screamed POLICE CRASH KILLS FAMILY OF FIVE. There were large color
photographs of broken glass, twisted metal, and Officer Michelle Johnson weeping in the
cruiser.
“I can’t believe it!” Brazil exclaimed.
“Look! The damn headline makes it sound like it was the cop’s fault when we don’t even
know who caused the wreck!”
His mother wasn’t interested. She got up, moving slowly toward the screen door that led
out to the side porch. Her son watched with dread as she swayed, and snatched keys
from a hook on the wall.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“The store.” She dug inside her big, old pocketbook.
“I just went yesterday,” he said.
“I need cigarettes.” She opened her billfold and scowled.
“I bought you a carton. Mom.” Brazil stared at her.
He knew where his mother was really going and felt the same old defeat. He sighed
angrily as his mother clutched her pocketbook and counted dollar bills.
“You got a ten-spot?” she asked him.
“I’m not buying your booze,” he stated.
She paused at the door, regarding an only child she had never known how to love.
“Where are you going?” she said with a cruel expression that made her face ugly and
unfamiliar.
“A costume party?”
“A parade,” Brazil answered.
“I’m directing traffic.”
“Parade charade.” She sneered.
“You’re not police, never will be. Why do you want to be going out there to get killed?”
She got sad just as quickly as she had turned mean.
“So I can end up all alone?” She yanked the door open.
The morning got no better. Brazil drove fifteen minutes through the police department
deck, and finally left his BMW in a press space, even though he really wasn’t on official
press business. The day was lovely, but he took the tunnel from the deck to the first level
of police headquarters because he was feeling especially antisocial.
Whenever he had encounters with his mother, he got very quiet inside.
He wanted to be alone. He did not want to talk to anyone.
At the Property Control window, he checked out a radio and was handed keys for the
unmarked vehicle he would be driving in the Charlie Two response area between Tryon
and Independence Boulevard for the annual Freedom Parade. It was a modest celebration
sponsored by local Shriners in their tasseled hats and on their scooters, and Brazil could
not have been assigned a worse car. The Ford Crown Victoria was dull, scratched black,
and had been driven hard for a hundred and sixteen thousand miles. The transmission
was going to drop out any moment, providing the damn thing started, which it didn’t
seem inclined to do.
Brazil flipped the key in the ignition again, pumping the accelerator as the old engine
tried to turn over. The battery supplied enough juice to wake up the scanner and radio,
but forget about going anywhere, as the car whined, and Brazil’s frustration soared.
“Shit!” He pounded the steering wheel, accidentally blaring the horn.
Cops in the distance turned around, staring.
tw Chief Hammer was causing her own commotion not too far away inside the Carpe
Diem restaurant on South Tryon, across the street from the Knight-Ridder building. Two
of her deputy chiefs. West and Jeannie Goode, sat at a quiet corner table, eating lunch
and discussing problems. Goode was West’s age and jealous of any female who did
anything in life, especially if she looked good.
“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” Goode was saying as she poked at tarragon chicken salad.
“He shouldn’t be out with us to begin with. Did you get a load of the headline this
morning? Implying we caused the accident, that Johnson was pursuing the Mercedes?
Unbelievable. Not to mention, skid marks indicate it wasn’t us who ran the red light. ”
“Andy Brazil didn’t write the headline,” West said, turning to Hammer, her boss, who
was working on cottage cheese and fresh fruit.
“All I’m asking is to ride routine patrol with him for maybe a week.”
“You want to respond to calls?” Hammer reached for her iced tea.
“Absolutely,” West said as Goode looked on with judgment.
Hammer put down her fork and studied West.