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God Bless the Child Katie Leone Chapter One Jeremy Bergeron was not living a life of luxury or anything closely resembling the idyllic picture that many associate with childhood. He didn't know that; most four year olds wouldn't. Jeremy's world was the part of the rural city that the people from the bad part of town called the worst part of town. A subdivision of run down, five room, single family houses was all that Jeremy knew existed. Rarely did the toddler ever leave the confines of his neighborhood. A one floor house with its faded yellow paint chipping away to non- existence served as Jeremy's home, though the term is used lightly. The front yard was nothing but dirt, except for the cracked concrete driveway where his dad's Camaro was thankfully missing. The front of the driveway was bracketed by a set of discarded car batteries, two stacked upon each other on each side to form little makeshift pillars. The pillars were the closest the Bergeron's came to a sense of class. Jeremy was a small child. Even for his age, Jeremy was nowhere near average height and weight, and, in a pinch, he could still pass for being a baby. It appeared that he had long brown hair, when, in fact, it was only really dirty. His eyes were large and blue, a piercing dark blue that resembled an endless cloudless sky interrupted by tiny pupils at the center. His face was round and his mouth was a stern line, as if he was constantly in deep thought or expected to be in trouble at any second. The child wore a tattered blue t-shirt that, at one point in its existence, read "Superstar." There were holes in the sleeves and a cigarette burn just below the chest. The shirt only came to the child's belly button, not even that far if the boy raised his arms in the air and risked adding a rip to the shirt's underarms. The only other article of clothing the boy wore was a pair of pampers, already turned gray by the dirt and dust around the house. "Come on Pipsy," the boy said to an empty Gatorade bottle that had a pink ribbon tied around its neck. "Sit! Sit Pipsy!" Jeremy tugged on the length of ribbon, causing the bottle to stand on its base. To Jeremy, a child with nothing to keep him occupied but an active imagination, Pipsy was a dog, not a discarded empty bottle. And not just any dog, mind you, but the child's very own pet dog. Eight days ago, on the child's forgotten and uncelebrated birthday, the old man living next door made a present for the toddler. On the cap, the old man drew a caricature of a dog's face with a slim black marker. He added the pink ribbon leash and made sure that it was just long enough to serve the child's needs. On handing the gift to the toddler, the man told Jeremy, "As long as you take care of it, and feed it, and love it, this here dog will always love you back." Pipsy hadn't left Jeremy's attention since. The rumbling in the child's stomach had been growing worse over the past hour and the child knew that he could put off lunch no longer. He picked up his pet and made his way to the front door that he left slightly open so he would be able to get back inside. Once Jeremy closed the door quietly behind him, he got down on all fours so he wouldn't disturb his mother watching television and make her upset with him. He paused in front of the woman who was staring absentmindedly at a man talking on the screen. If the woman knew her child was around, she made no movement to signify his existence. Jeremy decided to keep on his trek, making his way to his bedroom so he could drop off his pet before attempting to get lunch out of his mother. His bedroom was no larger than a walk-in closet, with an old once-blue plastic mat lying in one corner of the room. The mat had more silver duct tape on it than it did blue plastic. Off to the side of the mat was a faded green towel that was threadbare and almost had as many holes as the boy's shirt. Jeremy placed the Gatorade bottle pet under the towel for safe keeping. "Now Pipsy, you stay here and be a good puppy," Jeremy instructed while petting the lid. "Me feed you soon." Jeremy looked at the window that was covered by aluminum foil. Whether the foil was to keep the room cool or to make the room hot, the child didn't know. At the moment he wished the foil was gone so he could see the nice old man next door and wave to him. The boy climbed on one of the black garbage bags that contained his clothes and attempted to pull back a little of the foil. As usual, all he saw was more foil behind the first layer. An audible sound escaped the child's belly and Jeremy knew he could wait no longer for a meal. He went back to the living room where his mother hadn't moved an inch. Her long hair was barely combed and Jeremy tugged on the woman's tattered purple bathrobe. Her head was propped on a pillow so she could gaze mindlessly at the images on television. A marijuana joint dangled haphazardly out of the corner of her mouth as she took a deep, meaningful drag. Jeremy tugged on the sleeve of her bathrobe once more, shaking his mother back to reality. "What do you want," Sheila snapped as she exhaled the putrid smelling toxic smoke into the child's face. "Momma, me hungry," Jeremy asked hopefully. "Didn't you just eat?" "Breakfast, Momma. Now lunch." Jeremy tried to convey in his broken speech that it had been several hours since he had the stale slice of bread that his mother convinced him was toast. "Jesus H. Christ! I guess if I don't feed you right this second, you're going to start crying and I won't get a minutes rest." Sheila paused and looked at her child in disgust. She made sure she snarled so the boy knew she was not pleased with being interrupted. "Okay, let's feed you. All you do is take, take, take. That's all you know how to do. What the hell good are you? When are you going to learn to do for yourself?" "But I'm just a little boy, Momma," Jeremy said, making sure he didn't whine. "No, you're a God damn pain in the ass. Get out of my way!" Sheila struggled to get to a seated position. Jeremy watched as his mother slowly stood up and brushed a few ashes from her battered bathrobe. She placed her hand on the arm of the couch to keep the room from spinning. Luckily the worn cloth couch was sturdy enough to support her weight or she may have ended up sprawled on the floor. As she made her way to the kitchen, Sheila held onto the wall and various bits of furniture to keep her balance. Jeremy followed behind her, making sure he kept at a safe distance. "Let's see," Sheila mumbled incoherently to herself. "What to give him for lunch." The woman opened the old refrigerator door, making a loud squeak because of a broken hinge. The appliance itself held nothing that resembled food, only a case of beer and a carton of Chinese food that may have been in there from before Jeremy was even born. Sheila pulled out a jar of mayonnaise that sat in the refrigerator door and opened it. "This doesn't smell all that bad," she said as she quickly pulled the jar away from her face. She reached above the refrigerator, to a cabinet that lost its doors a year back and pulled down a bag of bread. Sheila took out two slices that appeared to have the least amount of mold on them and smeared a tablespoon of mayonnaise on them. "Before I give this to you," Sheila waved the odorous sandwich in front of the child, knowing that he wouldn't dare reach for it until it was offered to him, "you must promise to take your nap right after you're done with it. Understand?" "Yes Momma. Eat, nap." Jeremy answered, giving the appropriate response would ease the pain from his belly. "Okay. Here you go." Sheila handed her son the sandwich. "Now don't bother me." Sheila lumbered out of the room and returned to her spot on the couch just in time to catch the beginning of the Jerry Springer show. Jeremy sat at the kitchen table, swinging his feet underneath the chair. The food wasn't appealing to him, but at least it was something. He ate every last bit of the sandwich making sure that not even a crumb was spared. After finishing the meal, Jeremy made his way back to his bedroom. He paused in the living room to see his mother once again sprawled out on the couch with a yucky smelling 'cigarette' in her mouth. Just as before, the woman didn't even notice her son's existence as she smoked the joint. Jeremy hung his head as he shuffled to his bedroom. He made sure he didn't bang the door as he closed it behind him. Immediately, he pulled the threadbare towel off his pet. "Hello Pipsy," the child said cheerfully as he lifted the plastic bottle to his face. "Me back!" Jeremy giggled as he imagined the toy was licking his face, giving him puppy kisses. Pipsy was the only toy he owned that wasn't broken; and even those weren't many. "Me feed you now, Pipsy." Carefully, Jeremy unscrewed the lid and deposited two red Lego bricks into the bottle. The child reasoned that since it was a plastic dog, it must eat plastic food; such is the logic of a four year old. "Okay Pipsy, time for beddy nigh'-nigh'," the child said as he lay on the old blue mat that at one time was discarded from a third-rate daycare. He pulled the green towel over his small frame, using it for a blanket. Gently he cradled the bottle, making sure not to crush it, and he closed his eyes. At least, in sleep, the still lingering pain in his stomach wouldn't bother him for a while. Sleep was one way in which Jeremy could escape the reality of the life he was living. He always hoped for good dreams, and since he rarely remembered what he dreamed about, he assumed the best. As his breathing grew deeper, Jeremy hoped he would dream about Pipsy being a real dog. A great big dog that would be all his own. That, or a dream of a great big party filled with hamburgers, and hot-dogs, and ice- cream, and cake, and...There were no more ands. A long day of playing with his pet and the limited amount of food took its toll on the child. Jeremy was away in a special place where no one ever talked mean to him or called him names. In a place where his stomach never bothered him and the words "I love you," were spoken in abundance. Chapter Two Chase hopped out of the almost scalding hot shower that served as his usual early morning wake up. He wrapped a blue and white striped beach towel around his waist and stood in front of the steam-fogged mirror as water dripped from his body and landed on the fuzzy mauve-colored rug. Taking a quick swipe across the mirror with a washcloth that matched the rug and was reserved for guests revealed the young man- child's reflection. His physique wasn't all that he would've liked it to be, but that still didn't keep him from flexing his chest muscles a few times, causing his pecs to do a small dance always seemed amusing to him. "You know," his wife's voice called from the adjoining bedroom, "I hope you don't do that sort of thing while you're on duty." "I only do it for the ladies." Chase smirked. "It keeps their minds off of getting a ticket." "Yeah? I guess it's hard to be mad when you're laughing so hard," Melissa teased. "I'll remember that the next time I pull you over, Melissa." Chase joined his wife in the bedroom, knowing that he had some time before he needed to leave. "The only reason you pulled me over the other day was because you knew it was me. You had no real reason to either, you naughty boy you." "I did want to see you in cuffs," Chase said mischievously as he raised and lowered his eyebrows twice." "You need to keep your fantasies for when you're not on duty." Chase stood directly in front of his wife, his towel close to falling off. He gave his wife one of his goofy grins. "I'm not on duty now." Melissa gave her husband a lover's kiss. "But you will be on duty in an hour, so you better get a move on." "I can always call in sick." Chase winked and returned the kiss. He lifted his wife with his strong arms and laid her on the bed. "No. You can't." Melissa gently pushed him away, smiling. So far the first year of marriage was going well, even with her husband's occasional immaturity. "You just started a few months ago and that wouldn't sit too well with your boss. Besides, there will be plenty of time to play when you get home." "Yes Ma'am." Chase pouted for a second, and then kissed his wife on the lips. "You're right, but I'm going to hold you to your promise." "You know it." Melissa smiled and then laughed as Chase sauntered away, lowering his towel just enough to reveal his tight glutes. Chase and Melissa have been married for four months, but had been dating ever since junior high school. Two months prior to their wedding, Chase completed his training to be a K-9 officer. The newlyweds used most of the money they received as wedding gifts for a down payment on their home. It wasn't anything luxurious; after all, Chase was only earning a cop's salary. They lived in a simple two- bedroom house in a decent neighborhood. It was a good place to live; many of the men from the police force lived nearby, keeping neighborhood crime to a minimum and insurance rates low. With his meager salary, and working a little on the side as a "security consultant," Chase and Melissa could live comfortably. It was always how Chase pictured his life would turn out and he was content with what he had. All that was missing was the patter of little feet and they planned that, by mutual agreement, five years down the road when they were more financially stable. Chase returned to the mirror and noticed that he didn't need a shave. Rarely did the young officer need to use a razor, and that was often used as fodder when the senior officers would razz him. On one of his first days, someone had gone as far as to leave a teddy bear and a Blow pop in his locker. The men got a good laugh at "baby-face" Chase on that one. But, Chase knew how to roll with the punches and always knew how to take a joke: he let the bear ride shotgun with him all that day and put the Blow pop in his mouth right on the spot, grinning like the kid he was all the while. He was genuinely liked by all his colleagues and was considered one of the good guys. For what it was worth, which was a lot, Chase knew that if it ever came to it, anyone on the force would always have his back and he would have theirs. That was the way the police force was suppose to work. "Looking good," Chase thought as he buttoned his stiff, heavily starched white dress shirt; his badge and name tag were already pinned in place, Melissa always took care of that the night before. "Looking just like the old man." Chase felt the pride of living his boyhood dream of following in his father's footsteps well-up in his chest. "God, I miss him. I wish he was still alive to see me. He'd be so proud to see me wearing the shield." Chase bit his lip as he remembered the reason why his father wasn't around to see him was because some drugged up loser attempting to hold up a convenience store put two slugs in his father's chest when Chase was only twelve. The assailant was one of the few people that Chase couldn't bring himself to forgive, even though his core belief told him he should. "I hope he's still rotting away in a hole somewhere. It wasn't Dad's fault for being a cop. Being a cop didn't take him away from me, it was some idiot with a loaded gun and not much sense that did." Chase pulled up the creased, dark blue slacks and fastened them. "Being a cop is a noble career and my dad was a noble man." Chase settled himself; he didn't want to start work angry or upset. He was never one to take his anger out on anyone else. Chase was a stand up kind of guy who thought individuals should be judged on their own merit, exactly like he wanted to be judged. That was the way he was raised in a semi-strict Christian home. He learned his morals from his mother and knew to treat people with the utmost respect and dignity no matter what they had done or how unruly they were to him. There were times when Chase wanted to put someone through a wall out of Christian love, but he mostly kept his restraint. He never wanted to let his mother or father down. Chase looked at himself in the mirror and flashed a big, toothy smile. He turned to the side, facing the door. Quickly he spun around, formed a gun out of his right hand and pointed his finger-gun at the mirror. "Officer Chase Milan, K-9 cop," he said in a deep booming voice. "Officer Chase Milan, K-9 cop," Melissa called from the bedroom. "You better hurry along or you're going to be Chase Milan, unemployed house husband." "Can't a boy have his fun?" "Yes, but don't forget, it's your turn to get the donuts." "That's a vicious stereotype," Chase feigned offense. "Vicious, but true. Now hurry up." "Yes dear," Chase said mockingly. The officer put on the shoes that he had buffed to a high gloss shine the night before, always one concerned about how he appeared to others. His father once told him "You can judge the character of a man by the shine on his shoes." Chase still didn't completely understand the logic of the maxim, but since it came from his dad it was gospel. Chase slung his jacket over his shoulder; it would be too hot to be trapped in something so heavy. Jackets were usually considered optional wear while on duty anyway. Chase walked downstairs, to the back door that led to the yard and held it open. He needed to retrieve his partner, and his best non- human friend. "Come on Neesa," he called. "Time for work." The ninety pound Rottweiler sprang from her resting state inside the large dog house that Chase built with his own hands. Her brown eyes opened wide and the nub of her tail wagged in delight because she knew what was going to happen. In a full sprint the dog ran through the house towards the front door. The Rotti tried to stop on a dime in front of the exit, but the freshly waxed linoleum had other ideas. Neesa slid a few inches and came to an abrupt halt thanks to the solid oak door. Chase called upstairs, "Honey, didn't I ask you not to wax in front of the door?" "Oops! Sorry! Is she okay?" "Yeah, she's fine. Be glad we have a Rotti and not a Shih Tzu." Chase laughed. It was a little bit funny, but he knew that the blow to Neesa's square head had to smart, even if the dog didn't yelp in protest. Chase opened the door and the dog walked beside her master. Being a trained police dog, Neesa knew the difference between when it was time to have a playful jaunt around the block and when it was time to get into the back of the cruiser. The young officer assumed it had something to do with his wearing the uniform. Chase hit a button on his key fob, making the rear window roll down automatically. Neesa took two measured steps backwards and leaped into the back of the black and white Crown Victoria. Chase didn't have Neesa do that trick too often in front of his superiors; they might consider it excessive, but Chase always got a kick from seeing his dog perform the feat and couldn't resist indulging himself. The officer got in the driver's seat. From the day he received the vehicle, Chase always thought his Crown Vic was a much cooler car than his wife's little red Chrysler Le Baron convertible, especially when he considered what was under the hood. Chapter Three Chase picked up the mike to his radio. "This is unit four-fourteen reporting in for duty." "Hey, Baby-face," a lady's voice with a heavy southern lilt called over the radio. "Make sure you get some Bavarian creams for the sarge." "That's a big 10-4. You want anything special?" "Just to see you smile, hon." "You better quit that," Chase said jokingly. "Melissa may find out and get jealous." "Nay, she knows she's married to a boy scout who wouldn't do anything wrong. It's kind of disappointing, for some." "You're too much, Rebecca. Over and out." "See you later, hon." Light banter was the norm for the small city force as long as it didn't get extreme or cause problems. Chase knew with the call-in he was now officially on duty. That was one of the perks for working for the Lebanon, Tennessee police department; he didn't have to go to base and punch a time card. All an officer had to do was radio in and go where they were supposed to. Besides, there was enough ways to get caught up in police duty on the way; a speeder, a drunk driver, a purse snatching, an officer never knew what could happen on the twenty minute ride to get to HQ and they couldn't turn a blind eye crime because their card wasn't punched. The sarge preached consistency in performing their civic duty and the officers bought into that. They weren't out to make the public's life difficult, but the criminal element needed to know they were around and prepared to put a damper on any illegal activity. "Base, this is four-fourteen," Chase radioed in twelve minutes into his ride as he pulled behind an old Ford Taurus station wagon that was on the side of the road with its hood up. "Go ahead, four-fourteen." "I have a vehicle on the side of the road, Tennessee plates 'LCL-04W.' Offering assistance. "10-4." Chase got out of his cruiser and walked up to the driver's window. As always, Chase followed proper procedure to the letter; he was a stickler for doing things by the book. The young lady looked up at the officer in tears. "What seems to be the problem, Ma'am?" "It's dead. It cranks but won't turn over." The lady turned the key in the ignition to prove her point. "See." Chase nodded sympathetically. "It'll be okay. I'm sure it's nothing that can't be fixed by a mechanic. Sounds like the starter has gone bad." "What's it matter now anyway," the lady lamented. "I've been stranded here for almost half an hour. I've more than missed my job interview. Five months I've been looking for work, and when I finally find something good, this happens." Chase couldn't explain why people opened up to him, but it was nothing new to him. "I'm sure if you call and explain the situation, they'll reschedule if it's truly a job that deserves you," Chase reassured. "Would you like me to call for a tow-truck, ma'am?" "Please." The lady resigned herself to sitting back and waiting. Chase walked back to his cruiser, reached through the window and grabbed the microphone. "Base, this is four-fourteen. I'm going to need a wrecker at Main and South Hatton." "We'll get one right out there," the radio squawked back. "10-4." Chase waited until the wrecker from Frank's Auto got there. Even though it was early and on a well traveled road, one never knew when someone might take advantage of the situation. As soon as the station wagon was up on the truck, Chase bid the motorist a better day. He also thanked the wrecker for coming out so promptly. The young officer figured that most people enjoyed the appreciation, even if they were simply doing their jobs. Chase got back into his cruiser and glanced back at the Rottweiler who was standing on the rear seat, looking out the front window, ready for action if needed. Chase picked up the mike. "Four-fourteen to base, en route. I still have to stop for the donuts, so tell Sarge they're coming." "10-4, four-fourteen." Chase pulled into the parking lot of 'the Perfect Cup', a locally owned shop that knew how to do things right. It was a tiny, tan brick building with an all glass facade. There were only a half dozen tables on the inside and a long stainless steel counter, which housed a glass display underneath. The specials of the day were written cheerfully on a black board in multi-colored chalk, but Chase knew his order was already put together. "Hi Elsa," Chase said as he walked to the counter. "How you doing today?" "Pretty good," the forty year old waitress said. "Lots of nothing going on." "Better than being too busy, isn't it?" "I suppose, but too much nothing is bad for a girl's figure, sugar. Anyway, we got your order waiting. You're a little late." "Had a distressed motorist on the way in. Sometimes the donuts have to wait." "Yep. I suppose in life there are more important things than pastry." The waitress tried to maintain her cheerful disposition. Chase knew that to say something to validate the woman's role in life would only serve to depress her more. "Can you throw in a few Bavarian Creams in for the sarge? Last I knew, he wasn't watching his figure." Elsa grinned. "Anything for you, sugar." "Thanks." Chase returned the smile and signed the order form. The officers never paid out of pocket and usually the owner cut the force a much better deal than what they charged the public. Probably a volume discount. Chase put two dollars on the counter, it was custom for all cops to tip the waitress whenever picking up any food, it kept everyone happy. Elsa placed the box of three dozen donuts on the counter, swapping in three additional Bavarian Creams. "They should send you more often, sugar." "They send me when they can. I can't hog the sweetest waitress in town all to myself, anyway." Chase gave her his winning smile. "Such a sweet talker." Elsa blushed. "Have a good day, Elsa." Chase backed out of the parking lot and drove to headquarters. It was a large, serious looking monstrosity that resembled a four story medieval castle without a sense of the period's charm. It was a cold building and a credit to its engineers that it was still standing. There were plans for building a more modern facility, but after waiting two decades for the ground breaking, that plan was the biggest legend amongst the officers. The phrase, "I'll get to it once the new building goes up," was the most common colloquialism in use. Chase clicked a button on his key fob that popped the rear door and Neesa joined him on the sidewalk. The two walked inside, first placing the box of donuts in the break room and then going to see the CO. It wasn't the norm for Chase to take the behemoth in with him. Neesa had the tendency to make people nervous with her almost hundred pounds of muscle. Since Chase planned to be in and out, he spared Neesa the indignity of being penned up in the outside cage. "Hey, Sarge," Chase said as he walked into the barren CO's office. "Good morning, Chase. Making your own hours?" the sarge asked in as serious a tone as he could muster, always trying to come off gruff. "Never! I hate traffic duty," Chase joked back. "I had a distressed motorist on the way in." "I know. I always check in on you rooks. Never know which of you thinks he can pull one over on the rest of us." "Uh-huh," Chase said and waited for the sarge to continue, perhaps adding how he didn't have to worry about Chase doing the right thing. The compliment didn't come. "By the way," the officer filled in the uncomfortable silence. "I got you some Bavarian Creams on the way in." "Hmm. Kissing up, I see. That's a good way to go far here on the force." The sergeant gave a slight chuckle. "More like a good way to get doughnut duty permanently," Chase replied half under his breath, but just loud enough to be heard. "Nah, I need you elsewhere for real police work. Today you're going to patrol Greenwood Avenue between Leesville Pike and the Interstate." "That'll certainly get me some action today," Chase said, knowing that most of the drug pushing thugs and less desirable members of society operated around that area. "We're expecting at least ten busts." The sarge cracked a smile, which didn't come easy for him. "But you wouldn't mind twenty," Chase rebutted, knowing the sarge's dislike for quotas. "Remember, no profiling." No profiling was the catch phrase that the sarge pushed on all his men, young and old alike. He knew how easy it was for a man to buy into stereotypes and start acting on them. He didn't need that kind of public relations nightmare. "You know me, everyone looks guilty." "No," the sarge said, straight faced and serious. "I do know you, that's why I'm giving you this assignment, even in front of people who've put in the time to earn it. Don't let me down, kid." "Not even on my worst day," Chase said as he walked out the door. The vote of confidence from his commanding officer made him walk a bit taller. Chase strolled back to his squad car, but not before popping his head into dispatch and giving Rebecca a smile and a wink. He was not attracted to the redheaded, fifty-something dispatcher who perpetually said she was thirty-two, but Chase always knew how to make people feel important. A smile and a wink could go a long way to making people feel a little bit better about themselves. Once at the squad car, Chase popped the rear door with the remote on his key fob to let Neesa in the back seat. Since it was in front of HQ he didn't dare do anything more elaborate. Chapter Four Jeremy was sound asleep when a loud bang tore him back to reality. The child sat up like a shot. He knew from the sound that the Camaro was back in the driveway and Daddy was home. Jeremy was terrified not because of the abruptness of the blast, but because he never knew what to expect when his dad was home. In a rush, the child hid the plastic bottle behind the garbage bags and returned to his mat. Most of the time it was best to remain out of sight when his father came home. The front door banged against the wall as it was roughly opened. The six-foot three man with shaggy red hair and handle bar mustache stormed into the house. "Hi honey," Curtis shouted out mockingly. "I'm home." "About time you got here, Curtis," Sheila shouted back, barely lifting her head as she slumped on the couch. The rugged man pulled his salt-stained T-shirt off and used it to wipe the sweat from his forehead with one of its few dry spots. He threw the damp shirt into a corner when he finished. "Listen, Bitch. I'm out there all day in the hot sun, working and slaving to keep the bills paid, put food on the table, and keep you happy." "Oh yeah, I forgot, this is the lap of luxury that you keep me in." Sheila made a grand gesture with her arms and looked about the living room in mock awe. "Quick, call Robin Leach. Would you like me to ring for the butler and have him bring you some Dom Perignon in our fine crystal?" "Listen, you ungrateful slut." Curtis jumped on his wife; straddling her prone body. He took hold of her throat in his large calloused hand. "If you didn't get pregnant, if you were on the pill like you said you were, we wouldn't be in this situation." "Oh sure, blame the mistake on me." Sheila pushed Curtis off of her. "If you didn't get me plastered and maybe kept that little pecker inside your pants..." Sheila didn't get the chance to finish her statement before being interrupted by a loud slap across her face, the sound of which echoed through the house. Once again, Curtis was on top of her. "I'll show you what this little pecker can do." Curtis pushed her deep into the couch and forcefully opened her robe and pulled down her sweatpants. Sheila laughed. "I love it when you get all rough, but the mistake is sleeping in the back room and we don't want to be disturbed by it." Sheila rarely referred to Jeremy by his given name; she preferred calling him 'the mistake.' "Too bad. You would've gotten it good ." Curtis plopped down on the couch next to Sheila. "Let me get some of the stuff, might as well get into a good mood." The stuff that Curtis was referring to was a brick of pot that he had scored after robbing some poor sap who didn't know which streets not to walk down. "I can't." A small trickle of sweat rolled down the side of Sheila's face. She knew full well that she smoked the last of the marijuana a few hours after sending Jeremy to his room. Her mind scrambled for some kind of excuse. "What the hell do you mean?" Curtis' anger was making his already ruddy features more red. "The mistake flushed it down the toilet," Sheila finally answered, hoping that Curtis would buy her story. "Don't you watch him and see what the hell he's doing?" Curtis stood up with a purpose. "Am I the only one who keeps him in line?" he added as he stormed off. The deep thud of work boots grew louder as they approached the child's bedroom door. Jeremy closed his eyes as tight as he could and pretended to sleep. The door opened and the smell of new soil and old sweat filled the child's room. Without warning, Curtis lifted the child off the floor by his long, matted hair and threw him into the wall. The loud crack of Jeremy's head hitting the wall echoed for a second as the child slid to the floor with a bang. Jeremy instinctively wrapped his arms around his head in order to ward off any incoming blows. Curtis didn't take a swing at the child, but instead lifted Jeremy up by the throat and pinned him against the same wall he was thrown against. "Hi, Dada," Jeremy said as sweetly as he could manage. Tears filled his eyes, but he already learned to equate crying with receiving more pain. "Don't 'hi Dada' me, you little bastard." Curtis shoved his thumb deep into the child's throat. Jeremy took a quick gasp as he tried to inhale and started turning red. He quit trying to protect his head and pushed ineffectively against his father's hand. "You touch my shit ever again and I'll make sure you never touch anything ever again. Do you understand?" Curtis asked as his cold, steel eyes stared at his son. Jeremy started to turn blue as he nodded his head yes. He didn't know what offense he was admitting to, if any. But he knew that agreeing with his father was the only way to end his agony and get another breath of much needed air. Curtis finally let the child go after he felt the proper amount of punishment had been dealt. Jeremy's feet had hardly touched the floor before a new odor filled the room that was neither soil, nor sweat. "What's that smell?" Curtis demanded. Jeremy turned away and looked at the floor. "What did you do?" "I make," Jeremy said quietly while trying to avoid eye contact. "What are you? Four? Still wearing diapers! That's frigging ridiculous." Jeremy kept his head down as his father roughly pulled up his shirt, further revealing the freshly filled diaper. It would do the child no good to explain that his mother kept him in the diaper because she didn't want to be bothered when he needed help in the bathroom like most toddlers did. "Four and still in diapers!" Curtis said in a louder voice, causing Jeremy to look up at him. "What do you have to say for yourself?" Jeremy didn't answer. He didn't know what answer would get him into more trouble. He didn't even fully understand the question. "Answer me," Curtis loudly demanded. After waiting a fraction of a second, he pulled his arm back and slapped the child across the face. A small trickle of blood flowed out of Jeremy's nose and a tear drifted down the side of his face. "Don't start that crying. You take your punishment like a man. You want something to cry about, then I'll give you something to cry about." Curtis untaped the diaper and laid it on the floor. "You want to cry? Cry about that!" Curtis yelled. "See how disgusting that is?" Curtis grabbed the back of Jeremy's head and pushed the child's face into the soiled diaper. The man did it in the same manner that one might treat a dog that had an accident on the living room carpet. Jeremy raised his head as soon as his father released his grip, once again gasping for air. "Next time I find you in a shit-filled diaper, I'm going to make you eat it!" Curtis screamed. "Do I make myself clear? You better learn how to use the bowl, do you understand?" Jeremy meekly nodded yes to each of the questions. "Now go into the bathroom and wash yourself off. And, if you leave a mess in there, you're going to get twice as bad." Jeremy ran off as fast as he could and closed the bathroom door behind him. He climbed on an old wooden crate, ran the water, and saw the brown marks that covered his face in the mirror. After several attempts to get his face fully rid of all the refuse, he finally succeeded. Jeremy went into the living room in time to see his father about to leave. Like most young children, being bare-bottomed didn't seem to cause him any discomfort or embarrassment. His mother looked at him as if he were beyond contempt, and placed her hand on the arm of the couch in an attempt to rise. "Sheila, leave him bare-assed until I get back," Curtis instructed. He then knelt down next to his son and pulled a switchblade from his back pocket. "Listen, you little shit," Curtis said straight faced and in a steady tone. "If you have an accident while I'm out getting dinner, I swear to God I'll kill you when I come back." With those words, Curtis placed the blade to the child's throat and pushed it just hard enough so it would leave a dent in the skin, but wouldn't draw any blood. Jeremy took a shallow gulp and said "Yes, Dada," in a whisper. "Good! I'm glad we understand each other," Curtis said as he stood up and then walked out the front door. Jeremy sat down on the living room floor and felt the cool linoleum on his bare skin. He sat against the coarse brown couch where his mom had been laying most of the day, watching television. He made sure not to make a sound or even have any physical contact with her. He never quite understood why, but even if he accidentally touched his mother, she would get upset, he would get slapped and often he would be sent to his room without any hope of supper. Chapter Five "I might need you today, girl," Chase said through the metal grate that separated him from his partner. "We're going to a whole new part of town for you." The north side of town is what the locals considered as the slums. It wasn't really a slum in the true urban sense, but in the small rural city of Lebanon, Tennessee, it was close enough in spirit; a few miles of low-priced single family homes, and several blocks of rundown apartments. It was an area known primarily for its low wage earning blue collar workers, drugs and prostitution. The police made their presence known by having a patrol in the area at least twice weekly. The area hosted a lot of crime; drug dealing, burglary, grand theft auto, and battery to name a few. The most common complaint the police were called in for was domestic violence. Chase had been involved in a couple of those latter situations, and he considered himself lucky that cooler heads prevailed. He didn't think his calm nature (at least in those volatile situations) and his ability to explain both sides of the issue while offering possible solutions came into play. But both of those characteristics are mentioned repeatedly in his file. Chase pulled into the neighborhood as if he was only passing through to get somewhere more important. Despite the occasional parked car and the litter, the streets were barren. Those who did work would already be at their jobs. Many worked at the Dell computer factory a few miles down the way. Another good portion of the population worked the second shift and was more than likely still in bed. The criminal element was in bed as well, choosing to roam and create havoc after conventional business hours. Chase figured there were two methods he could employ during his patrol. One was to drive around the side streets and hunt for crime, relying on a keen eye and the element of surprise. The other method was to park inconspicuously in an empty driveway and see what crime came his way. Either way, a lot of luck came into play. The criminals seemed to have a sixth sense that told them when the fuzz was around. Chase chose to alternate between the two methods, not thinking that one was superior to the other. He pulled into the driveway of the old cemetery on Greenwood Avenue, and started the timer on his watch. He figured on thirty minutes of waiting, and then he would patrol the streets for a while before returning. The driveway to the cemetery was situated on the apex of a small hill with two large brick walls on either side that made the squad car virtually invisible until a person was right up on it; by the time a person noticed the black and white Crown Vic, it would be too late. After five minutes of nothing happening, Chase looked about the cemetery in his rear-view mirror. Many boys lay in the ground from the Civil war, soldiers on both sides. Chase remembered taking a school outing there, to the tomb of General Hatton, one of the lesser known generals of that war. Off to his right was one of the things Chase enjoyed seeing most, a large white marble statue of Jesus sitting with His right hand extended in a blessing and watching over the resting. In all his life, Chase never did go see who the monument was for, but it gave him an odd peace to know that while he was on duty, Jesus was watching over him as well. He often prayed that it was true, and, in his heart, he believed it. Fifteen minutes into his watch, Chase assumed nothing would happen. That was often the case on early, weekday shifts. Suddenly, Chase heard what he thought was a gunshot. The officer jerked back in his seat and looked around to see if a few kids were shooting at some cans. In such a rural area, it wasn't odd to find boys shooting their .22s at some empties. Chase did so when he was a youngster. He scouted the area for where the sound came once again. A lone vehicle headed down the road, and, at first, Chase thought some drunk idiot might be out shooting at mailboxes. Entertainment was scarce in the community early on a weekday. Chase put his cruiser into gear and waited for the offending vehicle to roll past. As soon as it did, Chase pulled behind the mid-eighties, primer colored, beat up Camaro, and turned on his siren. Just as he did, the car backfired again in protest, and the young officer figured out what was going on. "Base, this is four-fourteen." "Go ahead, Chase." "I've got a routine stop. Busted muffler, Tennessee plates 'QUM-40M." "Requesting backup?" "Not at this moment," Chase said, "Just a minor stop." "10-4." "Over." The Camaro pulled to the side of the road, out of the way of traffic. The brake-lights went on, and then off; Chase put his vehicle in park as well. The officer exited the cruiser, keeping his hand on the rear door release button as he was trained to do. Chase peered through the sloping rear window to make sure there were no suspicious movements while he made his way to the driver's side. "Damn it, man! I know I wasn't fucking speeding," the driver yelled at Chase. "I know that, sir." "Then why the fuck did you pull me over," the man ranted. "What? Just because I'm driving a beat-up piece of shit in the wrong side of town, you got to harass me?" The phrase "no profiling" came immediately to Chases mind. "No, sir. I am going to ask you to stop using the obscenities," Chase said sternly while maintaining his composure, which wasn't always easy for him. "I'm going to be respectful to you and that is what I expect in return." "Sorry, officer." The driver took a deep breath to calm himself down. "The wife and the kid have got me all nuts. Why'd you pull me over?" "That's a nasty backfire you got coming from your muffler. For a moment I thought someone was taking a shot at me." "Not me, officer. I never shoot at no cop." "Glad to hear that." Chase gave an easy grin. "There are two ways we can handle this situation." "Am I going to like either way?" the man interrupted. "You might. First I can write you a ticket for noise pollution, a ticket for an unsafe vehicle, and one for disturbing the peace. Probably run you in the neighborhood of four hundred bucks." "Damn!" The driver tried to catch himself before the curse word slipped out. "I mean, I can't afford that officer." The driver expected maybe a little greasing of the palms might be coming up. "The second way, which you might prefer, I write you a ticket for an unsafe vehicle, you go to Midas or wherever you choose, get the muffler replaced sometime in the next week, then show up at your leisure to the county clerk. Show them the receipt for the auto work and the ticket, and the ticket gets nullified. "So it's still going to cost me," the red haired man said bitterly. "Think of it this way, a Camaro is a nice little sports car and the engine needs to breath. You get a new muffler put on, the engine runs more efficiently and you save the money at the pumps." "I guess you're right," the man conceded. "Glad you see it my way. Can I see your license and registration, sir?" "Sure. You know what? You're alright for a cop." Chase took the license and registration, and walked back to the cruiser to fill out the citation. He was unsure if the "you're alright for a cop" comment was a compliment to him or a put down to his peers. Either way, he wasn't out to make life hard for people, but he didn't like hearing anything that resembled gunfire outside of the shooting range. He punched the license information and VIN number into his on- board computer. Everything came back clean. He filled out the ticket as promptly as he could. He didn't like to keep people waiting. Some officers took their time, but that just added frustration to an already tense situation. Chase went back to the driver. "Here you go, Mr. Bergeron. Like I said, show the county clerk the receipt for the auto work and the ticket and they'll nullify it." "You can call me Curtis. Thank you, sir. I think I'll go right now when it isn't very busy." "Good call. Have a good day." Chase walked back to the squad car and watched as the Camaro pulled away. It wasn't a life altering event, but Chase hoped that maybe he'd accomplished something with the exchange. If anything, perhaps it would give the guy a more positive image of other police officers. Chase picked up the microphone, informed Rebecca to contact the county clerk and let them know to expect the gentleman. He preferred the way the stop turned out, it meant that he wouldn't have to spend time in court. Court wasn't something unpleasant, but Chase preferred to be on the beat. Speaking of the beat, Chase figured he should ride around the neighborhood a few times. His half hour would've expired fifteen minutes prior if not for giving the ticket. It was always a plus to keep a visual presence in this area. "You know, girl," Chase spoke to Neesa, something he only did in private. "I remember when I was a little kid, we would always play cops and robbers. I always wanted to be the cop, no matter what, just like my dad. It was fun chasing the bad guys, finding out where all the robbers were hiding. I even used my bike back then, making a siren with my mouth, ride around the park. Kids would be hiding behind the swings, or under the slides, or up in a tree. It was a lot of fun. But, boy, if I had you back then, I bet it wouldn't have been a contest. You would've been fun to have back then. Not that I don't love having you now. I mean, back then if I didn't catch someone, maybe I'd get razzed a little. Now the stakes are much higher, if I make a mistake now, who knows, I could really get hurt." Chase saw the large dog lounging on the back seat, sleeping peacefully, not paying much attention to her partner's reminiscence. "It must be nice to sleep and work at the same time." Chase laughed to himself. "Sometimes I'd like to swap places. Just get called into action when I'm needed. Don't let me disturb your beauty sleep, okay, buddy?" Chase smiled to himself as he scouted the neighborhood. He thought being a K-9 cop was one of the best jobs in the world. He had been offered a choice between that or working SWAT. After long talks with Melissa and with his mother, he decided that the best thing for his family's piece of mind was if he worked with the dogs. Chase knew what it was like to wait up late nights with his mother when his dad was tardy getting home. He also remembered the night they got the call; he knew his mother couldn't survive getting the same call about her son. At first, Chase wasn't too enthusiastic about taking the "lesser" position. But, he had a positive attitude when he went into training, and he knew that when he was done, he would have a badge. After the second day of training and working with his new partner, Chase was hooked and now wouldn't trade his job for any other. His wife and his mother were happy with his decision, and so was he. Chase drove around his zone twice. He also stopped at a convenience store for a cappuccino and had time to give Neesa a few treats midway through his patrol. He went back to the cemetery, and started daydreaming about performing some heroic feat. Rescuing a baby from a fire, pulling a big, burly man from an overturned car that was about to explode, Chasing down an armed robber and exchanging gunfire, all the things they showed cops doing in the movies; in reality, he hoped none of those fantasies would come true, but in his mind, he enjoyed thinking through the scenarios. Chase drove around his beat one last time before heading back to the station. It was customary for rookies to work half a shift, take a lunch mid-shift, then get a new assignment. Today was a quiet day, but those were few and far between. Usually Chase would answer one call and then fifteen minutes after he was done, he was heading to another. But this was a Monday, and like most Monday's, people were too busy recovering from the weekend to be breaking the law. Chapter Six Jeremy's stomach rumbled again, this time more audibly. It had been almost two hours since his father left to get them some supper. Finally the sound of the backfiring muffler could be heard down the road. A few moments later, Curtis pushed the door open and came in holding a pizza in one hand and a small brown paper bag in the other. "Where were you?" Sheila was happier to see the bag than to see the pizza. "Out scoring dinner." Curtis smiled. "And some desert." He shook the bag. "But how?" Sheila knew how, her husband's activities were no longer a mystery, but she didn't know all the particulars. "You know that alley down the block from Sid's?" "Yeah. You mean someone was stupid enough to walk that way." Sheila laughed. "Yep. A big fat guy too. God, I love those fat ones." Curtis grinned. "They don't even try to run." "So what did you score?" "A C-note and the pizza." "Can I get some of the green." "It's in the bag, baby." Curtis shook the paper bag, indicating that all the money he stole went towards drugs. "The rest got to go to fixing the car before that dumb cop makes me pay that ticket." "You know, we do need stuff at home," Sheila said for the sake of saying the words, preferring the drugs. "Relax, the food stamps and the checks should be here tomorrow. Besides, I thought the bitch down the block had us covered." "She only feeds the mistake when she feels like it." "Shit, she only gives you what, twenty-five cents on the dollar for all the WIC and food stamps. What's she do with all of that?" "Who knows. She probably sells it off to someone else for half their value." "Maybe you should find out who and cut out the middle man." Curtis threw the pizza onto the kitchen table. Jeremy eyed the meal in earnest. "Has he caused you any trouble? Any accidents?" Curtis asked his wife while staring the boy down. "No. He just sat on the floor like the lump of shit that he is, and watched TV." "He lucked out then," Curtis said in Jeremy's direction. "Maybe if you spent some time with him, it wouldn't misbehave all the time." "Good idea. Tomorrow, while you're cashing checks, we'll have a father and son day, like they do on Leave it to Beaver." "Good! I could go a day without seeing the mistake," Sheila told him. "I bet you're hungry. Aren't you?" Curtis addressed his son. Jeremy nodded as he continued to eye the box of pizza. Finally, Curtis lifted the lid of the box, tore off a piece of crust, and handed it to the half-starved child. Jeremy grabbed the crust, afraid that it might be snatched away before he even had a taste. The child walked off to the corner with his prize, keeping the box of pizza between him and his parents. He took a huge bite out of the thick crust and worked his perfectly white teeth into it. Once the lump of cooked dough was swallowed, the child knew the pizza would end his hunger. He ate the rest of the crust methodically and when he thought his parents weren't looking, Jeremy impulsively made an attempt to grab a full slice of pizza. "Would you look at this shit?" Curtis said in amusement as he saw the full slice in his son's hand. "He's a hungry little bastard ain't he." "That's all he does all day, nothing but eat. Why do you think there's never any food at home?" On hearing that, Curtis snatched the pizza out of his son's hand. "Don't be such a fucking pig, little children don't need to eat so much." Jeremy nodded, even though his stomach told him otherwise. "Get to bed," Curtis demanded. "Nigh', Nigh'," Jeremy said dejectedly as he trotted off to bed. "Why can't he speak normally?" Curtis asked his wife. "God, that's so annoying." "Who knows? He's probably retarded or something." "If so, then it's your fault." "How the hell is that thing my fault, it was your sperm." Curtis stood up and slapped his wife across the face. "And it was your womb. Do you understand that bitch? Remember, you're the one who said she was on the pill." "Whatever." Sheila rubbed her cheek. "Anyway, maybe he is retarded, that would mean more money from the government, you know?" Curtis was already scheming on how to get ahead in the situation. "I suppose. Not that I care if he is or if he isn't. Another year and he'll be in school and I can let them deal with him." Sheila pushed her husband gently into the kitchen chair, causing him to sit and then she sat on his lap. "Let's see what's in the bag." "You know what you need to do first." Curtis smiled mischievously at his wife. Sheila knew what that meant. It meant that she had to subject herself to whatever desires Curtis had in mind. As usual, she started on her knees. Jeremy lay still on his mat. He could hear his parents grunting and groaning and slapping and yelling through the thin walls. He pulled the towel over his head and squeezed his small, make-believe pet for all he dared. "No worry, Pipsy, it be over soon," he whispered. Weakened by the lack of food and lulled by the complete boredom of his room, Jeremy drifted off to sleep. Once again, the child could escape to a place where a tear was never shed, to a place where toys and games stretched as far as the eye could see. A place where his plate was always full and seconds came without asking. Sleep was the toddler's only doorway to what he perceived as Heaven. The way he had it figured, it would be soon that he'd be there. Chapter Seven Chase pulled the same duty for the second day and had the sneaking suspicion he might get it for the entire week. As he was driving towards the cemetery hiding spot, Chase saw the Camaro he stopped the day before pull out of a small subdivision. The officer tipped his hat to the driver and noticed the sports car was still backfiring. The driver gave Chase a look that said, "I know, I'm going to take care of it as soon as I can, please don't pull me over." Chase decided to pull into the subdivision to see if anything was going on. The officer marveled that whenever he pulled someone over, he would run into the same vehicle within twenty-four hours. He figured it was because he made a mental note of the car and assumed he saw every local car and truck at least a dozen times. The officer pulled around the bend and saw two 'gentlemen' exchanging money for a small baggy. Chase flipped the switches for the lights and sirens without even thinking. The person who had the baggy made a mad dash for the rear of the nearest house, heading towards the woods behind the subdivision. The money taker hopped into a mid-seventies Corvette that was left running on the side of the road. "Four-fourteen to base," Chase said hastily into the mike. "We have a possible drug deal at Summit and Crestview. One man; five foot ten, long blond hair, 160 pounds, wearing a black T-shirt and cut-off blue jeans headed towards the woods. I'm in pursuit of the second suspect, in a green and white two tone '70's model Corvette. License plate reads 'XLR8R.' Requesting backup." "That's a 10-4, Chase. One individual in the woods back of Crestview; male, 5'10,160, blond, black tee, blue cutoffs. Second suspect being pursued in a green and white Corvette." "That's a 10-4." Chase left his mike open so he could call out where he was going without having to take either hand off the steering wheel. Chase took the cruiser around a corner quickly as the 'Vette exited the subdivision and drove on a main road. Though the Corvette was built for speed, without a professionally trained driver, it wasn't as quick and agile as the police cruiser. Neesa was standing on the rear seat watching, her nub tail shaking as if the animal thought this were part of a game. A mile down the road, the Corvette attempted a hairpin turn into another subdivision, but didn't have that kind of maneuverability; especially when Chase tapped on the rear of the pursued vehicle with his reinforced bumper. The 'Vette spun around once and went down a small drainage ditch. It came to a halt, hopelessly stuck. "Base, he wiped out at the Zips on Park and Greenwood. Going to apprehend." Chase saw the driver reach down to the floorboard . The officer snatched his shotgun from the holder, and then opened the door to use it for a shield. "Come on out," Chase shouted towards the driver. "Keep your hands where I can see them." The driver, a tall black man with startlingly gold teeth got out of the disabled Corvette. He was wearing a yellow shirt and black jeans. The man's hands were at his side and Chase couldn't make out if the subject had anything in them as he climbed out of the ditch. "Put your hands up!" Chase crouched behind the cruisers door and pointed the shotgun at the suspect, but the perpetrator still walked towards him. Chase moved his hand off the barrel of the shotgun and hit the door release button on his key fob. The officer heard the door pop, but Neesa wouldn't leave the cruiser until commanded. "Stay right where you are, and put your hands up." Chase shouted. "Look man, I want to explain." The perpetrator continued towards the cruiser. Chase could make out a small revolver the man was trying to conceal by keeping it close to his dark jeans. The rookie officer had never been in a situation where he had to shoot a man and didn't want this day to change that. "Neesa, disarm," Chase said in a guttural whisper. Chase ordered the dog in German, using the phrasing he learned during training. Neesa jumped out of the car on the passenger side and dashed at the criminal. The guy was so intent on watching Chase shielded behind the door that he didn't notice the dog until she popped out from the front side of the cruiser and was on him. Neesa leaped and seized the wrist of the hand that held the gun. A shot fired harmlessly into the ground, grazing the guy in the shin. The man dropped the gun in surrender, but Neesa didn't heed his pleas as she wrestled him to the ground. The dog would only respond to Chase's commands. At that moment the officer's backup arrived and looked on. "Neesa, heel!" Chase said in German after kicking the gun a safe distance away. He wanted to kick the perpetrator as well, but restrained himself. Neesa released her grip on the man's wrist and stood next to her master, keeping her eyes on the criminal who was sprawled out on the ground. "Good girl," Chase praised his partner. The officer patted the man down, found a vicious looking knife in the thug's back pocket, but no drugs or money were found. "As for you," Chase said as he cuffed the man. "I can't say the same. You do, however, have the right to remain silent." Chase went on to read the suspect the rest of his rights. "Hey Bill," Chase called to his backup, a balding officer who had a bit of a gut on him. "What's up rook?" Bill had gotten out of his cruiser and kept his hand poised to grab his weapon, but hadn't interfered with Chase's. He knew better than to distract a fellow officer while they were dealing with a criminal. "I need you to take this gentleman in for me." Being a K-9 cop, Chase didn't have room transport people. "Just as long as you do the paperwork," Bill told the young officer. "Don't I know it." Chase smiled as Bill picked the guy up off the ground and put him in the back of his cruiser roughly. Chase grabbed Neesa's thick red leather collar and brought her to the Corvette. Though it was in a ditch, it was accessible. "Neesa, search!" Chase ordered in German. Bill watched the search. "You talk that dog-German pretty good, Rook." Nearly all police dogs were trained in German, and Chase really only spoke dog German. The only words of the language he knew were Neesa's commands. The Rottweiler sniffed at the suspect's car. Neesa didn't have the specialized training of a big city drug dog, but she located a secret compartment beneath the center console and started clawing at it until her master pulled her away. It was a clever setup, Chase thought. It would be a good place to hide a nitrous system instead of the drugs; an assortment of marijuana, powder cocaine, and crack. Chase shook his head and wondered why people chose to ruin themselves with such garbage. Chase placed everything in evidence bags and marked them properly while Bill looked on. While a criminal was in custody, Chase didn't mind making them wait while he finished his job. He figured they better get used to waiting, a prison sentence was coming. "Hey, Rook!" Bill called to Chase. "Yeah?" "You forgot to radio for a wrecker." "No I didn't," Chase protested. "I haven't gotten to that point yet." "Don't sweat it, I called for a county wrecker to impound this beast. I was afraid you might take it home with you. I know how much you like classics, and you know about missing evidence," Bill teased. "I was thinking about hiding this one in my desk drawer, but I have a 'Vette at home. One of a better vintage." "Funny! You did good, rook. Good thing that dog knows how to use you." "If she knew how to drive, I'd be out of a job." Chase patted Neesa's head. "Don't linger too long, you got to get back to catching them." Bill motioned to the guy in the back seat. "Once they're in custody, you find yourself another." "Will do." Bill told Chase he would drive off once the wrecker got there. Chase said a friendly Okay and got into his cruiser after getting Neesa in the back. "Don't tell Melissa there was a gun involved. Okay?" Chase said. "Four-fourteen to base," Chase spoke into the mike. "Go ahead, hon," Rebecca called back. "Everything is wrapped up here." Chase returned the shotgun to the rack. "Good going. Bill told me it's his collar." Even though there wasn't a quota system, the officers had a friendly competition between themselves as to who was the most productive that week or month. "How did he come to that conclusion?" "He said they aren't yours until you bring them in and lock 'em behind bars." Chase shook his head. "I guess I could strap 'em to my hood." "Don't let him get to you, he's only teasing. We all know who got the collar." "Yeah, Neesa." Chase laughed into the mike. "I got good news for you," Rebecca said as an aside. "They got the other guy. The drugs were still on him, so it's solid." "Good deal. Do I have to do the paperwork on both?" "No. And you know they'll try to pull that on you. You only have to do the paperwork on what you saw and who you put the cuffs on." "10-4 base. I'm coming home." "See you when you get in." "Four-fourteen, out." Chase drove back to the precinct, got a "good job" from the sarge, and sat at a shared desk to fill out the paperwork. The paperwork was the part of the job that most officers hated. It wasn't Chase's favorite a