Still, Chisolm knew that there was a lot more to the job than being compassionate. He had long ago learned to save his compassion for those who deserved it. A cop had to be strong enough to be gentle, but he had to remain strong.
Chisolm recalled the incident right before their days off, when a gang member had come close to assaulting Payne. Chisolm had seen it coming, but let Payne go with it as far as he safely could. He hoped the rookie learned that the nice-guy routine doesn’t always work, especially when a street-wise gangbanger is yelling, “Kiss my black ass, you white pig!”
A cop had to wear many hats, Chisolm knew: counselor, confessor, friend, philosopher, detective, hard-ass, just to name a few. Those who failed to understand this were weak officers, even if they excelled in one area. Like Payne. Or like James Kahn, who was a grouch almost all the time and got complaints by the trunk load.
“Let’s get some fuel,” Chisolm suggested. And we’ll see if you can find the fueling station this time.
“Yes, sir,” Payne replied, his voice meek.
Payne surprised Chisolm by finding the fueling station easily enough. The rookie filled the tank wordlessly and the two of them cruised out to tackle the calls that were holding.
The night passed slowly, giving Chisolm plenty of time for reflection. Payne took way too long to accomplish even the simplest of tasks. A traffic stop became a major ordeal for him, which Chisolm considered ridiculous this far into his training.
Even more unforgivable, Payne’s officer safety bordered on critically poor. He seemed completely oblivious to where his gun side was in relation to everyone around him. He took his eyes off people all the time, sometimes even turning his back to them. He wasn’t vigilant at all about having suspects keep their hands out of their pockets. Not only did all of this endanger Payne, but anyone who worked around him.
Chisolm pressed his lips together in disgust when Payne elected to make a traffic stop on a soccer mom in a mini-van. On graveyard shift, they operated in a target rich environment. There were plenty of shitheads out driving around, guilty of far worse infractions-much less actual crimes-than the failure to signal that Mrs. Middle Class just committed.
Payne fumbled through initiating his emergency lights and advising radio of his location. Chisolm wasn’t sure which bothered him more-the weak sound of Payne’s voice or the fact that the location he gave radio was a block off.
He clambered out of the passenger seat and stood safely behind the curtain of light at the front tire of the patrol car. Payne approached the car like a frightened cat. Chisolm noted that he carried his flashlight in his gun hand, another cardinal sin.
Payne made contact with the driver, taking three times longer than necessary to acquire her documents. Back at the car, he quickly filled out the ticket, but agonized over whether to write the woman for no insurance since the card in her car had expired two weeks ago. He looked to Chisolm for help.
“You think she’s got insurance?” Chisolm asked him.
“Uh…” Payne swallowed nervously. It seemed like he treated very question like a life or death final exam. “I guess not. I mean, the card’s expired.”
Chisolm gave him an even stare, refusing to answer the rookie’s question. “It’s your call,” he said, figuring the kid would learn something either way.
Payne nodded hesitantly, then returned to the ticket. He scratched out the charged for no insurance.
Chisolm struggled not to frown.
Back at the van, Payne patiently explained to the woman in the mini-van what constituted proof of insurance.
“But I have insurance,” she protested. “My agent just sent me the new card. It’s on my kitchen counter.”
“It’s supposed to be in your car.”
“I know that,” she said. “I just forgot.”
Payne cleared his throat. “Well, uh, I suppose if you bring that into the judge, he could probably just-”
“Who’s got time for court?” she snapped. “I have three kids and a house to take care of. Do you have any idea how time-consuming that is?”
“No,” Payne squeaked.
She eyed him with contempt. “Just give me the ticket.”
Payne handed it to her. She scrawled her signature and thrust it back at him. “I hope you’re happy,” she said. “Because you’re an asshole.”
Chisom suppressed a smile.
Payne looked stricken. He tore out the driver’s copy of the ticket and gave it to her, stammering out his prepared speech on how to take care of the ticket.
She interrupted him. “Can I go?”
Payne blinked. He looked back at Chisolm, then at the driver. “Uh, sure. I mean, if you understand how to respond to this infraction, you can-”
“I got it,” she answered, dropping the van into gear and driving away.
Payne watched her go, then turned and trudged back to the car. Once there, he reached for the radio to clear when a shrill alert tone sounded.
“Dispatch to all units. Receiving an armed robbery alarm at 1527 N. Birch, 7-11 store.” The dispatcher’s voice intoned. “Hold-up alarm, 1527 N. Birch.”
“Go!” shouted Chisolm and grabbed the mike. He listened in frustration as several units attempted to answer at once, covering each other with a harsh buzz.
“Coverage,” stated the operator. “Receiving further. Suspect is a single, white male wearing black jeans, white shirt with long dark hair. Also has a scar down the left side of his face. Suspect displayed a black revolver. Fled westbound on foot.”
“C’mon!” Chisolm yelled, excitement coursing through him.
Same damn guy, the one everyone called Scarface.
Payne approached the red light at Indiana and Post. His hand hovered over the emergency light controls as if he couldn’t decide whether to use lights or both lights and siren.
“Just drive,” Chisolm told him, punching the lights. At two-thirty in the morning on a Monday night, there wasn’t much traffic to worry about.
“Adam-116, I’m a couple off. I’ll check westbound.”
Chisolm recognized Katie MacLeod’s steady voice.
“Baker-123, in the area to the south. Also.” Stefan Kopriva, another good troop, chimed in.
“Go ahead, Baker-123.”
“Do we have a K-9 working?”
A pause. Then, “Negative. Do you want us to call one out?”
“Affirm.”
Good call, Chisolm thought. Maybe we’ll catch the guy this time.
Payne drove right past the turn on Monroe Street. He realized it half a block later and started to slow.
“No,” Chisolm instructed him. “Go up to Ash, we’ll back Katie.”
“Adam-113, on scene at the 7-11 for the report.”
Chisolm shook his head. Adam-113, James Kahn, was only willing to take a report if it meant less work than the alternative. Or if there was a woman involved. Otherwise, forget it.
Ash was a one-way arterial southbound, but Payne still drove way too cautiously for Chisolm’s liking. At Maxwell, he directed him to turn right as soon as he saw Katie’s lights.
“Baker-123, I’ll be mobile on Boone west of-”
The buzz of radio transmission coverage cut him off.
“Baker-123, copy,” replied the dispatcher. “Other unit?”
Chisolm knew Katie was out of the car and running as soon as the transmission began.
“Adam-116… foot pursuit… south bound from my car. We’re going through… construction yard… ”
Chisolm got on the air before the dispatcher could respond. “Adam-112, her vehicle is parked at Maxwell and Cannon. We’ll swing around and come in from the southwest.”