BEHIND THE BADGE

by

Terry Wright

Officer Stone sat in his patrol car behind Krueger’s Gym, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The muggy Texas night made his neck sweat. “Carmichael and Thorp are slower than dirt,” he said to his partner, Gil Baker.

“Quit your bitchin’!”

Baker had once said that Livingston PD was the last hole-in-the-wall department that would hire him. After a brutal arrest caught on video in Los Angeles last year, he was lucky to get this job. Goddamned bureaucrats, he’d said. I should’ve plugged ‘em all with hollow points. Stone was impressed.

A squad car came down the alley with its lights off.

“About time.”

Tires crunched gravel, and the car stopped. Doors opened.

“Fuller’s inside,” Stone said through the window to Carmichael, a brute of an officer with arms the size of railroad ties. “Last we heard, Carson was working out on the heavy bag.”

“He’s undefeated,” Thorp said. “The boxing champ around these parts.”

“He’s a punk.” Stone pushed open the door and pulled his six-foot-six frame out of the car. Standing a head above the others, he balled a fist. “I can take him.”

“I’d rather bench press 400 pounds,” Baker said. “I know you’ve busted a lot of heads in your time, but Carson…he’ll be tough to beat, not like that snot-nosed kid at Camp Pendleton.”

“It was an accident,” Stone barked.

Carmichael grinned. “Don’t bullshit the good ol’ boys.”

Walking toward the back door of Krueger’s Gym, Stone remembered how he’d broken the kid’s neck. It wasn’t an accident. The Top Brass had said Drill Sergeants weren’t supposed to be hard on recruits, poor babies. Giving him an honorable discharge, the Marines labeled him an undesirable and swept the whole thing under the carpet. Beat doing jail time, something Stone could never tolerate. He’d rather be dead than locked up.

Five years later, after being fired from two other departments for unjustified use of his firearm, he found himself in the company of these good ol’ boys. They’d all landed in this flea bitten town because they’d been busted for using excessive force. 

Thorp had five shootings on his record, two deaths. Carmichael liked to play both sides of the street, took bribes and kickbacks, and broke a few legs along the way. And Fuller, who was watching Carson inside Krueger’s Gym, racked up three civil suits against Pasadena for police brutality. They say Fuller always carried a drop, a gun or a knife that he could plant at the scene, just in case someone made a bad call.

Yeah, the good ol’ boys. Misfits, brutal in every sense of the word, they’d found a home in Livingston. It wasn’t all bad, though. They’d spend three nights a week at the police gym, three at the shooting range, and one at Molly’s Hideaway.

Stone followed the good ol’ boys into Krueger’s Gym. Tonight, he’d come here to kick Carson’s ass. Stone wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t afraid of anything.

Floorboards creaked under his boots as he made his way down a dingy hallway lit by one naked ceiling bulb that winked on and off. Cigar smoke hung in the air like swamp fog. Passing by the men’s room, he could smell the stink of urine and vomit and crappy toilets. 

Fuller met them at the end of the hall. “There he is,” he said, pointing.

Carson.

He must’ve been every bit of 250 pounds, his black skin shining with sweat, his wide ivory-ringed eyes glaring at the good ol’ boys as they entered the gym. A boxing ring with sagging ropes took up most of the center floor. Barbells and weight machines lined the far wall, and the heavy bag hung from the ceiling on a stout chain. The place smelled like dirty socks. 

Some of the toughest bad-asses in Livingston gathered around. Most were heavily tattooed; some were missing teeth. They all looked pissed off at this intrusion.

Clutching the bag as if it were his lover, Carson gave Stone a fat-lipped grin. “You boys come to play?”

Stone unhooked his gun belt and handed it to Baker. “Just me.” 

The good ol’ boys stood tall, hands on their hips, their eyes daring anyone to start a fight.

Carson’s eyes narrowed and his smile showed perfect white teeth. He let go of the bag, flexed his biceps, and puffed out his chest. With muscles rippling, he stepped forward, fists balled. “You want a boxing lesson?”

Rolling up his shirtsleeves, Stone flexed huge biceps and put up his fists. “Finally.”

“What you gotta prove?” Carson asked and circled right.

“You don’t scare me.”

“I will.” Carson came at him, full force.

Stone let loose a barrage of quick punches.

Knuckles cracked on jawbone. White teeth clattered on the floor. As blood flowed from Carson’s mouth, his smile wrenched into a fearsome snarl. Lunging forward, he growled like a crazed beast. 

Sidestepping, Stone nailed him with a karate chop to the back of the neck, something he’d learned in the Marines, a quick way to disable an attacker. 

Carson went down like a bag of dirty laundry. Moaning sounds came from his throat.

“Anybody else?” Stone showed his fists to the throng of thugs standing around. 

The good ol’ boys stepped forward.

There were no takers.

Jasmine glared. She crossed her arms and tapped a toe on the sidewalk in front of Pine View High. Her black face was scrunched up like a dried prune. “No, I tell yah, yah hear?”

Nate squinted against the last rays of the setting sun. “You’re jiving me, girl!”

“You know I ain’t. No man of mine is gonna leave me hangin’ out around this dump. A girl’s got to keep her priorities straight.”

“But I gotta do my duty, for my country.”

“Buddy Chester, now he ain’t figurin’ on doin’ no duty. He can take care of me just fine whilst you’re gone to that Afghanistan place.”

“Graduation’s in a week, girl. You know what my recruiter said. Why you gotta go on like this?”

“Ever since you turned 18 you think you’re some kind of big man. But you ain’t nothin’ but a skinny little black boy with stupid dreams.” 

Nate wanted to scream, but he held his temper. Why couldn’t she understand? “I thought we was in love.”

She turned her back on him. “It’s over, you and me.”

“But…”

A black Ford Taurus screeched up to the curb. Doors popped open. Buddy Chester got out, along with a couple of his black brothers from Pine View. Standing taller than six foot, he put on his Foster Grants as sunshine glistened off a silver ring in his left earlobe. “Got a problem, fool?”

“Shit!” Nate said under his breath.

Jasmine batted her eyelashes. “Oh, Buddy. This creep’s been hastlin’ me.”

Creep? Nate couldn’t believe it. But he didn’t have time to worry about her attitude. The brothers had gathered around him. Gulping, he held up a black power fist. “Be cool now, home boys.”

Buddy pulled a switchblade that made an ominous clicking sound as it snapped open. “I’m gonna cut yah, nigger.”

Panic raced through Nate like a firestorm. Anger fueled the flames. First his girl dumped him, called him a creep, and then this steroid infested African Amazon called him the N word. If Nate took off running now, Jasmine would think he was a coward. He wasn’t about to give her that pleasure. Besides, one thing he’d learned from the hood: show no fear. He took a step back, slipped a hand into his baggy jeans, and pulled out a pocketknife.

The brothers started laughing.

“What you gonna do with that little thing?” Buddy said, grinning.

“Back off, bros.” Nate waved the knife. Right about now he wished he’d sharpened the damn thing. “Leave me alone.”

One of the brothers grabbed him from behind; another snatched the knife from his hand. They threw him on the ground. Buddy kicked him in the ribs. Gasping air, Nate heard Jasmine laughing as they piled into the Taurus and sped away.

“Bastards!” Nate felt like breaking something. He’d lost his girlfriend, his pride, and his knife. Clutching sore ribs, he got up off the ground and headed for home.

Mrs. Washington, ten years widowed, sat in her favorite wooden rocker and worked knitting needles on a sweater she was making for her only son. The chair creaked on the hardwood floor with a soothing rhythm. “Nate is going to look so fine when he’s at Penn State.”

Next-door neighbor Millie Prescott sat on the sofa, sewing a needlepoint. “Gets mighty cold up there in winter. Anna, you must be awful proud.”

“It’s been a tough road for Nate. Oh dear Lord, when his daddy died, he was mad at the whole world.”

Millie sighed. “Dear boy got his self kicked out of school first year. Caused such a ruckus, he did.”

“That temper, Jesus, I thought it would be the death of him.”

“He got on better than my Bruce, though,” Millie said. “First Juvenile Hall and now Livingston County. I’d be calling the police near every time he’d come home, all tanked up and bustin’ down my door. Didn’t want him around when he was like that.”

“I’ve been blessed,” Anna said and tied off a row of yarn.

The front door banged open. Nate stomped into the living room. “I hate her!” he shouted. “She’s a whore!”

Anna set the knitting in her lap. “Now calm down, son. Tell me what happened.”

“She and Buddy Chester. I hope they have white babies!”

“Is that any way to talk?” Anna could only hope to keep her son’s anger in check. She’d seen him like this before, and it made her skin turn to gooseflesh.

He paced back and forth, his Reeboks squeaking on the floor. “I told her about the Army.”

“Don’t be talking like that! You’re going to Penn State.”

Nate rushed up to the rocker, got down on one knee. “I’m going to drive a tank, like my daddy did.”

“He got his self killed doin’ it.”

“It was an accident, Momma.”

“Friendly fire, my behind. You think I’m gonna stand for you makin’ the same mistake as your daddy? Well, you got another think comin’, young man. You’re goin’ to Penn State. I’ve been savin’ up all my life.”

In an instant, Nate grabbed the sweater from her lap and threw it on the floor. “You can’t make me.”

Millie got up from the sofa. “Do as your momma tells you, boy.”

Nate leaped to his feet. “Get outta here, yah nosey old bag.”

“Well I never…”

He kicked over the coffee table and threw a book through the window.

“Nate! Stop it!”

Millie Prescott ran out, screaming into the night.

A call came over the radio as the good ol’ boys left Krueger’s Gym. “Domestic disturbance, 549 Pine Lane. Code three.”

Stone opened the car door. “Let’s go!” 

Baker rode shotgun. Fuller sat in the back seat. They peeled out of the parking lot and careened down Main Street. Carmichael and Thorp followed behind them, driving like mad. Moments later, they skidded to a stop in front of 549 Pine Lane.

As Stone got out of the car, he could hear shouting coming from inside the house, a woman’s voice. “You’re going to Penn State!”

“The Army!”

Sounded like a punk to Stone.

Doors slammed.

“Now look,” the woman shouted. “The cops are outside.”

“Tell them to go away!”

“Millie must’ve called them.”

Stone rallied the good ol’ boys. “Thorp—take a position at the front window. Carmichael—on my left, Baker, my right. Fuller, back me up.”

They ducked low and hurried up to the front door, where a plump black woman stood. “It’s all right, officers,” she said. “My boy don’t mean no harm.”

“We got a complaint, lady.”

“Don’t pay him no mind.”

“Step aside.” Stone pushed his way inside the house, hand hovering over his gun.

“You can’t come in here lest I say it’s okay!”

Fuller shoved Anna. She fell backward into her wooden rocker, which cracked and splintered, sending her to the floor with a thud. Her knitting scattered, and she let out a yelp.

A skinny black boy rushed out of a bedroom. “Momma!”

“Hold it right there!” Stone ordered and pulled his gun. 

But the boy didn’t listen. He ran to his mother sprawled on the floor. “Momma!”

She moaned. “I think my back is broke.”

“Get your hands up!” Stone shouted. His adrenaline level was on overload from the fight at Krueger’s Gym and the code three race to the scene. He had no patience for this punk kid and his wailing mother. “Get down on the floor!”

Baker and Thorp flanked Stone, their hands on their weapons.

“Leave us alone,” the boy cried out. He grabbed a knitting needle off the floor and pointed it at Stone. “Get out of our house!”

“Drop the weapon!” Stone yelled and aimed his gun at the boy’s heart.

The black woman on the floor shrieked.

“Drop your weapon!” Baker ordered, his gun drawn too.

Hunched over his mother, the boy shouted, “Leave us alone!”

Fuller drew his gun. “Drop it, kid.”

Nate waved the knitting needle at them, straight-armed.

Gunfire rang out, two, three, five shots banging, muzzles flashing. In an instant, the boy lay dead in a pool of blood on the floor.

The black woman screamed and fainted.

Police Commissioner McDougal called the hearing to order. The Chief and several ranking officers sat on either side of him. Matter at hand: the shooting of Nate Washington. First to testify: Officer Stone.

“Yes. We were called to 549 Pine Lane. Code three on a domestic.”

“And what did you encounter there?” asked McDougal.

“The suspect was highly agitated.”

“Nate Washington?”

“Yes. A coffee table was overturned, a window was broken, and a rocking chair.”

“Where was Nate’s mother?”

Stone sat straight-faced on the witness stand. “She was on the floor.”

“That’s a lie!” Anna Washington shouted from her spectator’s seat.

McDougal was quick with the gavel. “Mrs. Washington, please, let him speak or I’ll have you removed.”

“But...”

The Commissioner showed her the palm of his hand. “You were saying, Officer Stone.” 

“Washington pulled a knife.”

Anna stood this time. “That’s not true. My Nate, he didn’t have a knife.”

“Deputies—remove her from the room.”

“They killed my boy in cold blood,” she yelled as two brute deputies dragged her out.

“Carry on, officer.”

 “He wouldn’t drop it. We warned him several times. When he lunged forward, we had no choice.”

“Is this the knife?” McDougal held up a six-inch stiletto sealed in a plastic bag.

“Yes.”

“You were in fear for your life?”

“Petrified, sir.”

Looking at the other officers, Carmichael, Thorp, Fuller, and Baker, “Gentlemen,” he said. “Is your consensus the same?”

The good ol’ boys nodded.

Leaning back in his chair, McDougal cleared his throat. “I’d have been in fear of my life too, with one of these things coming at me.” He dropped the knife on the bench. “I rule the shooting was justified. You’re dismissed.”

In the dark police station parking lot, the good ol’ boys rallied between a row of squad cars and huddled around Stone. “That’s the end of that.” He lit a cigar and passed the silver Zippo around to his comrades.

Thorp pulled fire into his cigar. “Thanks to Fuller’s drop.”

“Never leave home without it.” Fuller blew smoke.

Stone grinned. “One less punk in the world.” 

He’d no sooner said the words than a gust of wind stirred the night, bringing with it an odor that reminded him of the men’s room in Krueger’s Gym. Or was it the stench of Livingston’s stockyards? He noticed the good ol’ boys’ faces turn sour, Thorp clutching his stomach, Carmichael gagging, and Baker coughing. Fuller’s face turned white, his nostrils flaring. Stone thought he was going to be sick. “What the hell?”

A voice like sandpaper rasped from the darkness. “Excuse me, boys.”

Stone whipped around—saw an old cowboy standing in front of the squad cars. Steel gray eyes, set deep in dark sockets, glared out from under a dusty hat brim. His long coat shed dirt that vanished before it hit the ground. For the first time in his life, Stone felt afraid. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Justin Graves.” The cowboy tipped his hat. “But you can call me Justice.”

“You better move along, mister, before we run you in for vagrancy.”

Baker huffed. “The mission on 12^th Street has a free shower. I suggest you us it.”

Justin rubbed his jaw. Flesh peeled away, exposing bone. “It’s cops like you that give us all a bad name.”

Carmichael stepped forward. “Watch your mouth, old man.”

“You don’t know nothing about cops,” Thorp put in.

“I'm a Texas Ranger.” Justin spread open his coat, revealing a circle-star badge pinned to a rotting gray shirt. Decaying rib bones showed through bullet holes. The stench made the night air seem thick as manure.

Stone began to see a problem here. Some time back, he’d heard of a Deckers Texas Ranger who was killed in a gun battle. Either this was a perfectly executed hoax or the good ol’ boys were in big trouble. “Justin Graves, you say?”

“The one and only. I have something for you.” Justin held out his bony hand and displayed a six-inch stiletto.

Stone about flipped. “Where did you get that?”

“Jesus!” Fuller said. “It’s my drop.”

Baker gasped. “How’d he get it?”

“Come on, boys,” Justin said. “You can figure it out.”

“He switched ‘em,” Thorp said.

Justin nodded. “With one from the evidence room. It’s marked. Only a matter of time before McDougal figures it out. You boys are finished hiding behind the badge.”

Carmichael spit. “Son of a bitch!”

Drawing his gun, Stone fired two rounds into the ghoul. Dust flew. Squad car windows behind him shattered. Thorp and Baker started firing, too. Bullets pinged off hoods and pummeled fenders. Carmichael and Fuller got into the act, each squeezing off rounds that penetrated decaying flesh, then exploded windshields and overheads. The night echoed with gunshots, but the smelly cowboy just stood there.

Stone thought he saw a smile crack Justin’s leathery lips. With hot adrenaline spilling into his veins, he emptied his gun into the ghoul. But the bullets ripped right through him and tore into the police cars instead, sending glass and shards of metal flying.

“You guys are making a mess,” said Justice.

“I’ll kill you!”

“You’re too late.”

After reloading, the good ol’ boys shot up every car in the parking lot.

McDougal ran out of the police station, the Chief and several officers following, guns drawn. “What’s the meaning of this?” he shouted.

The gunfire stopped, plunging the parking lot into silence.

Stone looked at Baker, and then Thorp.

Carmichael shrugged.

Fuller frowned. “A prowler, sir.”

“Jesus Christ! Are you men crazy?”

Pointing at Justin, “He’s standing right there,” Stone insisted. 

McDougal scowled. “Drop your weapons!”

“They can’t see me,” Justin said to the good ol’ boys. “But they’ll hear this.” He held out the stiletto and dropped it.

Stone’s throat went dry. In slow motion, the knife tumbled down, striking the concrete with a clanking sound that echoed off the police station.

“Drop your weapons!”

There must’ve been a dozen officers approaching with guns pointed at the good ol’ boys. Stone knew his career was finished. Worse, he knew he’d be doing some heavy time behind bars.

“Drop your weapons!”

As Stone watched McDougal pick up the stiletto, he took the only way out he knew. He turned his empty gun on the Commissioner. 

A dozen muzzle blasts flashed in the night.

With a gust of wind, the ghoul was gone.