To Serve and Protect: Concrete Angel
(The title of this story is borrowed from Martina McBride's heart-breaking song of the same title. There is no sex in this story, only sadness. Not even Pat and Mike can save everyone. And even the very toughest person can reach the end of her rope.)
The siren wailed its long call, rising and falling. Sergeant Pat Gibson reached down and flipped the switch to "yelp" as she slowed for a red light. The car's dash-mounted blue light splashed its rays across the other cars as they inched out of the way or stopped.
Three minutes later she pulled up to a non-descript battered house in a slightly run-down area of the city. Blue and red lights sparkled all over the lawn. Two marked units, a car that could only belong to a detective and an ambulance were pulled into the yard. Pat stiffened as she climbed out of her car and saw the black vehicle marked "Medical Examiner". That meant it was bad.
It got worse. When she ducked under the yellow tape around the doorway she saw the ME and squatted down beside him. Her heart sank as she saw the small form under the blanket.
Her friend looked at her and touched her hand. "Its really bad, Pat. Brace yourself."
Pat lifted the edge of the blanket. The little girl under it couldn't have been more than 10 or 11. Her face was elven like, but pinched because of inadequate nutrition. Pat swallowed hard, her hand momentarily brushing her own midsection where she was just showing.
She rose unsteadily and went to talk to the detective standing with a gaunt white male. At close range the reek of alcohol was almost overpowering.
"Hello Sam," Pat nodded to the detective.
"Hi Pat," the young black detective responded. "This is Mr. Dee McCrae. He tells me that his daughter Sarah slipped and fell over a chair. He tells me she's quite clumsy and often falls. He didn't realize how serious it was for sometime. He thought she was trying to act up." The officer turned to the man, struggling to keep the distaste he obviously felt out of his demeanor. "Is that correct, Mr. McCrae?"
"Yeah," the slurred words came out. "She's always falling. I didn't know nothin' was wrong."
Pat looked Sam in the eyes. The detective shook his head, indicating he knew the whole story was crap. She turned to the ME, "Doctor?" she asked formally.
"No," he flatly replied. "These injuries were caused by a beating. There are bruised impressions of multiple handprints on her body. Furthermore, its obvious that some of these injuries are old untreated ones, possibly even badly healed broken bones. I have no hesitation in pronouncing this death suspicious and a possible homicide."
Pat nodded and reached under her jacket. Pulling her handcuffs free she walked towards McCrae.
"Dee McCrae, at this time I am placing you under arrest. Turn around and place one hand on your head."
"Oh no you don't," the still half-drunken man replied. "Ain't no woman cop taking me to jail, especially over that little..." His voice trailed off.
Pat's normally caring green eyes had turned to ice, her face to stone. In a voice barely above a whisper, but as hard and as determined as steel, she said, "Oh please, yes. PLEASE resist."
Dee McCrae was 6 inches taller and 100 pounds heavier than the woman in front of him but the look in her eyes quailed his protests. Without any need of assistance from the uniformed officers, Pat cuffed him and marched him to the nearest black and white.
"Watch your head," she instructed mechanically as she put him in the back seat and closed the door. She watched the car drive off and turned back to the crime scene. She swore to herself that she would dot every 'I' and cross every 'T'. That son-of-a-bitch wasn't getting away with this.
"Anything from the neighbors?" she asked Sam and the uniform officers present.
"Nothing. No one saw anything, no one heard anything. The complaint was anonymous."
"Its not going to be after I get done," Pat vowed. She scooped up some notebooks and flipped through them. "Sam, get us a search warrant. I want to look through these. Apparently this one is a journal of some kind. It might prove useful."
Two months after that night Dee McCrae had been indicted for willful murder. Lieutenant Mike Gibson was discussing the case with their closest friend and Pat's former boss, Lieutenant Linda Shannon.
"What do you think? Will he plead it out?" she asked.
"I think he will. The DA has announced plans to seek the death penalty and McCrae is terrified of the thought of dying." Mike grinned mirthlessly. "Of course after a few years in prison he'll wish he had taken the gurney and the hot shot." Linda nodded. They both knew what child killers faced in prison. The average mob hit man or bank robber made life a living hell for them. One imprisoned drug dealer of their acquaintance, upon being asked about the brutal yard beating of a convicted molester had only replied "Fuck him, he got what he deserved."
Mike leaned forward. "Linda, I need to talk to you about Pat."
"I know Mike." She sighed. "It seemed such a good idea to assign a dedicated and caring woman detective to investigate abuse cases. And since she's pregnant, its a safe place to utilize her investigative skills. After all, she's never first on scene. The uniforms and the prec...