid much attention to what Cravens was spouting.

  Marcus stopped on his way to the cop parking lot to pick up a newly charged flashlight, shotgun, and a box of shotgun shells. He found his Ford Crown Vic backed against the chain link fence. He walked around the car checking for new damage and scrapes. No police car ever escaped damage. All had scrapes and dings. He was just checking for something new, but didn’t find anything.

  Before Marcus got into the car, he slid four rounds into his shotgun, finally racking one into the chamber. He really liked the feel of a shotgun in his hands. It was just raw, awesome power. Next he reached over the dashboard and turned on the emergency lights. All were good to go. The guys used to check sirens at the station, but neighbors got tired of being assaulted by the shrill shrieks and complained to the town fathers so now the tested sirens screamed in vacant lots or closed school parking areas. Marcus was ready for the night and muttered to himself, Greenwood Village get ready, here I come! You are safe and secure tonight!

  Main Street was dead. It pretty much was a daylight locale so Marcus headed to the highway to look for trouble. As he passed the Circle K, he decided he needed a jolt of caffeine. As he always did, he circled the parking area to make sure no one was casing the place. Marcus backed into the stall at the edge of the building, facing out onto the highway. Just a safety precaution, should he need to exit quickly for a call or something strange.

  “Leshita, how are you tonight?” Marcus called to the young black girl behind the counter.

  “How comes you remember ma name, Officer Marcus?” She was wearing the Circle K uniform of khaki pants and a blue button down shirt with the round logo announcing her breast. She accented her mundane uniform with a bling belt of pink and coral rhinestones.

  “Cuz you’re so pretty! Probably the same reason you member my name. Ain’t that right?”

  “I guess dat’s right, Officer Marcus. Then too you gots a nigger’s first name. You got some darky in your family?”

  “Maybe, you never know.” Marcus poured a large cup of coffee, leaving the top two inches empty, put on a lid, and waved at Leshita as he left. Marcus stopped using his usual cream and three sugars when he neared the end of the holes on his equipment belt. Cops didn’t ever top off their coffee cup. It was a sure way to burn your legs and soil your pants the first time you braked suddenly, accelerated rapidly, or swerved to miss a possum or raccoon.

  Marcus drove to the Circle K exit and stopped just over the sidewalk before emerging onto the street. He planned to sit for a couple signal changes to see if he could pick up a ticket. A BMW convertible 3-series was stopped at the signal. A stunning blond was behind the wheel. Marcus punched in the license plate and waited for the DMV return.

  “Walter and Heather Witherspoon, 87 Forest Drive, Country Club Estates; no wants.”

  Marcus thought, “Rich bitch. Probably old Walter’s trophy wife.” The BMW was pulling out when the green light turned, but jerked to an abrupt stop. Marcus could see why. An older model Cadillac blew through the red light and would have mangled Mrs. Witherspoon and her car.

  Good thing she was paying attention to driving and not paying attention to me.

  He pulled around the BMW, waved to Mrs. Witherspoon, and activated the emergency lights. Cadillac Man knew he had fucked up and quickly pulled over to the side of the road. Marcus pulled behind and angled his car to the left to give protection once he got out of the car. It also allowed him to get out with the entire police car between himself and the Cadillac. Marcus jotted down the license number on his notepad and punched it into the computer for a DMV check. Before he got out he turned on the high intensity takedown light, focusing it into the interior of the Cadillac. He saw three heads in the car. As he approached, he checked the trunk lid to ensure it was closed. Suddenly another head appeared from down in the back seat.

  Marcus approached on the passenger side of the Cadillac. This was the latest vehicle approach tactic designed to give the officer more time to react and more room to maneuver if someone pulled a gun.

  There were two couples in the Cadillac. The young girl in the rear seat was attempting to straighten her blouse and tuck her exposed breast back inside. The male next to her had an article of clothing over his lap. Marcus figured she was giving the guy a blowjob. Nothing illegal, if she was legal.

  “Officer, I was distracted. I’m really sorry I ran the light,” the driver blurted nervously.

  “Yeah, I can see what distracted you. License, registration, and insurance, please.”

  They all looked to be mid-20s. They were whites coming home from a movie and dinner. Car belonged to the drive
r with no wants and warrants. It took about ten minutes to complete the citation, get it signed, and tell the couples to behave. Three of them tittered as the young girl in the rear seat turned rosy red and hid her face in her hands.

  Next Marcus made the rounds of the big box shopping center. Shined his spotlight on every door as he circled the center. He checked the few cars in the lot to see if any had been stolen and dropped. He traveled further down the road and stopped at the Chevy dealership. Marcus got out and walked around the shiny new cars marching in formation across the lot. He really liked those new Camaros. A bright yellow number with two bold black stripes running the length caught his attention. He could see himself behind the wheel of one of those babies. This one had the ‘vette engine and a six-speed.

  Marcus muttered, “Shit, $48 thou plus.” Fat chance this would be his ride with his salary and family obligations. He doubted Sharon could even fit into the passenger’s seat. She’d put on a shitpot of weight with the kids and never seemed to do much to take it off. Wishful thinking encouraged by little white lies allowed Marcus to fantasize he worked hard to keep his body in shape while his wife did shit about hers.

  A car suddenly came screaming past Marcus. All he caught that it was a big ass foreign black four-door model of something. He jumped into his cop car, jammed it into drive, and spun out of the lot. He could see tail lights in the distance making it easy to follow since it was the only car on the highway. He had to get over 100 mph to catch the car, and then paced it for about a hundred yards at 75. This was going to be one big ticket as clocking showed well over the speed limit. Marcus flicked on the emergency lights and both cars slowed, eventually stopping. Marcus used the same approach tactic he’d used on the sex birds earlier. He discovered the vehicle was registered to a Shirley Jones living a couple towns down the road.

  “Going sort of fast, ma’am?” Marcus asked as he tucked his flashlight under his armpit and studied the interior of the car.